Prayer to the Sun

Julie & Julia

2009-07-22T00:14:00.003-04:00

Just finished reading "Julie & Julia," which is a fantastic memoir and I have a crush on the author, Julie Powell, which she would likely find creepy but also kind of cool.

I imagine she's used to it now, seeing as the book has been out for five years and it's being made into a movie with Meryl Streep and Amy Adams, but her book is a big part of the reason why I've begun blogging regularly again. It's good to have a project.

The book, for those of you who don't know, is a about a 29-year-old actress at a dead-end secretarial job in New York City who averts mental collapse by resolving to cook all 524 recipes in Julia Child's "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" in one year. Powell's book crackles and pops with wit - I found myself laughing out loud often while reading - and when she talks about how it felt to be approaching 30 and working at a job with no future and not feeling like she would ever get her shit together, well, dear Reader, I'm no stranger to that inner-monologue. The only difference is that her neurotic blog (upon which the book is based) garnered legions of followers and got her interviews on CBS and in the New York Times, not to mention a book and movie deal.

Mine got one hit in June. Alas.

That said, I found the experience of reading quite comforting. I used to think that everyone else had their shit together and I was the broken one for not having a clue. Now I realize that the vast majority of people, especially people of the 26-35 persuasion, are groping for meaning and purpose and the "next step." A well-written memoir/blog is the act of making sense out of what seems like a jumble of experiences with no narrative, no common thread. The idea that your everyday experiences can amount to a meaningful, funny story that can inspire others is a really happy thought. I came away from this book feeling a little better about my own quest. Good stuff.

Oh Shenandoah

2009-07-19T23:13:00.006-04:00

(I long to hear you)

There is nothing quite like camping to make you appreciate the miracle of hot running water. This, more than anything else, is what separates our era from the ones that came before. The Etruscans may have had their bread, the Spartans their soldiers, the Greeks their philosophies, but goddammit I can take a hot shower whenever I want.

Jess and I had never been to Shenandoah National Park before. It's a shade under two hours from Northern Virginia, and talk about an escape! You endure Interstate 66 south for 20 miles, hop on 29 south for a few minutes, and then disappear west onto 211, past winery after winery, until finally you begin your 2,400ft ascent into "Skyland," aptly named because the single road through the park, Skyline Drive, is literally something out of Gulliver's Travels. Around every bend is a breathtaking view, with blue mountains and yellow valleys and gray mountains even further in the distance.

Our campground (curiously named "Matthew's Arm" for unknown, hopefully lurid reasons) was about 10 miles from the entrance at Thornton's Gate. The park itself is enormous, stretching over 100 miles from north to south, and the two-lane Skyline Drive has a speed limit of 35mph that you exceed at your careening-off-the-mountain peril. The two conspire to make the place seem very, very big. Which is exactly, as it turns out, the kind of place for a soul beleaguered by modernity to vanish for the night.

The campground was clean and well-organized, although the sites were very close together. I could, for instance, follow the plot of an otherwise convoluted ghost story being told across the street and four sites up. We had a site next to the restroom, which to its credit had cold running water and toilets not beset upon by spiders, but which made for a rather noisy night of flushes and blow-dried hands. Of course it figures that the one time I'm camping with a bathroom conveniently nearby, I don't awaken having to go at all.

Tooch and Jeep brought the dogs along, and shortly after we arrived Jess and Tooch set the picnic table with foodstuffs while Jeep and I endeavored to start a fire. I actually remembered to bring a lighter this time, and Tooch had ingeniously decided to pick up some fire sticks at the general store in the park along with the cold beer and makeshift-Gerber multi-tool that I later used to hack open a can of apple pie filling.

Jeep and I wielded all our fire-making know-how, which is to say that we tried every assemblage of wood - the A-frame, the Log Cabin, the Awkward Catamaran - that we could think of before finally deciding to dump all the fire sticks and wood in a pile and light it at the same time, using the air-pump from the air-mattress to feed that sucker oxygen until the wood could boil off enough moisture to stay lit.

The "Awkward Catamaran"

It was decidedly the least inspiring camp fire I've ever been party to, but it was akin to making a fire out of wet bathing suits, and by the only meaningful measure - we got it hot enough to make s'mores and hot dogs and mountain pies - it all went well enough.

That night I slept like a baby on our brand new shiny air mattress.

In the morning we took down the tents, packed the cars, had a breakfast of granola bars, bananas, and water (sound familiar?), and found a trail that looked promising to hike. The "Meadow Springs Trail," at mile-marker 33.1, had a couple of things going for it. For starters, it wasn't the 6.1-mile trail that was listed as "strenuous" and eventually led to a waterfall that "may or may not have any water, depending on if it has been a dry summer." Second, it passed the site of an abandoned cabin, where only the stone chimney remained after a mysterious fire burned it down in 1946. Third, it promised a spectacular view at the top. The three combined were enough to lure us into trying it, and with the exception of the trail involving neither meadows nor springs, it was awesome.

The Mysterious Chimney

The top of the trail actually met up with the Appalachian Trail, which stretches from Maine to Georgia, so we walked along that for a little over half a mile until we got to Mary's Rock, which is this unbelievable stone structure on the very top of one of the highest hills in Shenandoah. We climbed to the top of the rocks and could see for miles and miles in every direction. In any military endeavor where the high-ground mattered, you would want to be the first to capture Mary's Rock. I was convinced you could see DC if you had the right telescope. Breathtaking.

The View from Mary's Rock

We hiked back down the mountain and rode east on 211 until we got to Warrenton, VA, where we stopped for a char-burger at Foster's Grille, which was actually really tasty and had great french fries. After that it was home for a shower (with stunning, amazing, miraculous hot running water) and a nap and a lazy dinner of wild-caught Alaskan salmon with teriyaki sauce and Asian rice, followed by more lounging and reading, and now, mercifully, sleep in a soft bed...

Fog and the Valley

2009-07-08T00:48:00.015-04:00

June 28 marked my one-year wedding anniversary. It's amazing to me to think that an entire year has passed since that stormy, memorable day in 2008.

We have yet to print out the wedding pictures, which was kind of endearing before we hit one year and now just sounds kind of sad. We have six weddings to attend in 2009 (three down, three to go) and they're consuming much of our discretionary income, including our picture fund. And you thought planning your own wedding was expensive! Just wait until your friends, who have dispersed to all corners of the country, decide to tie the knot and you're scrounging for plane tickets to Rochester, MN.

Our actual anniversary passed without much fanfare. The weekend was devoted largely to celebrating others. We attended the wedding of Jessie's cousin and the graduation party of her other cousin. I drank so much at the former that I was shot for the latter, and on the anniversary day, once we returned from all the parties for other people, we made a small dinner, popped a movie in ("Zack and Miri Make a Porno"), made love, and fell asleep. Simple and sweet.

Jess, however, had in her heart that we do something special for our first anniversary together, something memorable and worthy of pictures. An idea came after speaking with a co-worker who, for his 30th birthday, had gotten a hot-air balloon ride from his wife down in Charlottesville, VA. Entranced with the idea, I got the name of the company from him - Blue Ridge Balloons - and made arrangements. Our flight was to leave the Boar's Head Inn in Charlottesville at 6 AM on Friday, July 3. All we had to do was be conscious and clothed at 6 AM and meet in the parking lot.

I don't like waking up early, and will take a sunset over a sunrise any day. I especially don't like spending a lot of money on something that *requires* me to wake up early, and ballooning isn't cheap. In fact it's the opposite of cheap. It would have been cheaper to fly 500 miles with US Air than it was to fly 5 miles in a balloon. The journey, when ballooning, is the destination.

I had it in mind to stay at a bed & breakfast the night before, but I couldn't find a room for less than $150, and this month was looking tight enough already thanks to the aforementioned weddings, so we decided to rent a spot at a local KOA and camp out Thursday night. This was a masterful plan with great romantic possibilities, and it would have been effortlessly adorable had the following three things not happened:

1) We arrived at the campsite after sunset.
2) We forgot to bring matches and firewood.
3) We brought nothing soft upon which to sleep.

This all seems comically inevitable in retrospect, us being us. I knew last month, when I bought my first linen shirt for $63 at Macy's, that I had officially become a yuppie in the worst way, although I didn't think that directly translated into bringing all the goodies necessary for hotdogs and s'mores and forgetting to bring anything except the two contacts on the car battery with which to start a fire (let alone something to burn WITH said fire). So we assembled the tent (a wedding present we unwrapped at the campsite) by the parking lights of the Toyota, and then made the 9-mile trek back to town in search of fire.

$18, a BIC lighter, and four Duraflame logs later, we were roasting hot dogs and making s'mores that would curl your toes. Our stomachs full, we sat in silence and watched the fire consume two of the Duraflame logs which, despite their upbeat packaging do not, in fact, light just by burning the wrapper they come in.

Jess laid down a sleeping bag in the tent. I doused the fire. We attempted sleep on the solid ground. A fitful five hours later my cell phone alarm went off and we drooled awake, packed up the tent by the early morning light, and consumed granola bars and a bottle of water on the way to the Boar's Head Inn. It looked like an overgrown English cottage, and I availed myself of the free coffee, served in a room covered in old color prints of Irish Setters and men in polo jackets. Outside, we met our balloon crew, Jim and Liana, who shuttled us in their white pick-up truck to the launch site behind a local elementary school. All of the local balloon companies talk with one another, often launching from the same spot because the more balloons there are in the air, the easier it is to navigate. That being the case, four pick-up trucks with a large wicker basket and brown duffel bag in the bed switched into four-wheel-drive and climbed up a dewy grass hill into the outfield of a small baseball field, their chosen launch site this morning because the wind would carry them southwest of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The sun barely crested over the valley to the east as Jim lowered the basket off the truck and tipped it on its side, attached the burners, and unfurled the enormous balloon from the duffel bag. It snaked out of the bag like a magician's trick, at least 30 feet long if not longer. Behind us, one of the balloon crews was already "cold-packing" their balloon, inflating it with cold air supplied by a gas-powered fan. The narrow tube on the ground that was their balloon slowly filled with air, taking the familiar light-bulb shape, though on its side it appeared doughy, like a failed soufflé.

Jim put us to work, holding open the mouth of the balloon as he started his own fan and blew cold morning air into the balloon at 60mph. Jess and I, deafened and delighted by the fan, held on for dear life as the fabric slowly took shape. I peered inside the growing rainbow-patterned balloon, and it was like looking into the great hall of some Fairy King, the sun illuminating all the patches of color like a molten piece of stained-glass.

Once the balloon was “cold-packed,” Jim turned the knobs on two large propane tanks in the basket and fired up the burners. “Burners” is really an understatement here – these things shot seven feet of flame up into the hungry mouth of the balloon.

He fired them in short bursts, alternating burners, until at last the hot air pulled the balloon skyward. We quickly jumped into the basket, which had just enough room to fit the three of us. An assistant unlatched a safety tether from the truck, Jim fired both burners, the heat prickling on my scalp (which couldn’t have been more than 8 inches from the burners – yeouch) and the balloon creaked and groaned and slid along the grass for a few feet before lifting magically up over the trees.

We spent the next hour floating serenely 1,000ft over the valley. The sun hadn’t yet burnt off the morning fog, and it hung in pockets over the valley. There were four other balloons in the air with us, all at varying altitudes and distances, and it was amazing to watch how fast they could ascend and descend.

For the first 20 minutes or so of the ride I had an absolutely uncontrollable desire to hurl myself out of the balloon. I have no idea why, but I literally had to hold myself in. I had no desire to die. On the contrary! It’s my same crazy desire to, say, jump off of a cruise ship at night or jump in front of the subway – it’s like a Siren Song, a call to new experience, to “what would happen if…?” – it was nuts, but the ground was a hot orange in the morning sun, and the air was smooth, and the balloon hovered, silent and still, and I Just. Had. To. Jump. Out.

