The Company Wench

So, I won $100 today for coming to work as a wench. I was voted "Bravest Costume," which was funny because I felt very comfortable. I don't know what that says about me and I don't care. $100. For being a wench.

Me with my friend Jen in the wench outfits this past weekend:

Expect surprises. Jess was so pissed. It was her costume, and it only cost $35 :)

So, okay. Today was my second day of work. I timed it, and my commute is 4.5 minutes on foot. I know, I know - hateful, snide remarks can be left at the bottom of this post. On the first day my project manager and senior ISD (Instructional Designer... I am definitely falling into a pit of acronyms at this job, all of which seem unnecessary save to make our industry sound harder than it is) took me out to lunch at... Five Guys. You know, that place on the same block as my apartment that has the most amazing hamburger-and-fry combo on the planet (they even give the Potato Patch a run for its money which is simply unheard of)? I live around the corner from Five Guys. Literally around the corner. We walked by my apartment to go to lunch. I saw I had mail in my mailbox. So in that regard, as my manager put it when I asked her why they hired me, "You lived so close. It seemed like destiny."

I like it. I don't love it, I don't hate it. I don't know how long I can see myself doing it, but absolutely it is a fantastic company with great people. I was so proud of myself today. It was my second day, and I actually finished a part of a project that the PM had been hoping would get finished by the end of next week. I'm delivering two more of them tomorrow and Friday, and to do it I had to learn an entirely new software program, as well as learn how to translate these storyboards into the right code. It was an odd feeling today as I casually told my boss I had finished one section. He didn't say anything, but I could tell from the look on his face that he was really impressed. Later, he said to the senior ISD, "As long as we have Martin as an asset, I say we keep him busy." Asset! Sweet. I'm keeping my sights only a few days ahead, trying to counteract my tendency to see commitments as happening all at one time and instead see it as a progression of days, each with something new to offer. And I know I'll feel better when I get paid. My first strategy has been to go to bed early enough to get eight hours of sleep. I've been waking up at 7:30 and getting to work at 8:30, hence the dearth of 4 AM posts that were the hallmark of the Captain's Blog. I like having some time in the morning before running to work (or walking leisurely, as I do... haha!). On the Discovery Channel at 8 AM there's a program with Joyce Meyers, one of them Christian televangelist people, and I actually find myself looking forward to watching it. It's a kind of centering to think about religion and spiritual stuff before heading out. It puts things in perspective, makes having to go to work seem... I dunno, more human.

Now, I've had no time for anything else, mind you. I come home, Jessie has cooked some amazing meal (after my first day I came home to flowers, a cake, and a card saying "I'm proud of you!"... I am a lucky guy), we go to the gym, we come home, do dishes, take showers, maybe watch some TV, and then it's time for bed! I feel like kids are going to point at me on the street and go, "Who is that old guy?"

The absolute worst thing about the job is that they gave me a beautiful laptop.

A Lenovo laptop. As in, not a Mac.

There are Macs in the office, beautiful Power Mac G5's with 30" screens. *drool* Now, I know there are avid fans on both sides, and that some of them read this blog, but I cannot tell you how much time I've spent on the phone with our tech support guy trying to keep the damn thing from crashing CONSTANTLY. It is one error report after another. Word won't open. Outlook can't connect to the Exchange server. Internet Explorer has experienced an error and needs to close. Explorer.exe has experienced an error and needs to close. It's like I've wandered into some bad recurring nightmare that I'd finally stopped having a year and a half ago, only to wake up and realize that it was all real and here and I was surrounded on all sides.

So, I come home and use my Macs exclusively (though I haven't been able to resist playing with the Lenovo... it's seriously nice hardware... /geek), and it's okay, but man, so much time wasted keeping Windows working. I just want to scream, "Get out of my way, I'm trying to work!"

Anyways, that's my gripe. This is new. This is different. Physically I come home tired, mentally I come home exhausted. My body has been unemployed since May, and it is resisting a schedule with great aplomb. But, if I stay up late, I'll sleep too late, and I'll be late to work which, for those people in the world who walk 4.5 minutes to work, looks very, very bad.

So! I'm off to bed. And still poor, seeing as I don't get paid until December. Yeah, that was a nice surprise.

Anyone want to buy a wench?

Martin

The Eleventh Commandment

XI. Thou shalt grow up.

Hi, you. I'm stressing out. I know, I know - you're probably reading this from the computer at the job you've been doing every day for years, so this post is going to seem even more immature than it is - but I have avoided this step in my life valiantly for five years, and now, when I wake up tomorrow, I awake to a commitment of unknown quality, duration, flexibility, and enjoyability. My inner-child is suggesting that, maybe if I don't go to sleep, I can't wake up tomorrow, and I don't have the heart to tell him that it doesn't work that way. Tomorrow will come, and I will wake up and go.

So, as you can tell I've been driving Jessie nuts. You can tell because I just told you and also because that little preceding paragraph is the tip of the mental iceberg that has been slowing gravitating southward into my consciousness. I am losing the mental game regarding this amazing opportunity, choosing instead to see it in its entirety as a monumental engagement of time, precious time. Now, if I was free to do as I wished, would I use that time wisely? No sir. I haven't honestly worked in five months, and in that time did I write my children's books? Did I move HFTH into the next stage of development? Did I ever get around to cleaning the interior of my car? Of course not. I didn't get any of those things done, because I had all the time in the world to do them and therefore got nothing accomplished (yes, nothing is an exaggeration, but it's too close to the truth for comfort).

Part of me feels guilty for even having this conversation. Somewhere in this world a 25-year-old man is dying of thirst or starvation or poverty. He's dying at the barrel of a gun or the blast of a bomb or the tentacles of some rare cancer. He's working three jobs so that he can take care of his son. I am an absolutely blessed, white, middle-class American male about to get full benefits and a good salary. I'm looking at buying a car that is worth more than a family in Uganda will make in as many years. And yet I can't shake this terrible fear, this feeling that I am losing something. I know, I know, I'm crazy or lazy or, worse, a baby. But I can't help how I feel. It is quite scary.

Besides, I am someone who processes things out loud. I need to hear the words outside of my own head and read them off of something other than a mental page. And I already feel a bit better, writing this to you. I think I freak out because I don't just see tomorrow or this week: I see next summer and go, "How will I have enough vacation to go on a honeymoon with Jess? How will I get enough time to perform at ragtime festivals?" I find all the little moments of challenge and group them together, see them as one big lump that I feel I need to deal with right now, right away. It becomes a paralyzing clump of "cannot" and "unable" and "busy" and I start to feel asphyxiated.

I know, I know. Poor Martin can't take three weeks of vacation in June. Boo hoo.

Which, ultimately, is what I'm telling myself. Get over yourself, Martin. You know that feeling you've been having, the nagging one that has you down on yourself because you wake up at 11 AM and no one needs you around until 5 PM? How you've been feeling pathetic, a no-one for months, that you've accomplished nothing and have been reliant on others for financial support? Well, this is the answer. This is the opportunity you attracted to yourself when you said to the universe, "I need to find a fulfilling way to make a living." And now that it's here, you turn around and say, "No, this isn't what I asked for. It's too much." But it is here. This is what you need to become solid. Stable. This is the medicine.

So, I am looking for the spoonful of sugar, so to speak. I realized today that I have eight hours a day outside of work, which is time to get things created and edited and fashioned and completed. And that time is suddenly much more precious. And I have weekends, which will regain their significance and not just be formless extensions of the week.

And, my hope of hope is that, unlike, well, every other job I've had save Apple, that this job will be fulfilling and challenging and meaningful in a way that no other job has for me. I want great things expected of me. I want my work to count, want it to sing out and be heard and reach people and change them. I want someone who needs my gifts and talents and abilities. I want to financially support myself, want to buy nice things without credit cards, want to take trips on my own dime. I also want the time to produce and create, to write and direct, to craft and to practice.

So, we'll see, won't we? I wake up in eight hours to something new, something much bigger than I've faced before...