Fortunately the feeling passed, and we landed safely an hour later. Quick aside: You can’t actually steer a hot-air balloon. There’s no rudder, no fans, so when I say “we landed safely” I’m saying, “Seriously, I have no idea how this guy landed this thing without killing us all.” You change direction by changing altitude, because the wind is moving in different directions at different heights. The Weather Channel, when it says “Winds out of the southwest at 5mph,” is just referring to the air at the surface. If you go 500ft up, the air might be moving northwest at 20mph, and at 550ft it might be out of the west at 0mph; this masterful game, with an element of memory and luck, is the real art to ballooning, the reason you have to get a pilot’s license. Because, I mean, you can’t just park that thing anywhere. There are mountains and rivers and highways. Oh, you could put that thing on the ground just about anywhere, but you need to be able to get the chase vehicle to the location unless you want to carry hundreds of pounds of balloon gear yourself. It was amazing. The landing itself was smooth as a baby’s ass, right into a field with a single tree in the center, and the white pick-up pulled right up beside us. We folded the balloon, Jim disassembled the basket; we met up with the other trucks a few hundred feet away and had the celebratory sparkling apple juice toast.

The rest of the day was spent taking a tour of Jefferson’s Monticello, his “essay in architecture,” which was guided by a taut southern woman who kept calling it “Monti-cellah” and chiding everyone for leaning against “these original walls.” We got lunch at nearby Michie Tavern, which is a charming, if touristy, complex purporting to represent the Old South with a tavern and a dress shop and a general store. Lunch was a “Colonial Southern Buffet” of Colonial barbeque, Colonial fried chicken, and Colonial beans. I’m pretty sure they just put “Colonial” in front of everything for effect; I can’t imagine Jefferson eating himself fat on “Colonial New York-style Cheesecake.”

After that we made the 3-hour trek back to DC, barely able to stay awake after the lack of sleep and early rising, and got back in time for a nap on the Love Sac. Then it was off to Bangkok 54, a great Thai restaurant in Arlington, for dinner with Tooch, Jeep, Val, Mike, and Anne. We played mini-golf that night at nearby Cameron Run park (I won by a stroke), and collapsed, exhausted, into bed. Not bad for a first anniversary.

Although next time, we’re taking an air mattress. If I’m going to look like a yuppie, I might as well sleep like one, too.

Validation

2009-07-05T02:18:00.003-04:00

Dear Google,

You are not doing a very good job tonight. It's July 4th, and I am in need of some validation from you that my 26 years has left an impression on this planet. It was the kind of night where I was measuring my self-worth based on your search results, and guess what: I'm not feeling fluffy.

The majority of your results were pages I've created myself. Total tweets in reference to me: One. No new comments on my YouTube videos. The few instances in your results where someone else mentions me don't highlight, praise, or adulate as much as they merely mention and enumerate. Yes, I was in attendance at that event. Yes, I performed that piece. But what did you think of me? Did I move you? Did I change you in any way? Or was I like the light in the theater, and just, you know, there?

You may have mapped the globe and revolutionized the internet, Google, but you can't make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

I've been really obsessed with my legacy lately, actually. Some people, no doubt highly intelligent and precariously correct people, would think it silly for a 26-year-old to be concerned with such a lofty concept as his own legacy. It's like describing the sunset over your own gravestone - it's just not something that you think about this side of the curtain. But I have been thinking about it, have been wondering what I'm going to leave this planet when I do eventually leave, and I've realized that if I'm going to leave something tangible, something that lasts, I'm going to have to do a number of things.

Number One is by far the hardest, and also the most necessary: I have to stop being lazy. I have to make creativity a priority, be it music or film or the written word. Every minute I waste in front of a TV or laptop screen is a minute spent not creating, not refining, not developing, not listening to the muses. I'm all about vegging out occasionally, but there has been a devastating lack of productivity recently that is frittering away borrowed time. I have major projects to finish: HFTH, new CD, new pieces, fantasy novel, grad school application... all of them are languishing, lying in a heap, unblinking, waiting for me to resuscitate them. Which leads me to-

Number Two: I have to finish the things that I start. This means that when I write a piece of music or have an idea for a short story, I actually sit and write them down, print them out, put them in a folder. What happens after that is up for debate, but I have to make them exist in the real world outside of my own brain, have to get them onto something durable and lasting and outside of me. And if I commit to a project, I have to see it through to whatever end may come, regardless of whether it comes out any good. Which leads me to-

Number Three: I have to release myself from the tyranny of good. By "tyranny of good" I mean this: Everything I create has to be good right away, and if it's not good, then I failed. This mindset, which rightfully sounded alien and terrifying when I was younger, has overtaken me in adulthood because I'm now creating not just for the joy of creating, but I'm creating with an end-product in mind. "What is this going to do for me?" A new piece has to be good enough to debut and perform for a live audience. A new story has to be good enough to get published. A new film has to be good enough to get seen. But the problem is you can't create from tomorrow, you have to create from now, and if you're fixated on the outcome you can't enjoy the process of creation, the assembling of disparate strands, the refining of those strands until the form is pleasing. Letting go of "good" is not an easy task, especially for an attention-hound like me.

On a happy note, and in direct contradiction to the aforementioned lack of productivity, I'm nearly done notating a new piece that was inspired by the music of Eubie Blake. It's called "The Newbie Eubie," and I'm thinking I'll debut it at the Indiana Ragtime Festival in August. Music has been one fertile area for me recently, and it's been great. It's hard not to want to make it "do more" for me - more opportunity, more chances - but it's one of the few areas of my life where I'm still able to shut some of that out and just play for me.

Border Skirmish

2009-03-26T00:36:00.004-04:00

Dear Reader,

Hi. I'm enjoying writing to you again. I hope you don't mind how rusty I seem to be at this. I'm choosing relatively mundane topics to get back into the swing of things. Then again, the majority of my days are an assemblage of little meaningful moments, and to what end should I blog other than to capture the tiny freckles of memory that would otherwise fade with the winter of age?

Recently, I've gotten addicted to a game called Lux (http://www.sillysoft.net). Well, more accurately, I should say I was "hooked" on Lux by my friend Dave, who is an insistent chap when he feels he knows I need and/or would enjoy something. He's been after me for almost a year now to buy a $25 license key so we could play online together, and finally (after a year of me saying I'd get to it) he surprised me and just bought me a key to use, in my name and everything. (As I said. Insistent.)

Lux is basically a computer version of Risk, which, for those of you who have battled me on the Map of Destiny already know, is one of my favorite games. Lux has all kinds of different maps in addition to the standard "Risk" map. There is a Nazi-era Germany map, a Roman Empire map ("For Gaul!"), even a "Siege" map where you duel other players in and around a well-defended castle. Getting someone out of the Castle Keep is a real challenge, let me tell you. The game makes for very quick gameplay, has good graphics and sound (who doesn't want to see a country literally explode in the flames of victory when you conquer it? Take that, Kamchatka!), and is frankly addictive. All that's missing is the trash-talking at the table, and the game designers have thoughtfully included a chat-window for just such revelry. I highly recommend you check it out.

Not all of my skirmishes today were so digital. My wife and I are not... what's the word... lukewarm people, and when it's on, oh, it's on.

I'd call today's tussle a border skirmish. Diplomatic talks broke down. Someone threw a firebomb. All of a sudden there were bodies everywhere. Explosions. Not everyone can talk about their marriage like a war on terrorism, I know, but against a wife as well-armed as mine, you don't mess around. My wife can kill a man at 20 paces just by telling him the truth.

So, we fought. She stormed out. I stormed... well I stood still and didn't storm anywhere, but I felt tempestuous. My angry clouds were swirling. Chance of precipitation was in the 80s.

I heard the door downstairs slam shut, and I huffed around the apartment for awhile. You know when you get so angry that you can't stand still? You just feel all agitated. Not even really thinking. Occasional violent urges. The odd thought. "I really should drop off my dry-cleaning," followed by a pang of hunger and then more anger.

I was in a huff. And then the strangest quote came into my head from Mr. Rogers. It's from a song that he read to a tough-as-nails senator when Rogers was part of the group defending PBS to the senate. Here are the lyrics:

What do you do with the mad that you feel
When you feel so mad you could bite?
When the whole wide world seems oh, so wrong...
And nothing you do seems very right?

What do you do? Do you punch a bag?
Do you pound some clay or some dough?
Do you round up friends for a game of tag?
Or see how fast you go?

It's great to be able to stop
When you've planned a thing that's wrong,
And be able to do something else instead
And think this song:

I can stop when I want to
Can stop when I wish.
I can stop, stop, stop any time.
And what a good feeling to feel like this
And know that the feeling is really mine.
Know that there's something deep inside
That helps us become what we can.
For a girl can be someday a woman
And a boy can be someday a man.

(watch Mr. Rogers read it to the senator here)

So, I thought of this song. "What do you do with the mad that you feel / When you feel so mad you could bite?" I didn't have any clay. I'm too lazy to make dough unless it's from a tube. I don't have any friends to play tag with, and I was in my skivvies and didn't feel like getting dressed to go run around. So I did the only thing I could think of.

I rearranged the apartment.

Not the whole apartment, mind you. Just the bedrooms. I suppose you could say I'm passive-aggressive, but you can't argue with my taste in throw pillows.

We live in a two-bedroom apartment, and for the entire time we've lived here we (and our stuff) have occupied/slept in/messed up one room while the other sat pristine, preserved like a shrine, for guests. It's like owning a restaurant with a beautiful seating area - candles, tablecloths, artwork on the walls, live music - and only ever getting to eat by the sink in the kitchen.

I moved my piano in there last year and my wife used the closet, but otherwise the guest room just sat there looking inviting, warm, and comfortable while our bedroom was overcome by the rubble of everyday life - scraps of paper, speakers, boxes, checkbooks, video cameras. We did this, we thought, out of respect for guests. It's important to both of us that people come visit and feel at home when they do.

Sometimes I would escape to the guest room and wonder, "Why is this space used as a glorified closet?" So I did it. I took the plunge. I moved the bed around, moved the piano, and I put my computer desk in the guest room. It took three hours. I was sweating bullets.

And my wife nearly killed me when she came home. But spaces have energy. Rooms have energy. Not to get all feng shui on you (which always makes me hungry for General Tso's chicken...mm), but I am a firm believer that spaces elicit powerful reactions on an unconscious level. Our shitty bedroom is a source of tension in our apartment. It's covered in my possessions - my pictures, my posters - and it is not charming, quaint, or relaxing. The computer desk in here made it feel like a dorm room, and the clutter made us try and avoid it. And to top it off, we had a wonderful bedroom right next door reserved only for guests that we only got to look at and never use, a constant reminder of how our bedroom should feel.

So I still need to figure out how to fix up our bedroom. Ironically, the guest bedroom looks even more inviting than before and our bedroom looks like a bomb hit it. Hm.

We fought. I redecorated. We fought about the redecorating. Minor skirmishes. Trade disputes. Arguing over land rights. It's "Risk: Home Edition," and today, Kamchatka moved a computer...

Olympia

2009-03-22T23:52:00.007-04:00

Okay, so recently I've been haunting the PianoWorld forums. I'd say I've become something of a piano voyeur, reading about other people's pianos, scrolling through their pictures, imagining that it was me who was bringing home a new Bluthner or Bosendorfer. All that I'm missing is a telescope and a wheelchair.

I love the feeling of possibility with a new piano, the undiscovered country of its keyboard, the roughness around the edges that can only be polished by hours of devoted practice and performance, that feeling of limitless musical potential. A piano and pianist contour to one another like lovers, and the passionate and unselfconscious communication between them is the most intimate getaway, the most romantic breakfast in bed.