Martin

Summons from the Queen

If I had to pick four minutes of my life that I could do over, those four minutes would be really high on my list. In four minutes I managed to sabotage any chance of even THINKING about getting that job.

Yeah. About that.

You are not going to believe what I am about to tell you. Seriously. Stop reading now unless you are sitting down. In fact, I don't believe what I am about to tell you. But it is true. It is happening. It is real. You know that job interview I had on Monday? The one that I botched so badly they faxed my picture to all the other businesses in the area and told them not to hire me?

The VP called me tonight around 6:30. Her voice was warm. Inviting. She asked me to come and join their company. "The project managers and I had a meeting yesterday, and we all were very impressed by you. We want you to come and join our team."

I took a breath, and I was like, "Habbuh?"

"That is, if want it. You would start at X, which is a hell of a lot more than the $25,000 you asked for so you won't have to eat Ramen noodles[laughs]. You'll have full benefits, and you'll be working on a project regarding border patrol security. If you prove yourself in the early months, we shouldn't have any problem finding other projects for you."

"Come again?" At this point dinner was flirting with my esophagus, asking it if it wanted to threesome with the toilet.

"Come in on Tuesday at 9 AM. Ask for Tom. Oh, and Wednesday is our annual staff meeting. This sounds crazy, but come in a costume. As you can tell, we're not your average company. It's great fun. I usually come as a flapper girl. Looking forward to having you! Now go out with your fiancee and celebrate."

...

Okay. So.

I have a job. An amazing job. A job within walking distance. With full benefits. I'm getting paid to write. And write scripts. And supervise film productions. Script supervisor. For huge government contracts. Did I mention I can walk to work? All this, and all I could think of was, "What the hell am I going to tell the dog-walkers?"

...

AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!! HOLY MOTHER OF GOD WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED.

I'm sick with shock and pleasure. I'm terrified. I'm nervous. I'm elated. I have no idea how any of this happened and am convinced they're going to realize I wasn't the guy with the shiny suit, I was the tool with no tie. "We thought you'd fit in really well here," she said. I WASN'T WEARING A TIE. DID YOU EVEN SEE MY LACK OF A TIE?

On top of that, Jessie is taking me to see a concert at the Kennedy Center tomorrow night that features only the music of John Williams. The first half is Schindler's List, Harry Potter, Jaws, etc... a waking dream. The second half is entirely Star Wars.

What. The. Hell. Whose life am I living?!?

So, I am fresh out of sarcasm. I've been completely robbed of significant dog-walking experience. I start on Tuesday at a job that will stretch me to my limit and also pay away my credit cards. And for some reason, I'm not totally freaking out yet.

Just. Wow.

More soon. Everything soon. The best soon. Martin can eat again!

Martin

Aren't You a Little Short to be a Dog-Walker?

Dear Reader,

Well, it is official. As of this morning, I am officially a dog-walker.

No, I am not kidding. I am telling myself it is research for a book. A children's book. A very sad, scary children's book about what happens to you when you grow up. And when it is over, and I am published and acclaimed and brilliantly dressed in clothing made from the hairs of said children, we will drink VSOP cognac and smoke cigars and laugh at how this little bump in the road sparked me to massive fame and fortune. International renown. A statue. Maybe my own star.

Or, maybe I will just walk some dogs, and then I will stop walking dogs, and then I will repeat until I find something different. Either way.

The interview went well. It was early, some ungodly hour like 9 AM, and I arrived 10-minutes early, which was good. Unlike me, but good. Can something be unlike yourself? Aren't you always, technically, yourself? I digress. The interview questions were particularly entertaining. Gone was the Queen's erudite precision, replaced by sweeping, soul-searching questions that would better fit the end of a James Lipton interview than a job walking dogs.

A sample, for your enjoyment:

How would your friends describe you?
What is your biggest flaw?
What adjectives would you use to describe yourself?
How long can I count on having you?
Are you opposed to handling feces, urine, saliva, or other canine excretions?
Do you own a cell phone?

Okay, that last one was pretty easy, but the rest of them, I mean... dammit, man, my BIGGEST flaw? The biggest one? I am a big ideas person, not a details person. I conceive of my flaws in colors and shapes. Animal noises. I can't get any more specific than that.

...

To my delight I uttered something about "talking too much," my mind still reliving those torturous four minutes from Monday. I thought later, "Well, I could have said my self-doubt," but I was glad I hadn't. I had obviously shown the interviewer (actually a charming, attractive 30-something woman who I came to like very quickly) my proclivity for verbosity (which to me always sounded like some kind of cleaning solution... "Tough stain got you down? Try Verbosity!"), so at the very least I came across as sincere. Which I was. And honest. I told her that I would leave for school or if I got a full-time job with benefits. I think she appreciated my directness.

So, that's that. I start Thursday. I work from 10 AM - 4 PM and make about $50/day. Some pups just need let out and fed. Others get a whole 30-minute walk around town. The dog part of it actually has me kind of excited. I really like dogs a lot, a fact I forced myself to forget after we got rid of my old dog, Kaiser, when we moved to Mt. Lebanon. Kaiser der Hunt von Spitznagel... that's German for "unnecessary childhood trauma." He got hit by a car and bit through my father's hand and my parents told me there were laws in Mt. Lebanon against barking dogs (Kaiser used to howl with the fire engines. I think it was his way of being helpful.) So now I get to take out all my dog-deprived emotions and fill those little pockets of sadness with little baggies of shit. I'll keep you posted.

How are you, by the way? I promise this is all leading somewhere. I have no clue where. I'm just the daydreaming dog-walker, drift drift drifting upwind...

-m

I Am an Idiot

Dear Reader,

Well, I blew it. I haven't blown something that hard since I needed that 'A' in "Varieties of Early Christianity," and at least I could forgive myself that little indiscretion. Today? Today was inexcusable idiocy.

This is the part where the good writer goes into detail. I don't know how much detail I can stomach though, seeing as I have to wake up at 7:30 AM to go to another interview, this time with the dog walking people. For shizzle. I am actually considering doing it, at least until I find something better.

I showed up at the interview today dressed nicely, though I realized as I rang the doorbell to get into the building, the company name scrawled in fancy scroll letters, that I should have had a damn tie on. My suspicions were correct when I entered and saw a room full of nervous, hopeful people all wearing ties, suit coats, their little leather padfolios tucked under one arm, waiting to be interviewed. Oh. A group. As in other people applying for the same job. As in I have no chance and better hope the dog walking people like me.

We were offered sweets: massive muffins, enormous glazed donuts... it was tempting, but none of us touched them out of some collective fear that we might be evaluated on how we ate them, which ones we chose. I had hallucinations of interview questions regarding my choice of the donut with the chocolate frosting. "So what exactly does the chocolate bring to the table that you don't?"

The vice-president of the company came in minutes later, flanked by three other women, all dressed casually and wearing big, friendly smiles. The VP explained the company, and within two words I knew what kind of woman she was, how hard she had struggled to forge this business, how hard she worked at it and how hard everyone around her worked. I knew that she was making her decisions about us as she spoke, noticing my lack of tie, the mangy facial hair of the guy next to me, the overly eager comments of the older chap. She was regal, like a foreign queen who had been set the task of choosing which of the suitors could join her husband's court. She didn't talk down to us, just over us. She told us about vacation days, about salaries, about fun things the companies had done together (I love how businesses think one fun trip every three years counts as "Fun place to work," but I digress). She made it sound very appealing. I was getting kind of excited to interview.

That is, until she chose me to go first.

If I had to pick four minutes of my life that I could do over, those four minutes would be really high on my list. In four minutes I managed to sabotage any chance of even THINKING about getting that job. She was so powerful, so precise. Her first question was, "What is your education and experience?" and her second was, "Why do think I should hire you?" Now I've been told by folks wiser than me that, at some point, you appreciate the hiring manager who asks you point blank, rolling out the red carpet for your carefully researched and educated response that captures the essence of you and your vast abilities and how those can best be put to use in this amazing organization.