Sometimes, when I'm just existing in this moment or the next, I forget the breadth of experience that I've had already in life. Musically there have been many spectacular moments, and as I was perusing the Steinway Pianos website tonight, I found a press-release about the "Olympia" piano designed by Dale Chihuly. It's finally been purchased after 9 years on the road.

One-of-a-kind piano, only one in the world. And guess what? I've performed on it! I gave a whole concert on this piano - a ragtime concert, no less - at a car dealership in Erie, PA, back when I sold pianos. I didn't play all that well, actually. The concert was kind of a surprise to me, and the damn keys are orange and yellow, which didn't help. But it's cool to think that I had my fingers on that piano before it went into a museum, that I had a chance to make my music upon it.

Also, I can confirm that the bench is as comfy as it looks :D

Shade of Blue

2009-03-22T23:12:00.003-04:00

Dear Reader,

Feeling kind of down this weekend. Not sure entirely why. We watched a number of movies - "Milk" on Friday, "The Duchess" on Saturday," and "Watchmen" on Sunday. Not exactly light viewing, but it was a treat to get ravaged by so much story in so short a time. Gay rights, the politics of gender, nuclear holocaust... I'm due for a viewing of the "Wizard of Oz," I think. Something to cleanse the palate.

Actually, on Saturday we went to the American History museum and saw the remnants of the Star-Spangled Banner, old trains and cars, and the ruby slippers. I never conceived of just how big that flag is, or how beautiful trains look before they are doused in the smoke and ash of use. And, frankly, the ruby slippers weren't as shiny as I had hoped. Light degrades them, you see. If they were to sit under the same bright lights that made them sparkle in the movie, they would fade and fade, so their presentation in the museum is rather underwhelming: dimly lit, although with a twinkle on the lip of the left shoe that glows like an ember in a dying fire, the last remnants of the old magic. Not enough to get you home, only enough to remind you of it.

Home. I'm not sure where my heart feels it nowadays. Home is siting at the piano and playing. Home is in the twin bed at my mother's house, the passenger seat of my father's truck, the table at Eat 'n Park with Mat. Home is where my wife is. The warm bed where I sleep. Home is behind the wheel of my car, the sunroof open, sitting with my eyes closed in a parking space and listening to the world outside as the sun warms my face.

I've become dubious as of late of lending too much credence to emotion. You can feel "down" for any number of reasons: your sleep schedule is off, your sugar is low, you didn't exercise today, you have too much energy, etc... There's nothing celestial about that. I used to let myself get caught up in the roller coaster. Hell, I took pride in the fact that I felt things strongly enough to be able to call it a roller coaster. Everyone else seemed to be rather zombie-like. Morose. They weren't like me, weren't feeling things as deeply or as authentically. Now I realize that to really feel, to be proximate to Truth, is exhausting. And being a Real Person is exhausting enough, you know, without the emotional roller coaster. Waking up early, putting on your disguise and going to work, cooking and cleaning the apartment, exercising... The motions themselves are enough to tire you out, let alone contemplating the meaning or significance of them.

This is what I didn't know about being an adult that I know now. It's freaking tiring! It was easy for me to ignore that fact when I wasn't working, when I was living off my parents and spending my days playing. And it truly was playing, even when I felt like I was in the real world. I was just playing at the whole bit. Now I'm married, work full-time, plan out weekends months in advance, all while trying to feel authentic and purposeful. And I'm relatively successful at it, if I say so myself. I'm becoming more solid. But a solid what?

Blogs Are Boring When Life is Good

2009-03-18T00:16:00.010-04:00

Happy St. Patrick's Day! I celebrated by locking myself in the bedroom with my piano and playing for three hours while Jess went out with friends. It was heavenly, the most time I've had on my piano down here at any one sitting.

In Pittsburgh I've got my Disklavier, a 48" Yamaha U1 that is a fantastic practice instrument. You can read the entertainingly old version of the story of how I won it here.

At my apartment in D.C., however, I needed to get a piano and didn't want to damage the Disklavier by moving it, so now I have a beautiful little Kawai CE-7 that I bought off of craigslist last spring.

I think I had more fun searching for a good used piano than I've had buying anything ever. I scoured craigslist every night, e-mailing people with instruments that looked promising. I would check brands and models against posts at the PianoWorld forums, which was very helpful in avoiding a number of models. (PianoWorld is THE website for piano people... very fun).

I tried out a little Kimball upright that had about as much musicality as a couch pillow. I tried out a solid but poorly-maintained Baldwin Acrosonic at the house of a lovely old couple who, after hearing me play on their piano, came to one of my concerts in NoVA. (A side note: The only piano my grandfather Adam Spitznagel ever owned was a Baldwin Acrosonic, which to me is sad because A) He deserved to play on a real instrument and B) No one ever thought to record him playing anything.) I flirted with the idea of going to a dealer, but knew instinctively that I'd get a lot more piano for the paltry sum of money I had to spend ($1200) if I foraged in the private-seller woods than I would hacking away in the weeds of a dealership.

I finally found, after three weeks of searching, a 42" Kawai upright in walnut, made around 1980.

There is something comforting about wood that is older than you, you know? The piano was at a house out in Reston, and when I went to try it out I found out the house was for sale and the piano was the last big piece of furniture to be moved out. Sweet bargaining position for me, I thought, channeling my grandma's hawkish flea market eye. The house was enormous, one of those million-dollar deals, and the piano was tucked away in the same room as the washing machine. Illustrious, I know. It was, far and away, in the best condition of any piano I had looked at, though. It was like finding a mint '98 Honda Civic in a lot full of '81 Corollas.

It was out of tune, of course - the shudder that piano technicians get when they get the "I bought a piano on craigslist" call is an extremely well-documented and justified event - but as most people who own a piano know folks usually only tune a piano when they are shamed into doing so, and it's not the end of the world. I play professionally and my piano hasn't been tuned in over a year, so I try not to judge people, though this Kawai must have gone 5 or more years without going under the tuning hammer. It's like a car in that way. It's meant to be driven, and when it's not being driven you can spring all kinds of leaks.

No such problems with this piano, though. I knew what to look for: cracks in the pinblock, worn felt on the hammers, keys that didn't work. None of it. Everything was like-new! I pretended to deliberate. I did. Not afraid to admit it, but on the inside I knew I'd found the right piano for me.

The fun part was getting it for $750, knowing that it was easily worth three times that. Pianos are horrific investments unless you buy one of the fancy brands (i.e. Steinway or some such), losing a huge percentage of their value each year. This is bad news for new piano owners but great news for impoverished musicians looking for quality instruments. I only know one professional pianist who owns a Steinway grand, and it's because his partner has a "real job" that brings home real money.

The Kawai is a great practice piano. Nice firm action, really takes some energy to play, and it's solid. I never considered myself a "Kawai" kind of guy, but my experience thus far has been awesome. It holds a tune brilliantly (and I beat the hell out of it), it has a great sound and action for such a little thing, and it makes a lot of sound. The CE-7 has been praised by technicians as being Kawai's best-sounding console... me loves me that solid-spruce soundboard... and the whole point of buying a real acoustic piano instead of a digital was that I wanted to keep my fingers strong in the months where I'm not performing, and in spite of having to dance around the schedules of the neighbors upstairs and down, it was totally a worthwhile purchase.

Pianos are one of those curious things that are more than the sum of their parts. For me, the piano is a freedom machine. I consider it one of the great pleasures of my life, one of my true luxuries, that at any moment I can sit down and transport myself to that melodious pasture called Joy. I wish there was some way to communicate that feeling to the kid who hates piano lessons, the kid who, like I did, just wanted to play the fun music. Keep walking the path. The journey only gets more amazing...

On Poetry (2005)

2009-02-05T00:30:00.005-05:00

This is a piece of "found writing," something that I wrote three years ago and found on a random hard drive tonight. It reads like a blog post, so I thought I'd share it here.

Scarily, it's as true as the night I wrote it.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

As I sit here, on the night before this essay is due, I cannot help but laugh at how whatever muse sings for me is a drama queen. She whispers for days, blowing kisses behind my back, until I finally break into her dressing room and shake a program in front of her face and scream, “Why haven’t we rehearsed?” If my writing process were a dance, it would be a tango. The music is intense – thumping, powerful, each motion feeling more important than maybe it should. At least this is how it is with papers and such for school. My muse sings only in the late hours, when everyone else is asleep. I cannot tell whether she is shy or whether hers is a voice that perhaps can only be heard at night, rolling from beyond distant mountains where I sit at the foot of grey skyscrapers and try to write down what I hear.

Writing poetry is very different. For me a good poem is like a good watch: inside bubbles all this tension, this precision motion, hundreds of individual parts, but on the surface the motion is simple and beautiful, two little hands traveling around and around, capturing the essence of infinity. A bad poem for me is ponderous, is self-indulgent, and at all times do I try to avoid being overtaken by myself. It would be like William Wallace wielding a pistol; the images have to harmonize, have to move together.

The net effect of this striving for simplicity is that my poetry always feels very small to me. I’m self-conscious in class when others read their poems because I always feel like they’ve aimed higher and achieved more. My hands are so unpracticed, my tongue so undisciplined. Sometimes I feel like I’m writing with cotton in my mouth. The words that flow so freely when their audience is a passing breeze get lodged in my fingernails when trying to write a poem. Sometimes it’s easier than others. The shortest poems are the easiest to start and the hardest to finish. My fear is that I get to the end and all I’m left with is little strands of an idea that wasn’t meant for me.

One of the biggest challenges is inspiration. For this I usually turn to nature, because in nature I see a reflection of myself. I like to think of myself as gentle, but those parts of me have natural predators. Fear plays a part in all my poems, I think: fear of being alone, of being stranded and forgotten. I guess of being misunderstood, too, which seems like a silly fear of a child afraid of something he does not possess the words to describe. That is one irony of getting older: as your vocabulary increases, you understand more and more how to talk about your problems and less and less of how to deal with them. Oh, for the days when all our fears lived in the closet or under the bed… I graduated high school and all of a sudden the world became my closet.

See, self-indulgence. It’s difficult not to over-analyze when you’re writing about yourself. This is what I try to cut through when I write a poem, this huge presence of ‘self.’ We had our poetry reading the other night, and all I could think about were my poems and how they would be received. I couldn’t see past myself, couldn’t appreciate others except in relation to me. I hope my poems show a yearning to reach past that. The greatest fear of the conceited man is that no one cares if he only loves himself. I want my writing to break me free of that, but my tools are dull and simple, little stone hammers and bone-chisels. I think that’s why I turn to nature imagery a lot. There is something very unselfish about trees that grow whether or not anyone’s looking, or leaves that fall with no one to rake them once they get to the bottom. I see something beautiful in that.

When I started this semester, I was afraid. Afraid that when I squeezed myself no poetry would come out. You can see in my first poems that I was unable to put myself inside them. They were linguistic exercises, little games that played with myself, like a cat with a ball of yarn that he likes to pretend is really the mouse he’s hungering for. The illusion worked fine until it came time for my work to be workshopped, and once it became a matter of reputation, a matter of pride, I forced myself to squeeze harder. The resulting poem was better. At least it had some of me inside of it. It was a poem about falling leaves, and about love. I never understood why so much of our art is about love until I tried to make some myself. Art, that is. I found poetry to be really well suited to the kinds of emotions I was feeling, this incredible tension between what we expect in love and what we get, between happiness and the fact that she doesn’t like my parents.