I, however, reacted as though she had shot me with mind bullets. The next three excruciating minutes were some blabbering, drooling attempt at self-aggrandizement. She asked me to rate myself as a writer on a scale of 1-10. She asked me what my salary requirements were and when I said "$25,000" something maternal must have kicked in and she schooled me on how that was ridiculous and how I couldn't afford the electricity to heat my Ramen noodles around here for 25k. At one point I actually heard myself say, "I am a big ideas person, not necessarily a details person," and it was at that moment, as her chin dipped and her pen touched the paper, that I woke up. What the FUCK was I talking about? Where was I, and who's body am I in? NOT A DETAILS PERSON? Who the fuck am I talking about? What am I saying? What evil little bitch gnome crawled into my speech center and started pulling cables? NOT A DETAILS PERSON? I obsess over e-mails for an hour. I've edited this blog entry SIX TIMES for mistakes and better wording. I freak out over which frame to cut at, which notes I missed, which words sound best and in what order... I am a detail FREAK. That is all these people fucking CARE about, all they want to HEAR. Either you are a "detail-oriented" person or you are not a person at all, just some slobbering asshole who can't wear a goddamn tie to a job interview, and today I was inexplicably the latter, my charm, my wit, my gift for gab completely, utterly, devastatingly absent.

I had three more interviews after that. Each one came and went, and as we went on I got better with my answers, more confident, more capable. But I knew it was hopeless. I was a big ideas person, not a details person, and no matter what I said, or how much I protested my own incomprehensible stupidity, I was not going to be getting this job.

So.

I will be waking up in 7 hours. I will put on a shirt and some pants. I will have a bowl of cereal. I will apply to walk dogs for question-mark-exclamation-point dollars an hour. And we will go from there.

And if someone asks you if you are detail-oriented, for the love of God, say yes.

-m

Just Don't Be Yourself

Dear Reader,

Will someone please take my temperature? It's ten minutes after 11 o'clock at night and I am in bed in my pajamas ready to be asleep and I don't feel a lick of "I should be up practicing" or "I should be up working on the movie" or "Family Guy is on in ten minutes!" I just feel ready to go to bed.

At 11 o'clock. On a Sunday. I think I'm dying.

I have a job interview tomorrow morning at 10:30. I'll probably fail to mention to them that I can count on one hand the number of times I've been awake at 10:30 AM in the past month. But here I am, the night before, my little outfit already picked out, my alarms set, in bed at a reasonable hour. I could be under some kind of mind-control, some weird after-effect of watching too many Derren Brown videos on YouTube (look him up..."the sun is gone!"). Or I could have just finally come to the point when the idea of interviewing for a regular job doesn't cause me convulsions of the spleen and the (will-to)liver.

This is actually my second interview. I had another this past Friday with a temp agency that staffs non-profits. It was an amazing interview. We spent the whole time talking about ragtime piano, seeing as the interviewer was a young, struggling singer who loved loved loved Gershwin. She was sweet, with dark hair and a great smile, and after about thirty minutes she said, "Oh, God, I should probably ask you about your grant-writing experience," but half-way through my answer she interrupted again, asking, "Do you play around here?" She ended up buying a copy of my CD, which marks the first time I've ever been paid to interview for a job. In the words of Will Ferrell: Simply stunning.



Must have been the shirt. Rest assured I'm wearing the same one tomorrow. Dark red plaid, you have my heart.

But I am ahead of myself! Last we left off, I was sitting in my underwear in an apartment in Philadelphia wondering how I was going to drive 347 miles on $13.90...

You're on a highway. You accidentally drove through the EasyPay line getting onto the Turnpike, which means you'll have to pay full ticket price when you exit, which is $28 you don't have. $28 sounds like a fortune to your ears. You stopped outside of Philly to fill your water bottle at the tap in a restroom. You start to wonder if you drove through the EasyPay on purpose because you didn't have enough money to pay for the toll. You are staring at the gas gauge, watching your $8 worth of gasoline burn up. Outside, it is raining. Pouring. The windshield keeps fogging up but you're afraid to use the air-conditioner because it uses too much gas, so you turn it on for a minute to get the fog down and then turn it off, wait for the fog on the windshield to become unbearable, and repeat. You doubt the reasons to stay alive. You think about how silly this is is, how four dollars has never seemed like so much money. You think about what makes a man. You eat a bag full of miniature Oreos, and you pull off at service plaza before you run out of gas only to realize that this is the end of the trip. There is no more money.

Yeah. It was like that.

In the morning, after the last post, I went to the bank and withdrew $12. I filled out the little white slip and waited in line, writing "Twelve and 00/100 dollars" on the white slip, and the teller, when she was counting out my money, gave me a look that said she knew it was my last twelve dollars. "You have a good day now," she said, and held extra long on the "good" before handing me my ten and two ones. I put $8 worth of gas into my car, and I made it 100 miles from Philadelphia before I had to pull off. I had resolved myself not to ask for my father for money. Promised myself I wouldn't. He had already loaned me $1,000 at the beginning of the month so I wouldn't default on my credit cards, and I refused to ask him for more.

Sitting at the rest area, however, and realizing that I couldn't afford a pack of gum, I called him in tears. I was humiliated and desperate. A Great Nothing came upon me, one bigger than I'd ever felt, and I realized that I couldn't afford the toll to exit the road. I am 25, white, well-educated, and have no excuses not to have enough money to drive to Rochester, NY. It's just that, well, I didn't have enough money. I had, uh, no money. Literally none. I called Mom. She promised to transfer money later, which she did.

And of course, being Dad, he went immediately to the bank and transferred money, and I was able to brave the rain and get up to Rochester, NY, where I stayed with my friend and mentor Tony Caramia. He and his wife had a had a nice restaurant picked out for us to go to - earlier in the week I had said I wanted to take them to dinner - and I had to find a way to tell them, no, I was poor and couldn't take them to the seafood restaurant. We ordered Chinese instead, and I counted the $34 slowly. It was a great night, though. They are my musical parents. I handed them a copy of my CD and Tony exclaimed, "Lisa, look what our son made!" Tony, who had written the introduction to the CD, read them out loud for me and his wife, Lisa. He read his words and mine, and I can close my eyes and go back to those three minutes where I got to hear his words in his voice. I stayed late into the morning, enjoying the tranquility that is their company, playing on his beautiful piano, before heading out. He told me I sounded good.

I made it to Alex Bay, which could be like Bermuda but is instead like something out of a Hemingway novel, and not in a good way. Alex Bay is in the Thousand Islands part of New York, and quite stunning geographically, with literally a thousand little islands marking the waters between two lovely tree-covered hills. The festival was being held at the Pine Tree Point Resort, and though it sounds ritzy, my room was something out of an old movie in the 1940's where the guy lives in the closet by the train tracks. There was no central heating, only space heaters built into the wall, and I was convinced, sitting there in my three pairs of socks, that the room was going to burn up around me.

Here's my journal entry from Friday night:

"So. I made it. I am alive, have no venereal diseases, all ten of my fingers, and retain the will to keep on keeping on.

I am so happy with the way tonight went. It seems impossible now, considering the ordeal it was to get here, that tonight could unfold so smoothly.

I was incredibly nervous about my first performance, and I could feel my fingers clamming up. The worst thing I can possibly do is sit and think about the fact that I have to go play the piano. "Ace of Clubs" was first, and it was a poor choice for a first piece. I over-thought it and screwed up, like, big time. Not a train-wreck, but there were definitely some mega-pennies along the track. It was an uncommonly sloppy performance from me. I can easily screw up the musical part of it - playing too fast, not enough feeling, pounding - but I rarely mess up the technical aspects, the "hitting the right notes" thing. Hitting a lot of notes really fast is easy. That's my bag, baby. Hitting them well is very, very hard.

I was only hitting myself after the first performance. The second piece, "Baltimore Todolo," erupted out and not in a good way - it had musical Tourette's Syndrome - and I was sitting too low on the piano and couldn't get over myself and into the music and my fingers were just ice.