Maybe this is why I think a good poem has real tension. It’s because all things are in relation to one another, strung up in a web and clinging to one another, relying on one another. Maybe love is one of the most potent emanations of that primordial tension. Re-reading my poems, I realize they are all about love. I’m not really sure of who, or for who. My girlfriend would kill me if I told her they were all about her, and I would be lying if I did. They are bigger than one person. I want something out of love that I don’t think it can give me; a sense of place, of purpose, of peace. What I like about writing this essay is that I can use words like that and not worry that they’ve been used before.

I try not to let my poems have that luxury, but one of the hardest things about poetry is how do you know when you’ve succeeded? Is it the admiration of others that validates the work? Has it blossomed once it speaks to a part of me? I’m not sure if I’ve succeeded this semester in creating anything beautiful. I would like to think so, I guess. It is the tiny disruptions that end up the story of a living thing. Maybe that’s what my writing is yearning for… the story of myself. One of the poems that I thought of but never wrote started, “I want to believe that my footsteps are displacing the earth,” and I do. I think we all do. What an interesting desire for a mortal being – to stretch beyond our time here, our hands outstretched and reaching for more.

Breathless

2008-11-05T02:41:00.001-05:00

Yes we can. Yes we can.Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can. Yes we can.

Yes we did. Now let's get to work and make good on all these dreams!

Ceasefire

2008-09-12T00:12:00.007-04:00

Dear Reader,

Well, I've been driving myself crazy. I spent 10 hours on Wednesday flipping between MSNBC, CNN, and FOX, and followed literally 600 minutes of "lipstick-on-a-pig" coverage until my soul leaked out of my ears. That night, I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think about anything else. My faith in humanity's ability to rise above its reptilian self fell to an all-time low.

And then, praise God for this one small blessing, today was September 11. And I forgot about politics for a day.

I've been watching because I care. Because I have a vested interest. Because the Christian American Moviegoer in me who saw "All Dogs Go to Heaven" wants to see the attack dogs who fight dirty get what's coming to 'em. Instead, I've been slowly dissolving and not, I might add, actually volunteering to do anything other than watch and react.

I know I'm lost in an existential quandary because I grew a beard.

Not an intentional beard, mind you. If you have never seen me with a beard, you're a lucky person. My face is the antithesis of my scalp when it comes to hair production, like "The Peanut Butter Solution" only the Senor is creepily after the boy's 5 o'clock shadow. I'm not dissing myself, it's really an unflattering beard. It adds 50lbs, makes me look mangy and downright scruffy (and not in a roguishly handsome Han Solo kind of way, more in a "hair on a hobbit's foot" way). It's black and curled and greasy and clings to my face like a dirty secret, and I only grow it when I'm feeling too overwhelmed by my thoughts to muster the strength to shave, to cleanse, to release my face from it.

My mom, upon whom experiments should be conducted because she is right more often than any human being should be able to be, told me once that "Disorder on the inside means disorder on the outside." I'm sure you've experienced this. You feel out of sorts and your room gets covered, the kitchen sink fills up, bills sit in unopened envelopes. There's a connection between you and the world, and however your world looks on the inside is what reality starts to look like around you.

This is precisely why I've started avoiding saying things like "That will never happen to me." Because, let's face it, the Universe is a smart ass, the penultimate jokester. She laughs blood and sex and sweat, and She will find a way to make your life ironic.

I remember once, when I was living in Florida, a girl who was a passenger in my car asked if I'd ever gotten a ticket. Now, I had an inkling at this point that the only reason I'd never gotten a ticket was because I had never vocalized the words, "No, I've never gotten a ticket." But this particular day I was feeling brazen. Maybe I wanted to strut a little stuff, put a spit-shine on the old Martin, you know? And so I said it. Out loud. "No, I've never gotten a ticket."

The next day, it's raining. I'm on my way back from class, sitting at a red light, when a cop pulls up behind me. No big deal, I'm not doing anything wrong. The light turns green, I start to go, and he follows me through the light. In fact he follows me for an entire mile, and as I'm about to turn into my apartment complex his lights start flashing. I pull over hoping he'll pass me by like I'd seen people do in movies (how else was I supposed to know what to do?), but no, he was coming for me. Or rather, She was coming for me, because She had heard what I said, and She couldn't pass up the opportunity. Turns out my registration was expired. I didn't even know. The cop did a routine check on my license plate, saw that I was a few months out, and pulled me over.

I. Shit. You. Not.

$146 in fines later, I realized this one absolute truth: Saying something "never will happen" is the same thing as saying "this absolutely must happen." Don't give the Universe the pleasure of proving you wrong. She will do it often enough anyways without any help from you.

So that's what I'm reminding myself of as I sit here all mangy and gross, telling myself I'm going to shave in the morning. Existential questions gather on the idle soul, cling to soft skin and weight it down with the unanswerable. And if I want the world around me to be better, I should turn off the goddamn TV and start fixing the world inside me.

Your,
Martin

Why I Like John McCain

2008-09-05T00:42:00.004-04:00

Damn politics. Some of us actually have to work in the morning.

But I had to write. I have some sympathy for you, dear Reader. You come to this blog, all two of you (thanks Mom and Dad), to read about my latest fascinating existential quandary and all you've been getting lately is "Sarah Palin hates polar bears."

I can't help it. It's what's on my mind.

As I struggled to stay awake through John McCain's speech, I realized one very obvious thing: This man is not going to win any awards for public speaking. He may be a maverick, but he was clearly a C-student in "Speech and Debate." And that's okay. As the past eight years have shown, you don't have to be a good speaker (or be able to form a sentence) to be President. Everyone including Evil Tina Fey... I'm sorry Sarah Palin... acknowledges that Obama's appeal is, in part, that he just *sounds* so damn different than the past eight years. I don't think Barack could sound more different than George W. Bush, do you? I really like how he doesn't talk down to me. I like that I leave his speeches feeling better about my country than when I entered them.

But John McCain's speech tonight was respectful, moderate, hopeful, and slightly ironic considering his party had just spent a week doing all the things McCain promises he would get rid of in Washington. I felt like an alien ship had landed from the 80's, back when Republicans actually represented the center of America and not the scariest of our relatives (now available in cowboy hats!). A deafening silence set over the hall when McCain honored Obama's qualities and achievement, talked about how corrupt Republicans and the Republican party have lost the trust of America, about how both parties in Washington are broken. You could nearly taste the desperate thirst on the part of the delegates for the blood of Democrats, Liberals, Media, and anyone else who dares to ask a question about the direction of our country (to their credit, they have yet to blame Canada). Their applause seemed especially forced save for the end, when John McCain was truly inspiring.

I give him a lot of credit for going in there and being himself, for not pretending to be a neocon and Sarah Palin's soul mate. Sure, harping on his Vietnam service is kind of ironic considering he's telling the story to the same delegates who viciously destroyed his campaign 8 years ago. They were crying and weeping for him, but you know if he were a Democrat they'd be Swiftboating him back to Hanoi.

I had the overwhelming sense that John McCain is too good for them. He is the candidate their party needs but not the candidate their party deserves, to quote an especially relevant movie. It's no wonder all anyone can talk about is Sarah Palin. She was much flashier, and she proves that all one has to do to be considered "conservative" is to talk about what a gutless unpatriotic inept elitist [Gore, Kerry, Obama, Big Bird] your opponent is.

But not you, John. You shared a deeply personal story about the moment in Hanoi when you were broken. If, in another life, you were instead an author, Oprah would be crying as you recounted your incredible tale of heroism. But instead you are reduced to being coronated by the same kingmakers who have ruled over the past eight disastrous years with their feigned smiles and warlike chants and their gleaming white skin.

You are a good man, John McCain. I'm proud that you're an American. And thank you for holding the Republican party more accountable for the past eight years than anyone else has managed to do. That took serious cajones, and in front of 40,000 of them, no less.

Personally, I do not believe our country's problems can be solved by the same party that created them. I think you confirmed that for me tonight more than anything else could have. That you, John McCain, are such an outsider in your own party says less about you and more about what the Republican Party, the party of Lincoln, Roosevelt, Reagan, and my father, has lost.

Martin

Sarah Barracuda

2008-09-04T00:51:00.011-04:00

Well, Sarah, you did it. You brilliantly and effectively tore into Obama. I'm glad that hope-mongering bi-racial child of a single mother got what was coming to him. You've shown all of the wildly successful Republicans (positively glowing in their shimmering Hall of the White People) that you can fight dirty. A "pitbull with lipstick," as you so eloquently put it. My lady, you fit right in.

Sadly, for you, you've forgotten why the American people fall in love.

You see, people don't fall in love with looks or personality. They don't fall in love with intellect or temperament, eloquence or ideas. People fall in love with how they feel when they're with you.

And Sarah, you don't make me feel so good.

You give me that same queasy, tremulous flutter in my stomach that I felt when George W. Bush destroyed John McCain in 2000 over his military record. You give me that same sick, hopeless feeling I had when I found out Bill Clinton lied about letting Monica suck him off. You give me that same, fleeting pleasure I feel whenever the other teams loses, or the big hitter strikes out, or the movie I was looking forward to turns out to be terrible.

Not once tonight did you or your party propose a single idea that would help Jessie and I pay our bills every month. Not once did your party or its cast of vanquished ideologues (Romney, Thompson, Guiliani) propose just exactly how you intend to undo the damage your party has done in the past 8 years. I truly wish that Republicans were as good at running America as they are at attacking Democrats. Maybe then they'd have a record and a platform to run on.

No, Sarah, I don't feel good when I listen to you. I don't feel good when I listen to the talking heads turn their words to you. I don't feel more hopeful or more positive or remotely convinced that the Republicans will do anything but what they have always done: Talk a big game, win, and accomplish nothing. In fact, you seemed to delight in ravaging a story not unlike your own, a story about an individual who came from little and accomplished much despite every influence to the contrary.

Your speech, in the end, betrays other Americans just like you. It betrays yourself. It is more of the same. And Jessie and I can't afford more of the same. It's just too expensive.

So, politicians of all stripes, I ask only this of you: Level the playing field as much as humanly possible, and then kick the ball and leave the rest to me. A third of my paycheck went to G.W. Bush, so don't pretend to be the party of low taxes. Blacks and Hispanics are going to one day supersede whites, so enjoy your all-white conventions while they last. All I really want from you is Hope. Hope that this nation can rise above its differences and remain that shining beacon I learned about in school, the place I am proud to call my home, the country that I thank God for every time I return from visiting another nation.

Give me Hope, Sarah. John. Barack. Joe.

And then get out of my way.

-Martin

Knight of the Old Republic

2008-09-03T01:56:00.003-04:00

Tiran stood at the Cantina door, the cold tip of his blaster pointed directly at the Rhodian's head. He was drunk. Angry. He always got angry when he drank, which is why he did it so often. Angry felt good. Angry felt alive.

Mos, his compatriot, looked on at the helpless alien with hungry eyes. Which color would this one bleed? Blue? Green? The patrol on Citadel Station was too small to keep the law, and the patrol for Entertainment Module 081 kept a safe distance over by the airlock down the corridor, never venturing into the Cantina. It would feel good to kill again.

Suddenly, three shadowy figures appeared behind them. The first, a roguish pilot, tapped a twitchy finger on the modified blaster at his side. The second... the second was beyond the description, like a damaged statue. Her eyes were white. Blank. Staring. Her brown cloak and the odd thrill of death enshrouded her in enough mystery to change the temperature of the room. The third held a vibroblade in his bionic right hand. Tiran could hear the gears clicking as it pulsed on the hilt of the weapon.

This last one was trouble.

The Rhodian pleaded with the strangers to help him. Fools. That modified blaster would fetch money. Modifications were illegal on the Citadel. Czerka's men would be hungry to get their hands on it and turn it on those tree-hugging Ithorians.

The thought was exhilarating. Tiran argued with the group over the Rhodian's fate, but he could barely hear himself think. His temper burned hot for a fight, and he could tell the pilot and the woman were boiling over, too. That's when the bearded man spoke up in a smooth voice.

"Can't we all just talk about this?" he said.

WAIT WAIT WAIT. You mean I will gain dark side points by kicking this guy's ass? WTF? Why does the Light Side have to be a frigging pansy parade? Obi-wan Kenobi cut a guy's arm off in a bar just because he could. Han Solo shot first and put a hole in Greedo you could fly a shuttle through, and I get to be Dr. Joyce Meyer with a Lightsaber and "talk about this"? Maybe next I should ask him how he's feeling. "You seem like an angry mercenary. Tell me about your childhood." This guy kills aliens for fun, and somehow I'm supposed to have a moral dilemma about slicing him in half, raiding his corpse, and using his keycard to ransack his apartment? Why the hell did I spend all that time making my Jedi look cool just to have him be a frigging ween?

Light side. Dark side. Sometimes a Jedi just needs to choke a bitch.

-m

27 Reasons I Am Surely 26

2008-08-31T23:57:00.018-04:00

Pop the Cialis. Inform the AARP.

I actually heard my woman say the words "at your age" tonight. As in, "Martin, at your age, you can't really expect to get toys at Christmas."

I replied eloquently. Respectfully. Insightfully.

"What the hell did you just say?" I said.

But it was true. Her guns were stuck to. And in front of my father and his wife, no less, who are visiting from Pittsburgh and so far have seemed to enjoy how stable and welcoming and warm my highly adult life is. They were commenting on how we will be getting "couples" gifts from now on. A coffeemaker, for instance. His-and-Hers socks.

"How about an urn?" I wanted to say, biting my tongue. "Should I draw up a will while we're at it?"

You see, I deliberately did not extinguish my individual candle at the wedding. Jessie did not extinguish hers, either. A wind blew up at that point in the ceremony and whisked what little flames we had enkindled up into an airy smoke that set off to join the Clouds of Time, but that doesn't mean I stopped existing as my own person. "Couples gifts." "At your age..." Bah. Judge me by my age, do you?

Of course you do. I'm 26. At my age, my grandfather had saved the world from Nazis and fathered three children. 7 may be the Age of Reason and 18 the Age of Unreasonableness, but 26 is when you should Have a Fucking Clue About Your Life. 26 is the age at which I thought my sisters should Know Better and Be Adults. They had garages for Christ sake. They were grown-ups.

And now, dear Reader, I fear that I, too, have grown up. Or at least have been asked to dress like a grown-up and be willing to not get toys for Christmas. I worry about what I write on here because what if somebody reads it and thinks I'm not as put-together as I should be? What if someone goes, "Someone his age shouldn't be writing like this" or, worse, "Isn't he too old for this?"

So I've decided to compile a list of 27 signs that I am actually 26. I'm including a bonus one in case one of them is stupid, which is likely considering I'm writing this in my pajamas on a work night (take that, adulthood!)

The 27 Signs You, Martin, Are Indeed 26

There is hair on your butt.
You were born before "Return of the Jedi" came out. That was before the Original Trilogy was finished and 16 years before George Lucas ruined Star Wars with "The Phantom Menace."
You are older than the Super Mario Bros. (Mercifully, you are still younger than the "Pong" paddles.)
You take more than two pills at night.
You remember Michael Jackson actually being a sex symbol. For women.
Advertisers no longer covet your disposable income.
You were 2 years old when Apple aired their landmark "1984" ad. You think that ad is retro? You are older than it.
There is a symphony of popping sounds in your knees when you kneel down and stand up. (It's syncopated, thank God.)
One of your favorite toys growing up was a Fisher Price record player. That played records (Michael Jackson's "Beat It" on 45rpm? Anyone?)
Jesus, you know what a 45rpm record is.
I mean, seriously, I should just stop this list right there.
You remember when computer screens had two colors: Orange, and Not Orange.
That CD you made a year ago? When you were born, CDs hadn't even been invented yet.
Your favorite shows on Saturday morning were "Garfield and Friends," "Muppet Babies," and "Heathcliff."
You remember Mister Donut and still resent Dunkin' Donuts for wiping it out. Bitches. America runs on MY FIST.
You didn't have Cable TV until 1988, at which point your family watched "Perfect Strangers" and "Step By Step" and "Who's the Boss."
You know who Jaleel White is and you still get excited at the prospect of "Double Dare" reruns.
You actually have pains you would describe as "aches."
The theme song from "Doug" is constantly playing in your head somewhere. Doo doo doo, do do do dooo do dooo do do... doo doo doooo, doo doo doo do, doooo, doo, dee doo... Dammit.
Your favorite stuffed animal as a child was a giant blue Smurf.
You know what the word "baud" means, and you existed before word processors knew how to "word wrap."
You are older than eBay and Amazon.com combined. In fact, you are older than any website. Ever. (the first appeared in 1991)
You don't understand Bratz Dolls (a.k.a. "Hooker Barbie"), Hannah Montana (I'll tap me some of th... wait she's how old?!?), or any other manufactured musical demon spawn of Disney. Bring back Alan Menken.
You still cry at the end of "Pee Wee's Playhouse."
Did I mention that you are older than the World Wide Web? Oh, also, and you remember when anyone actually called it that?
You get most of the ridiculously obscure references in "Family Guy."
It took a list this long to make fun of how old you are.

Wow. That was edifying. And depressing as hell. Well, at my age, I suppose I shouldn't be making these lists. It'll be all "couples lists" from here on out.

But I'll be damned if I don't ask for toys for Christmas. Screw adulthood. I have the rest of my life to be all growed up...

Your,
Martin

26 on the 24th

2008-08-27T00:52:00.002-04:00

Dear Reader,

It doesn't seem all that long ago that this post was entitled "24 on the 24th." I've been trying to make some sense of the rapid acceleration that seems to have overtaken the gas pedal on my life, but so far my only theory is that time flies when you're having fun. If that's true, then I must be having a blast. Life is hurtling by.

I'm one of those people who largely exists in their head, and it is taking me a long time to accept that every thought, emotion, opinion, and revelation I have is not necessarily unique to me. I thought I was a "special snowflake," but you live long enough and you realize that that belief was the ego-centric fantasy of a younger you who desperately needed to feel original and somehow set apart. I still feel that need. Don't take my cognizance of the need as diluting my desire for it. Some of my least favorite words are aptly applied to my life right now: grown-up, stable, comfy. It is taking a remarkable amount of willpower to not resist the intense inertia I'm feeling in my Good Life. Perhaps that's the definition of responsibility: Not upending a good thing just to feel like you're moving forward.

People have been yelling at me, perhaps rightly so, about my grumbling over turning 26. It's not a spectacular age. It doesn't have the wide-mouthed flare of 18, the newfound power of the raucous 21, or the sober, trenchant 30. It's a middling year, one of those great gray expanses between wayposts where one continues to put on the new outfit of adulthood. I'm struggling somewhat to know how to act, defining myself from the outside in as I do. What does a 26-year-old look like? How do they think and act? I feel like a child playing dress-up in front of a mirror. "Here is me at 18. Here is me at 26. Here is me at 40." What's really changing?

If anything, the blessing of getting older is that congealed feeling I have on the inside. Readers of this blog know that I've been liquid for a long time, desperately seeking to become solid. And I can feel that happening, piece by piece. It's not a hardening, though that temptation exists. How many adults do you know who mistake solid for hard? I look at those people, the ones who are cynical and sour and brittle, and I try to be anything but what they are. I am convinced you can grow older without totally smothering your inner-child.

In my music, actually, I am trying to get back to a place of innocence. We start out, as children, creating with no sense of the outcome. We just create because the joy is in the creation. Who cares if it is good? Who cares if it makes sense or doesn't make sense? The outcome isn't the point. The point is the act of creation.

But then we go to school, and we learn how things "should" and "should not" be done. We learn that there are others who might be "better" or "worse" than us. We learn critical-thinking skills and hew a keen critical eye. We are evaluated on how well we critique our own work and the work of others.

And in the process, we forget that you cannot create with a critical mind any more than you can be critical with a creative mind. We focus so much on the quality of the outcome, which is the domain of the critical mind, that we almost become afraid to create. What if it doesn't come out perfect? What if it isn't good? Would that mean I am not good? What if I'm not as good as I used to be? What if I'll never create anything better?

When I was a child, between the ages of 12 and 16, I wrote 42 pieces of ragtime music. From age 16 to now, I've written 2. That's a 95% reduction in pieces over twice as much time. What really changed? My ability to compose? Not likely. Did the pieces get better? I'd like to think so. But in the process of learning how to be critical, I forgot what it was just create for the joy of it.

So, now that I'm 26, I am going to relearn how to think like a child. I find that devilishly ironic. We spend all that time learning how to grow up, only to realize that what we truly need is to think young.

26. I suppose it's up to me to make it a good year. Perhaps by focusing on what is special and unique to me, I'll be able to feel that all-important sense of "progress," of moving forward.

Your,
Martin

Sunset

2008-08-16T02:08:00.005-04:00

Dear Reader,

It is nearly Fall, and with the shorter days and cooler nights comes, like clockwork, a deep, restless yearning for a spiritual life. I know it's coming, because my dreams change. This week brought some of the most intense dreams I've had, ever. One night I dreamt I climbed Jacob's Ladder, and Heaven was a thundercloud that billowed up into the universe. The next night I was in a hospital, where I learned that I had imagined everyone I loved in my life. One by one they left me, taking their warmth and love with them, like seeing your life before your eyes only in reverse, and everyone who entered is now leaving. Even Jessie's loving face, the only constant in the dream, faded into the amorphous face of a nurse I didn't know, and I awoke in terror and grasped for Jessie's warm flesh. "She is real," I yelled silently. "She is real. They. Are. All. Real."

It has been this way for eight years, ever since I turned 18 and bought my first book on Witchcraft out of a deep, primordial, beyond-words desire for a living spirituality. Every year the power takes on a new expression: a deck of tarot cards, scholarly books about Jesus, the Tao Te Ching, astrology, telekinesis, you name it. Without fail, it possesses me, as though this particular change of seasons shifts something within me that needs to exist deeper than I currently am.

I've had an idea for this blog for some time now where I read and comment on a passage from the Tao Te Ching for each post. It's a text that I found particularly inspiring. It's also a ridiculously fun candidate for some clever wordplay and high-minded, low-brow discussions about just how applicable woodsman Lao's text really is. I think we should go for it. It should be fun. And it won't be every post. It won't be this post.

Today at 4 PM, my grandfather called an ambulance for himself. By the time they arrived, he wasn't able to tell them what medicines he was taking. He wasn't able to make words, no matter how hard he tried. The words weren't coming. He managed to call my aunt before the ambulance arrived. She was at work, and didn't take the call, but she had a powerful feeling that something was wrong, so she left work unannounced and went over to the house to find him sitting in a chair, unable to speak anything but gibberish. Twenty minutes later he was at a hospital in Wooster, OH, who told my aunt they didn't have the necessary expertise at their little hospital to give him the emergency care he required, so he was transferred to a hospital in Akron, OH. We're still awaiting the results of the tests.

Mom called me as Jess and I were driving home. The call came as all calls like this come, like lightning from a clear sky, and I regaled her with questions about his condition, whether he would improve. As my mind raced and the tears flowed, I was caught by one of the greatest sunsets I had ever seen in Pennsylvania. The sun, a fiery, rebellious orange, burned brightly in a lavender sky. Clouds tried to pass in front of it, but it singed their edges with blinding light. As it lowered it lit the horizon, and halfway hidden and partially obscured, it torched the sky with a deep palette of brilliant reds and blues and purples. The sunset had burned so brilliant that night never truly came, not the whole way home. I could still see the deep blue, still warm from the raging sunset, as if night could not overtake the memory of the sun that burned so bright. I felt a tiny tinge of peace.