Thankfully I had chosen one of my own for my next piece, the new "Theresa Novelette," which is sweet and slow and beautiful. I talked about how I wrote it for my grandma, how she had supported me, how I got the image of her dancing when I played it. After that piece, I was okay. I could play the piano again. I relaxed, and I dug into another solid standby, "Maple Leaf Rag." They really liked it - I got applause halfway through the piece - and I was feeling much better.

I put a few drinks in me which settled my nerves even more, and when I took the stage at 10:20 PM, I was relaxed and feeling okay. I realized I become a fabulous piano player when I drink (fabulous to me anyways). It's kind of blurry in retrospect, and I missed a few notes here and there, but the feeling was there. I opened with "Charleston Rag," put in a soft "The Entertainer" which they really enjoyed, and closed with an atomic "Space Shuffle," which I somehow managed to hold onto even though I was FLYING. The audience exploded into a standing ovation, and I was absolutely thrilled! One of the audience members, one of many kind and appreciative folks, came up afterwards and said, "My husband is an accomplished drummer, and he said he likes you because you play with such feeling." Nothing could have made me happier than to have THAT kind of comment after playing "Space Shuffle." Not "Oh, you're playing is so clean and precise," which is another way of saying "It was too fast for me to enjoy, but it sounds like you know what you're doing." They felt it, felt me in it, and they liked it.

Dude, Space Shuffle rocked so hard my glasses were falling off my face. Usually I have time to reach up and put them back on, but I was hanging on for dear life and just had to hope they didn't fall off. I felt like Harry Potter: Put on glasses, wizard battle, push glasses back up onto my face. And the standing and the clapping and the whooping.

God, I felt like a man.

I stayed up late into the evening. Well, late for these folks. At 2 AM I'm usually just firing up the Avid, but there is lake air here and its cold nip has me feeling a might sleepy, too. After my performance I hung out in the bar with about five other pianists, all of whom are wonderful and just bring something so unique to the scene, and we talked and bonded and got to know one another. I realized that, with the exception of one or two people, I live within half an hour of most of them in Alexandria. I had no idea I had moved into a ragtime "hotbed." Woo!

So now I'm going to bed, hoping that tomorrow brings equally lovely adventures and lots of CD sales. I'm already brainstorming all the funny things I can say. I'm so low on money that I've worked this one out:

"If you like what you're hearing, check out my new CD and take one home with you. Seriously, if you don't buy all of them, one of you is going to have to take me home with you - I can come back for the car."

Etcetera... etcetera...

I am rooting for me. This is the best possible thing."

I spent the rest of the weekend being told I was "brilliant" and "incredible" and "unbelievable." I think I paid for one beer - the rest were bought for me. One of the other performers took to calling me "Master" the whole weekend. Even so, I was so nervous before my performances, I took to drinking, and on Saturday I had a too much, realizing as I was trying to speak to the audience that I was slurring my words:

"Warmer. Considerably. Too drunk to care about spelling.

Notes: shitty performances due to nerves and bad pianos. "Smoke 'em if you got 'em" set falls flat, but am redeemed by blues with Gabriel, with whom I am in love. Perfect musical synergy. Best three hours of the weekend from 11-1:30 AM with John Petley, Peter Hill, and Gabriel Borque. amazing jam session. 12th Street Rag in G-flat major - no one could believe it. Jingle Bells. Did Amazing Grace and it will bring down the house on Sunday. Petley kicks ass. New friend in him and Nowal. give them a card!

Exhausted. Have to wake up in six hours."

I must have used up all my pretty words for Friday's entry because Saturday's come out more like grunting than writing. But, all that aside, I had an amazing time. I sold a bunch of CDs: Forty-two, roughly $600 worth! People were so excited. Many wanted my autograph. I felt like a rock star.