Please pray for my grandpa. We don't know what happens next.

Martin

Why I Am Not a Dogwalker

2008-08-12T00:51:00.006-04:00

I used to think I was a dog person. That is until I came into bed tonight - you know, my marriage bed, my sacred space, the fluffy thing into which I plop after a long day of asking the big questions - and there was a dog lying in my spot, growling at me like I was an intruder.

Granted, it's not my dog. It's Josie, Jessie's parent's dog, a Cocker Spaniel/Poodle half-breed with all the snootiness of a poodle and the stubbornness of a spaniel. Josie is the perfect example of how you can drive just about any living thing crazy by picking on it. She's got a hair-trigger, can bite you while wagging her tail, and is OCD about... well... everything.

And she was sitting in my bed, snarling, guarding a sleeping Jess from, you guessed it, me.

We're dogsitting this week while Jess' parents galavant around the West Coast. We didn't exactly volunteer to dog-sit, either. The dog-thing arrived with Tooch this past Thursday when she came down for one of her interviews, and I couldn't convince her to take it back (she already has a dog). I quickly came to realize that Jess saw a golden opportunity to test out my parenting capabilities which, safe to say, are in shoddy disrepair and I like it that way, thank you very much. I'm at a stage in my life when I don't want any other living thing counting on me save for me. Myself. Moi. And maybe my wife, when she's good. We've killed all our plants save for the bamboo, and even that is yellowed at the edges. God help any creature who wanders into our apartment - we've got so many poisonous baited traps set to kill any living thing that enters this Fortress of Doom, it's ridiculous. I haven't seen a spider in 8 months. Flies die a quick and painful death between the thunderclap of fists. And God help the cockroaches if they so much as stop to look in our window on their way down the street. Just keep walking, buddy. [cocks shotgun]

And then here comes this dog. And she needs walked. And pet. And have her poop picked up in plastic bags. And she stares at you when you eat. And she barks at goddamn everything.

Which was fine. I could deal with it. I'm a big boy, I can handle things that are not entirely fun and/or easy. Until she was lying in my bed, in my spot, on my pillows, next to my wife, snarling at me at 12:30 in the morning like I was the stranger, like I had intruded into her life. She barked, and woke up Jess, and the stream of invective I started shooting at this mutt would have made a microphone blush. The dog and I got into a growling fight (I do a wicked dog impression), and Jess awoke furious at me and then she shoved the dog off the bed. It snarled again at me, and I growled back, pushed it outside the bedroom, threw its fluffy bed at it, and slammed the door.

So. Yes. I used to think I was a dog person. Maybe when it's my dog, it'll be different, you know? But right now, I wish this mutt would go the way of the potted plants.

-Martin

Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory

2008-05-23T00:26:00.007-04:00

Dear Reader,

Wow. Just... wow. Last night I took Jess to Wolf Trap, one of the coolest performance venues in the country (and 20 minutes from us), and we saw Lord of the Rings - Live. The above picture is not zoomed in - those were our seats, front and center, perfect. I awoke this morning, hours later, and the only sound on my lips was the Lament for Gandalf. The experience was so powerful and moving it endured dreams and shadow and was with me when I awoke. I hesitated to even turn on the TV this morning. I didn't want to dispel the magic before I absolutely had to.

Bottom line: If this show is playing within five hours of you, go. Indescribable. To actually feel the drums echoing through the halls of Dwarrowdelf... to soar with the moth to the top of Isengard... to have the tension of a live performance, complete with any number of chances for disaster and mistakes, and to have it come off spectacularly, just like you remember only with twists and notes you haven't heard before... THAT, dear Reader, was my Wednesday night. For those three hours, Middle Earth was breathing, and I lay in her palm and dreamed with my eyes open.

Tick-Tock

2008-05-20T15:19:00.005-04:00

Sometimes the perfect post just comes to you wholly conceived. Sometimes you have to drag it out, word by word, as it clings desperately to your insides. And sometimes you come back to your GChat window after being away at a meeting, and the perfect blog post is waiting for you in the chat window...

"When Martin left his house that morning, he didn't think anything was amiss. Why would he? He was awake, he was trim, and he had a four minute commute - walking - to work. Nothing could go wrong.

Settling into his chair, Martin turned on his computer, the warm hum buzzing pleasantly in the background. Idle chatter surrounded him, comments about sports teams and television shows wafting through the air. He sipped from his trusty mug. This was a good start to his day.

Only...

What was that feeling he had? Foreboding? Fear? It felt like someone was around him, breathing, sensing him. He glanced around, saw nothing. But the feeling continued - creeping fingers up his back the scratch of a paranoid cat, a dying woman clutching his pants leg as a pitchfork protruded from her back. Did someone have the air conditioning on? Was it cold? It felt like winter but worse... dark and endless, like he was falling into a hole with no bottom... a sideless, bottomless hole, empty save for one thing.

Enjoy it while you can, Martin, Death whispered, her voice the sound of the fading of stars and the slowing of time. You play your game. Score as many points as you can. Try to win.

At the end, it doesn't matter what the score is. At the end, I still win... and you will lie cold in the ground until people forget you, and time erases your words and works, and you are left only the worms.

Martin sat up with a start, his chair sounding on the carpet. He took in the common scene in front of him, sweat beaded on his forehead, trying to slow his breathing. Only a dream. He must have fallen asleep. It must have been a while, as his screen saver was on, displaying its usual scenes of stairs and clocks.

He stared at the screen, his breath stopping. One of the clocks was going much, much faster than normal. He watched it, the minute hand going around in seconds, the hour hand moving with visible motion around the numbers. Had it always done this, and he just hadn't seen it to now? He moved the mouse, and the screen saver vanished, revealing his Microsoft Word document. Wow, that had been odd. Had he fallen asleep in that way before, in that much of a terror before? He didn't -

There were words on the paper.

Tick-tock, Martin, they read. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Tick-tock."

-Mat C.
http://matblog7.blogspot.com
(if you don't check out this blog you are either an inanimate object or a retarded sea anemone. -Martin)

Letter from My Demons

2008-05-01T15:47:00.003-04:00

Dear Martin,

It's your demons. Hi. Paul found a typewriter in one of your childhood memories, and we decided to write you a letter. Bob offered some skin as paper, and Jeremy reluctantly donated some black blood to type with (we didn't like him much anyways). It's always nice to get mail. Not that we would know, having never received any, but it always gets quiet around here when you get some. I'm not a fan.

Haven't talked in awhile. You've been busy lately, what with your wedding and your job and your concerts. We've barely been able to get to you since you started working out - Ray over in self-image has been having a fit trying to keep up. He asked me to say hello, and to please stop whatever you're doing. He can't believe you actually think you're making progress, seeing as you are doomed, as you know, to a lifetime of hating the body you're in. But apparently you've managed to rattle a few chains lately, weaken a few links. Bravo. I find the effort rather entertaining, actually. The harder you pull, the tighter our chains get, which is why I suppose you're reading this letter. But you've had so many chances to learn that, it seems almost a waste to spend any more blood on it. You're going to fail sooner or later.

I guess, since you're reading this, it's quite obvious we're still here. You didn't think we'd actually go away, did you? We like the dark, the cool, moist dimness of your inattention. It's quiet, there aren't the distractions of the day, the kind words of family and friends are far way - that's the way I prefer it. No buffer, just you and me and the darkness, as it should be.

"Then why are you writing?" I can hear you asking. Well, to be honest, your inattention hasn't been so dim lately. The day shines so much brighter now, it's hard to get any night in which to work. Your job, your woman, your friends, your music, your movie - they're shining brighter now than they ever have, stretching longer into the night, our night, and frankly we can't work in these conditions.

So, I'm here to tell you, now that I have your attention, that you are never going to finish your movie. I know you think you will, but you aren't. I'll see to that. I'll fill you so full of dread and fear of your own inability that you won't be able to move an inch. I'll tell you how awful it is, how it's not worth finishing, how it is proof you are a bad writer, how you never should have started it in the first place, how you never finish the things you start. You've been fighting us pretty hard on that one for a long time, but you're not going to win. It's a losing battle. Give up.

You are not as good a pianist as people think you are. You cannot play scales. I repeat: You. Cannot. Play. Scales. It takes you a long time to learn new pieces. People are just being nice to you when they compliment you, because they know that without being good at music you would shrivel up and die on the carpet (which would make Ray really happy so I hope you'll at least consider it). If people actually liked your music, you would have no CDs left in your closet. It's only a matter of time before they call you the hack you really are.

Your job is a waste of your time. Instructional Designer? What is that? No one knows what it is when you tell them, which makes you look stupid and useless or overly important and useless. You'll never make enough money. You're going to get stuck doing it because you need the health care and because you are too afraid to do something else. If we're lucky, we'll keep you from doing what you want to do for years. If we're really lucky, and I wouldn't put it past us, you'll never find out what it is you really want to do. Let me tell you what, nothing is more impressive to other demons than to keep a soul from its purpose - all the guys at the pub think I'm the man, so don't fuck that up for me. Chicks dig it.

And your friends. I know you're making a last stand at the wedding, gathering up as many as you can, but where are they the rest of the time? Almost all your friends from the movie are gone. Many are scattered all over the world and away from you. They never really liked you all that much anyways, always thought you were weird and awkward. And you know it's only going to get worse after you get married.

And speaking of marriage, we had a field day with that one, didn't we? Man, the guys and I had a hell of a time. We miss those days when you listened to us more, when a single word wreaked havoc on you. You know that marriage means death - the death of you, the death of everything you are. I know lately you've seen some promise in a "new beginning," but it's a fake just like you. A mirage just like you. An afterthought, just like you. Your relationship with Jess will never be perfect, never be enough. It will always be missing something, be lacking something. You will always wonder what it would like to date others, and you will never be content, no matter how much she loves you or how happy you are.

Whew! That ought to do it. Just wanted to write and remind you who is in charge here. Your days may be getting brighter, but we have sunglasses. And sooner or later it will get dim again, dark again, and when it does we'll be here. It's going to take more than a few notches in your column to burn us away.

Love,
Your Demons

P.S.- Please send money.

From Little Treasure

2008-02-08T00:28:00.004-05:00

Have you ever been in a situation where you fantasized about having the perfect excuse? It used to happen all the time in school. "I don't have my homework. My Grandma died last night." "I can't participate in shirts-and-skins with this broken arm." "We were in a car accident on the way here. That's why I'm late." I fantasized about the obligation lifting, that dizzy pleasure you get when a struggle you have is perfectly understandable, when you have a real, legitimate reason to be excused.

The perfect excuse, however, is much more fun in theory. You know that little dizzy feeling? It comes at a cost so complex it's taken weeks to be able to write to you about it.

I haven't blogged, and I have the perfect excuse: I was in the hospital. I had pneumonia in one lung and a pulmonary embolism in the other. Most of you probably know this, being friends and family, but this is the first time I've actually put it into words. PEs are life-threatening and, as I learned later, kill about 1-in-3 people who get them. [I thought writing that would make it more real, but so far it hasn't.] The hardest part was not the week I spent in the hospital; it's been the weeks since that have proven the hardest as I try to incorporate this unexpected patch into my quilt. I'm never nervous writing to you, and I've been petrified of how I would talk about this, or even if I would talk about this. I'll tell the story as best I can.

I woke up on late Sunday night, January 20th, in an unearthly panic, and to this day it still feels like I'm caught in some unfinished dream. This was the night after Jess and I had been to visit Val in Newport News, one day after the last post. I'd been sick with a bad cough for about five days and the smoke from the Hilton Country Club hadn't helped. I knew I was going to have to get it looked at. Having had pneumonia before, I was familiar with the pain in my back when I inhaled deeply, and so I knew I needed to get on some antibiotics. I put the idea on an index card in my head, shoved it into my overstuffed mental to-do box, and told myself that a few more days wouldn't make a difference. I didn't have a doctor down here yet, and it seemed impractically annoying. Besides, I'd probably have to miss work.

I woke up only a few hours after falling to sleep. You know in movies when a character is having a really bad dream, and their eyes shoot awake and you're like, "No one wakes up that fast"? That was me, I woke up that fast, only I wasn't dreaming. I was having trouble breathing. People have asked me what it felt like, and all I could think about was "Turner and Hooch." You know how the old guy at the docks gets stabbed in the back up under the ribcage, and Turner figures he couldn't scream because if you get stabbed there, you can't scream? Well I was the old man, and every time I inhaled it felt like someone was driving a knife right up under my ribcage.

I started panicking because, duh, I couldn't breathe. I stood up, tried to walk it off. I went to the bathroom and got a drink of water, walked back, tried to lay back down, but the pain was sharp and unbearable. My arms started getting cold and numb, and it was at the moment, when the panic seeped over me, that I thought I was having a heart attack.

Anna told me that when I was a kid, I used to take a volume from the encyclopedia to read in bed. She said it was entertaining, but also weird, because what does an 8-year-old want with an encyclopedia? I think I got it in my mind, since my mom had spoken about these books as a treasure-trove of world knowledge, a Library of Alexandria on the bookshelf, that I should, you know, read them. And so I would start with "A," the idea in my mind to read through them. I would skip around, sometimes opting for "D" or "S" ("S" got a lot of reading when I hit 12, as it was my first legitimate information about sex). I would just read the entries that looked interesting. I was into cars and trains and planes then, and I'm sure I read a lot about them.

Well, when I was older, I kept up my fascination with encyclopedias, only by then it had become something of weird pre-teen experiment in the power of suggestion. I would come home after school and, during the two hours I had to myself, research health conditions, things like cancer and syphilis and heart attacks, and then I would sit there and read and, as I was reading, would become absolutely convinced that I had whatever condition I was reading about. I would check my lymph nodes for inflammation. I would look at my hands for rashes. It took Mom coming home to break the spell, to shoo away the thundercloud of ill that I had swirled around myself.

It's heart-attack day I remember best, however. I can still see myself sitting on the couch reading about heart attacks. We'd watched some horrible video in school where a man eats a casserole his daughter made and it was so greasy he had a heart attack and nearly died. Inexplicably fascinated, I opened up "H" to "Heart Attack," and as I read, I could actually feel my chest tightening up. My heart started pounding faster. I could swear that there was a "dull ache" in my arms. It felt so real, like it was happening right there. I felt like I knew intimately what a heart attack would feel like, and I scared the living crap out of myself.

This is the memory that came back to me when I awoke in the middle of the night 13 years later with a racing heart, shortness of breath, and numbness in my arms. A little part of me, the twelve-year-old who is still terrified of the things he can't control, said, "Something isn't right, Martin. Something is very, very wrong."

I woke up Jessie. I was crying. I told her I couldn't breathe. She must have heard something in my voice, because she awoke right away. At first she thought it was a panic attack. I was pacing around our apartment, standing in the living room trying to breathe and belch and do anything to relieve the pressure in my back. We debated for a good five minutes what to do. Should we call an ambulance? Should we draw a warm bath and just try to calm down? I Googled the nearest hospital, found one close by, and at 3:30 in the morning we got in the car and drove through the silent, chilly night to the emergency room.

The emergency room was empty, save for a father cradling his sleeping little boy. Concern hung on him like wet denim, and when I close my eyes I can still see his eyes, how open they were but how they didn't see the room, how they fought to see bright spots through gathering clouds.

I met with the nurse, who took my pulse and asked me questions. Within minutes I was in a hospital bed, taking breathing treatments, getting IVs, taking painkillers. The nurses were jovial and pleasant, laughing and talking and not at all reminiscent of 5 AM. I was set to be out of there quickly until the doctor ordered a test on a hunch. It came back positive, so they sent me down for a CT scan, where I had an allergic reaction to the iodine dye they inject you with. I remember lying on the gurney in the hallway alone, waiting for to be moved back to the emergency room, and feeling this itchiness in my eyes. It felt like my face was filling with salt water, and when I returned to the ER, I asked Jess if anything was wrong with my face. Five minutes later nurses were rushing around injecting Benadryl and saline, trying to keep my throat from swelling shut. I lay in the dark with a wet cloth over my eyes, and after the threat had passed Jessie and I laughed about how I looked like Quasimodo, one eye swollen open, the other swollen shut.

It was then, a washcloth over my eyes, that the doctor returned with another doctor. They told me that I had a blood clot in my left lung, and that I would need to be in the hospital for at least five days. I kept repeating the word "What?" over and over, in disbelief and shock. A nurse came in and told me that I couldn't move anymore, that I wouldn't be allowed to walk to the bathroom, that I could dislodge more clots. I spent that whole first day paralyzed and peeing into bottles, like I'd fallen off of my planet and into someone else's nightmare.

I've gone back and forth about what else to write about that week. It's been over a month now, and some memories are better left to myself. The best moments though were when my family and friends were with me. Mom drove down that night and stayed almost the whole week. My cousin Laura, who lives in DC, was over to keep Jess company and bring a little sunshine. My brother came down, I received daily phone calls from Mat and Dave, my sisters and family, flowers came from Vicky and Dan, Tooch and Jeep, and Emily and Jeffrey surprised me and came all the way from Texas to spend part of the week in the hospital room with me, keeping me company when Jess was at school. My nurses were, frankly, gifts from God, each attentive, caring, and patient. I made it a point to learn the name of every person who walked into my room in ICU 2, from the pulmonologist to the lady who cleaned the bathroom. I wanted them to know that I cared and was grateful, that their motions and thoughts and concern was vital to me.

The worst moments were at night, alone with the tones of IV machines and dream-filled sleep about work and elementary school that was shattered by painful blood draws every four hours. During the day there was enough activity to look forward to to keep me distracted, but at night it was just me and my thoughts. Every ache was another clot, every elevated heartbeat an emergency. When I coughed blood, I thought I was dying. I knew that being in the hospital presented a host of dangers, and I tried to be as active in my care as possible, but when I was alone, I was vulnerable. Things I couldn't control were coming for me. They had already tried once. There were many private terrors that week, tiny moments of despair. But they were countered by an overwhelming goodness and love from people far and wide who took the time to say, "We care about you." I came home to 24 "Get Well" cards and as many phone messages and e-mails. The outpouring was unbelievable.

In the six weeks that have passed since, I haven't gotten my epiphany. I was really hoping for one, you know? Just some moment where it all became clear and everything was revealed, and the fragile, shaken Nothing in my gut would be explained and answered. But it hasn't come. It's not coming. The most I can hope for is a gradual reveal, a slow fade from black. I came out of it knowing, for the first time, that I am not going to live forever, that in fact I am quite fragile and easily taken, a cathedral of windows. That said, I have a profound urgency now about wanting to be "healthy." Jessie and I joined a fitness program, and despite a bit of inevitable whining (mostly from me), the shape I'm getting into will be one of the great triumphs of my life.

So. There we go. On blood thinners for the foreseeable future, and have some restrictions on my diet, but those can be saved for later posts. In the meantime, I am back, and with fewer excuses. What's that old Chinese curse about "interesting times"? I feel as if life has just gotten started with me...

Your,
Martin

Next Up: Lurene

2008-01-19T23:45:00.000-05:00

I'm in Newport News this weekend. You can tell this is a place that is compensating for something because it uses the word "new" in its name not once but twice, and this place doth protest too much. I have easily traveled 30 years back in time. I don't even need my anti-wrinkle face wash here - the time differential alone has my skin firm and buoyant.

I'm with Jess. We're visiting our friend Val, who works for the shipyard in Norfolk and bought her first house here. It's been an amazing adventure, mostly because it is so deliciously backwards. I forget sometimes that Virginia is in the south. Not the deep south, but the SUV-centric, fried seafood, strip-mall south - the kind of place where local men look at a girl funny when she holds the door for them ("well, equal rights I guess" they mumble reluctantly). It's a short drive down from Alexandria, and we arrived in time to grab some dinner at the "Crab Shack," a seafood restaurant situated right at the foot of the James River Bridge. We rode in Val's Mercedes coupe - I wasn't even reclined, I was curled in the fetal position in the back seat - and I had a solid fish sandwich and overlooked the water and it was a great start to a weekend of new.

The key lime pie was good, which in my opinion is a prerequisite for any restaurant which purports to sell seafood. I only ever tried to make a key lime pie once, when I lived in Florida, and its legendary horribleness follows me to this day.

After dinner, we dropped the car off back at Val's house, used the jaws of life to extract my ginormous self from the back seat, and walked to the "Hilton Country Club." Please remove any images of plaid pants, golf clubs, or anyone who refrains from smoking OUT of your mind, because this country club was a dive bar for the ages.

And they had karaoke. The fact that I didn't run tells you two things: 1) I really wanted to be drunk, and 2) I knew a good story was brewing. I was not disappointed on either count.

Everyone was smoking. Not a single person in there was without a cigarette in their dry, crackled fingers. These people weren't screwing around with Marlboro "Light" anything - all were smoking straight Marlboro's, and a haze of burning benzene hung so heavily in the air that I could blow second-hand smoke rings. We opened a tab, grabbed a couple of beers, and then Jess, like a meteor pulled inexorably toward a planet, found the karaoke books.

A little history: I hate karaoke. In fact I once described karaoke thus:

Curious buttf*cking George I hate karaoke. I know this makes me an almost unbearably wet blanket in 19% of social situations, but the only things I hate more than karaoke are brussel sprouts and child molesters. Karaoke. Killmearaoke. Put-the-microphone-in-a-boat-and-implode-it-araoke. Not only are we going to make bad music, but we're going to make it LOUDLY, insert it directly in your brain past your shriveling cilia, and wedge it right between your will to live and your need to destroy.

Yeah. Not a fan.

But for two minutes and 40 seconds, I actually liked it. Jess and Val tortured the bar with a seven-minute rendition of Meatloaf's "I'd Do Anything for You," and afterwards Jessie insisted I sing something. She pulled out her cute eyes. She threatened bodily harm. And I don't know whether or not it was the smoke cutting off circulation to my brain or the Miller Chill which I was downing like Gatorade after a dodgeball game, but I heard myself say, "I only know 'Blue Christmas' by Elvis." If you know anything about Jessie, all she needs is an inch and she'll have you dancing naked in front of your Board of Directors within three minutes. She ran to the DJ, signed my name up, I screamed at her, and then spent twenty nerve-wracked minutes listening to Mindi, Mike, Beau, and, of course, Lurene sing their tone-deaf guts out .

The DJ had screens set up with the words, and at the bottom like a CNN ticker names would read off "Now Singing: Mindi. Up next: Lurene." Well, pretty soon it was "Up Next: Martin," and I was freaking out. You have to understand, music is my second language. Playing the piano is an incredibly intimate experience for me. I work really, really hard to play pieces in a way that reaches people, that excites them, that presents me in the best, most talented light. But my fingers do the singing - I do not. The Martin does not sing. Or if he does, it's in the shower surrounded by adoring shampoo bottles, and usually I'm making up the songs ("Martin's in the sho-ow-ower, scrubbing up like a st-ah-orm..." etc...) I don't know pop songs. I don't sing pop songs. But I do do a pretty wicked impersonation of Elvis singing "Blue Christmas." I did it once for Jess as a joke years ago, and she loved it and couldn't stop laughing (especially with the "uh-hun, uh-hun, un-hun...")