I made some new friends, too, who invited me to their house in Ottawa to stay Sunday night before driving home. I drove across the border and pulled up to a mansion. Nawal, John's girlfriend, works for the World Bank, and her 14,000 square-foot house was full of one-of-a-kind artwork from Bali and Africa and China. John and I hung out in the TV room drinking imported English beer. We ate an amazing meal (Nawal trained in Paris) and drank Courvoisier cognac and ate Irish Cremes and I fell into a bed of Egyptian cotton and slept like a hibernating black bear.

The next day I drove 10 hours home to take out the trash and apply for jobs walking dogs in DC. I think someone turned up the contrast level on my life.

But, I survived. The day after I got back, I sent a CD to my father (he asked for a "complimentary copy" which I thought was hilarious considering he was the only reason I was alive). In it I enclosed a check for $50, marked "Loan Payment #1." This week, I will get a job, whether that is walking dogs (I have an interview Tuesday) or whatever. And I will pay Dad back every cent, pay it back for as long as it takes. And it will feel so good to own my own life. I can't wait to tell you about how good it is going to be.

More later. For now, wish me luck.

Your,
Martin

$13.90

So aside from being wanted in the state of Delaware for non-payment of a toll, today could have gone a lot worse.

I awoke early. Or at least I tried to. My plan was to leave for Philadelphia at the crack of noon, arrive at 3, and practice for 6 hours until Bill got back.

What actually happened:

I went to the post office, mailed some CDs (more on that later), and tried to get some cash back for my trip, only to be told that the card had been declined. Um, okay, I had enough money in there on Wednesday, I don't know what could have possibly gone wrong... maybe I entered my pin wrong? Oh wait...

Comcast.

So, I butt-pirated some internet and checked my account, and to my shock and dismay (though to no actual surprise) read the tiny number that would come to hover over the day like a soggy tank top: $13.90.

Yes, Dear Reader, I have $13.90 in the world. And since most ATMs (at least those along Interstate 95 North in Delaware) have $20 minimum withdrawals, I effectively have no money. None. Zip. Nada. Nothin'. I spent an hour with my credit card companies, trying to figure out a way to transfer money to my checking account, but since I'd cut up all the cards I was pretty much out of luck. I had nowhere to go and no cash to get there.

So why, you ask, am I trying to drive to Alexandria Bay, NY on $13.90? What am I doing in Philadelphia? And why does a man with $13.90 have so many CDs in the back of his car?

Well, they are interrelated questions. I am heading to the Ragtime-Jasstime Festival in Alex Bay, NY, where I am one of the featured performers this weekend, and I am heading there with my shiny new amazing levitating CD: "Tricky Fingers." You can find sound samples and ordering information here: http://www.rivermontrecords.com, or you can just send money and I will come to your house and play for you. Add more money and I will show a little leg (you can't afford to see a lot of leg).

I have 180 CDs in my car, roughly $2,700 worth, and if I don't sell all of them, I can't afford to drive home. Jess and I will not be eating for the next two weeks. My car insurance will lapse. The washing machine repair man will not come. Did I mention the whole not eating thing? Jess has $103.79 in the world. With our money combined, we can't buy groceries for the week. It's a shame we can't eat the apartment decorations. Anyone want to buy a curtain rod?

So, finally there is something at stake. Finally the sustainment of Martinhood is on the line, and the only way to live, nay, the only way to SURVIVE is to whore these CDs like it's nobody's business. But, even with my new criminal record, I'm not depressed. I'm camped out on Bill's couch in Philadelphia, where I've come to practice the piano and head up to Rochester tomorrow to see Tony Caramia. The air is not too cold, Bill fed me, we listened to some great music... I am still alive. I can't go back to Delaware, but who wants to, anyway. And I still have you, for some reason I haven't entirely figured out. So, we're just going to keep on Martin-ing and see what happens. I'm not dead yet, and that means anything can still happen!

Will check in tomorrow with pictures. I can already tell this trip is a drama queen.

Your,
Martin

Morning Light

The sun erupted over the far hill, splashing over a sea of low-hanging clouds in the valley below. E'Din Kyle stood, hooded, on the outcropped rock overlooking the valley, negotiating with the fear that threatened to overtake him.