So there I was, standing up in front of a bar full of Newport Newsians, my throat thick with smoke, my hand shaking on the microphone, watching the screen read off, "I'll have a Blue Christmas without you..." and three minutes later realizing that I had sung it, that it wasn't horrible, and that the world hadn't collapsed.

...and that no one but me cared if it was any good, because they were all busy waiting to see their name "Up Next."

I wondered how much of my life's energy I've wasted worrying about the outcomes of things that only mattered to me. If any politician could get elected as easily as I've elected the voices in my head, he'd have statues as far the roads could go.

We woke up late today after the first good night's sleep in a while, and caught some lunch at the "Twin Star Diner," complete with bright green ceiling and rusted chrome napkin fixtures. Like I said, I'm 30 years behind you right now. I'm impressed I've been able to tap into ARPANET to send this post to you in the future. Later in the day we caught "Sweeney Todd" at the Cinema Cafe - I haven't had my love of movie theaters shaken that hard in a long time. There were no texting-teenie-boppers and no pregnant trashy girls, but the projector had a bad shake that shook the entire two-hour film. After about the 17th shaky throat-slitting I was like, "Why am I sitting here watching this crummy image when I could watch it at home with pristine picture, the ability to pause, and no scary people?" It's not the first time I've thought it, but I was still an advocate for film-watching being a social experience. There is something special about experiencing a movie with a bunch of strangers. It's like going on an adventure or something - you all become participants in this great unknown story, combined by your common goal of following this story. I usually really like that, and I don't know whether it's because I'm older or because I hate karaoke, but my desire to experience a movie with a bunch of people who don't know how to be in a theater watching a moving being shown by a crummy projector.... I don't know, it's just different. I'd rather invite friends over and have "release parties" and watch a movie on a big-screen TV with friends.

Anyways, I'm rambling. Then again, I'm in Newport News, where everything new is old again. And it's nice. It's balancing. It's a reminder that not everyone is so caught up with all that crap I'm caught up with. And I did get up and sing like the King. That felt pretty good... you know, for something I hate.

Your,
Martin

Juno and the Stomach Flu

2008-01-16T01:15:00.000-05:00

Dear Reader,

I've been MIA due to a lovely stomach bug that had me wretching my guts out. Eww. I took a day off of work and laid around. I watched five hours of "Project Runway." It did help me feel a little better to watch some dreams get crushed. The downside is I now know way too much about chiffon and must be shot.

I've been having a blog war with myself over what to name this stupid thing. I think this might be one of those situations in which my capacity for over-thinking actually created the problem I'm now trying to solve. And I imagine this identity crisis is about as exciting for you as it was to watch John Stewart devote an entire show to the writer's strike. Stimulating.

I saw "Juno" with Jess on Saturday. It was a little "thank God I can leave the apartment without attaching a toilet to my ass" party, and I absolutely loved it. It took me awhile to translate modern teen-speak into something I could relate to, i.e "gob"="piehole", but after a few minutes I was in the swing of it. The language is actually one of the great joys of this little movie. That, and realizing that those incredibly hormonal and emotionally exhausting days are mercifully behind you. I've never been more glad not to be a teenager. It was a passionate time. The smallest things seemed like the world, but I realize now it felt that way because everything reverberates louder off the walls of a high-school. I like it better now. Your twenties are like being a teenager only with less angst and more money.

Though apparently the kids today have a lingo. I miss having a lingo. And you can't go up to someone and ask for a lingo. That's just silly.

So, I was delighted that I didn't come out of "Juno" feeling more like a parent than a moviegoer. That's when I'll know I've crossed that line of no return. I am a little creeped out, however, that I find myself relating more to the adults in movies. I swore to a younger version of myself that I wouldn't forget what it was like to be 18, how I saw the world, what really mattered. Of course it was a promise I couldn't keep, which is why this blog is cool, preserving events and my thoughts of them for years to come. But I remember somewhat. I felt much more entitled to success. Diablo II was the greatest video game ever created. The day-old three-cookies-for-99-cents at 7/11 was the breakfast of champions. The late-night drive was the ultimate act of freedom. Phone conversations should last a minimum of three hours. The best way to find yourself was to get lost. Who will protect the memory of those times unless we collect what we remember and inscribe it somewhere safe? And how do you grow up and not lose what was important, what was hopeful, what was vital and optimistic and never dimming?

The advantage of the older worldview is that I see things I would have missed otherwise, or perceive complexities that would otherwise go unnoticed. And I can still summon a sense of wonder. Jess and I watched "Transformers" at home and I seriously uttered, "Oh my God, that is so fucking cool!" like seven times during the movie. Don't know what it is about transforming cars with guns that is so damn cool.

Actually I think I just answered my own question. Cars+spacerobots+guns=I win.

200 Flying Martins

2008-01-09T01:08:00.000-05:00

You hate it.

That's okay, I'm not sure of it myself. On the plus side, a search on Google reveals that I am utterly, completely unique. Take that, "Fight Club"! You are looking at (according to Google, which is like the universe) a very special snowflake.

Haven't you ever wanted to utter a phrase that has never been uttered before in the history of the world? Do you think those phrases even exist? When I was younger I would try and come up with them for fun. I would say something and be like, "You know what, I bet that combination of words was never said before." It was exciting to think that I'd perhaps stumbled onto something genuinely new. Then again, back then it felt as though everything I experienced was unique to me. I won't pretend it doesn't still, because it does. I am the center of the Martin-verse. Why else would I write about it?

Potentially new phrases can't be manufactured. They have to grow from changing realities. Don't be alarmed if a whole in space fabric opens up as you read them (and feel free to add your own):

"The meat-packing district is all out of porcupine!"
"I bent the shrew but it didn't make her any rounder."
"Gumdrop purple with a hint of Triceratops."

The trick is getting them to make sense, which is why these examples, as well as almost all user-generated examples, will suck. They really can't be manufactured, as the examples above show. They have to be organic - moments or situations that exist but create the strangest combination of words. For example, at work we use a software bundle called "evolution." I've heard these kinds of phrases:

"Evolution is going to be down for a few minutes, so you might want to finish up and save what you're doing before heading out."

"Have you learned how to use evolution yet?"

"Does evolution have a user's guide?"

Now, are these the first times these phrases have been uttered? Probably not. But it's that kind of situation that creates a new phrase - words that shouldn't be together, but our new reality has pushed them together - and maybe, just maybe, you are privy to the generation of something new.

Like "Beware of Falling Me." I don't know, it kind of fits - I am pretty angsty, I wear emo Versace glasses, I have a penis and talk about my feelings. Tooch suggested I call the blog "The Man of Poor Choices," for which, frankly, there is ample evidence that this would be apropos. She asked me, last time we were together, "How can you be so open and honest on the blog?"

I didn't really have a good answer. I mean, it's probably some kind of mental illness, what with the sharing and the deeply personal and the "I don't even know you but I feel like I was at your birthday party" thing. I like it because, like many things in my life, I feel like it's a chance to perform.

Even if the audience is the computer screen, I'm still writing to you, Dear Reader. And I feel like I owe you new posts, new stories, new thoughts. That is motivation for me to write, and I need motivation. I am someone who wants to see the practical value of what I expend my energy doing, and to know that someone reads the blog makes it fun and worthwhile. I don't know if it could ever have a life outside of friends and family, but maybe it doesn't need to. Mat, for instance, doesn't allow comments on his blog. He updates it at will, whenever the mood arises (and writes beautifully, which you know by now because you've read it), and when I bring up a post of his, I get the sense that I've in some way intruded. The reaction is not cold, not at all. But I get the sense that it was impolite to bring it up, as though it's a place where he gets to exist without worrying about being entertaining or good (both of which ABOFF is).

I'm the opposite. This blog originally didn't allow comments, and you know how often I updated it? Yah, never. If I'm not performing for you, I'm performing for the judgmental audience in my head, and frankly I prefer your silent approval. Now I'm like, "Crap, I need to do more stuff so I have something to write about other than my thoughts about the blog." This is why early 2007 contains my favorite blog posts. I was so dark and stormy, trying new things, depressed, drunk off my ass. It was an excessive and expressive time, a time when I could smoke and spill my life story out of its iron glass and I'm glad I did it and would do it again. Now I can read about it and wonder, "Who the hell is writing this?" It's fun to think I've been more than one person, seen more than one corner of my mind. It makes me feel like I've actually, you know, lived.

Anyways, this is one of those rambling psychological posts, the kind I make when I'm just enjoying writing and don't have much of a point. We'll see if the new title sticks. And it's good to have a counterweight to posts like Sunday's - it is possible to have TOO much happen in a weekend.

Hope you're well, Dear Reader.

Your,
Martin

A Blog By Any Other Name

2008-01-08T00:54:00.001-05:00

So I'm renaming the blog.

I've been conducting tireless research, Googling "what to name your blog" and reading through pages for at least for at least five minutes before copying-and-pasting (what I do for a LIVING, people) into this blog.

The first guidelines I found:

1. Determine How Important the Name Really Is (well, I wouldn't be wasti... er, devoting a whole post to it if it wasn't important)
2. Stand Out (From what? The 14 billion other angsty overwritten blogs that exist on Blogger alone? How? Who do I have to kill?)
3. Avoid Generic Surnames (Martin's Blog of Stuff)
4. Avoid Descriptive Names (Martin's Blog of Interesting Stuff)
5. Avoid Acronyms (MBOIS... which sounds like "mmm... boys" which, I'm not sure, might have just gotten me arrested and thrown in the cell with Urinating Man)
6. Avoid Faux Latin (Martinus Blogimus)
7. Avoid Faux Latin (Cont’d): -nt Names (I don't know what this means)
8. Avoid Spaceless Names (i.e. ThingsI'llProbablyRegretMakingPublicSomeday [shamelessly plucked from the corpse of PITS])
9. Avoid “Tech Power Synergy” Names ("Outside-the-Box Paradigm-Shifting Blog of Increased Productivity")
10. Find Examples to Emulate (i.e. pillage like a butt pirate)

Or perhaps instead of trying so hard, I can just "Inventify" a word here:

invent-a-word

My favorite is Avanon+nonexistence=Avanonexistence.

This blog suggests some steps:

Step 1: Without thinking too much, write down every idea that comes to mind. You could even get a friend to brainstorm with you.

Step 2: Once you have a few names, look them up on Google to make sure they’re unique. If you’re thinking about registering a domain name (either now or eventually), be sure to see this video tutorial on Trademark Law and Your Blog Domain Name.

Step 3: Next, research your competition. How can you distinguish your blog from those similar to yours? If you find a blog named “Bob’s Lemonade”, you should probably cross “Fred’s Lemonade” off your list (oh my god I am naming my blog "Martin's Lemonade").

Step 4: Consider ways to improve the names you’ve thought of. Use a thesaurus to find synonyms for lengthy or vague words — maybe you’ll discover a way to incorporate alliteration or rhyme.

Step 5: Once you’ve narrowed down your choices, let them simmer in the back of your mind while you do something else. Take another look at your names after a few hours (or days or weeks — whatever works for you). By then, you’ll probably have no problem making your final decision.

So I guess it is time to simmer. Dave suggested "Soothmancer," which is excellently inventified, but in my mind implies that I have some clue as to what is going on most of the time so I don't think I can use it. I can't resort to movie quotes (That's No Moon.... It's a Blog Station!). I feel like the name should use MY name in some way (just the "Martin" part). Something like "Martin Nonetheless" or "Martin, Actually." Maybe I could steal from a recent post and call it "In a Cloud of Unknowing." That is so pretentious it just might work.

Hm. I could be at this for awhile. Better sleep on it.

Sleep tight, Dear Reader.

Martin

Generous George's Positive Pizza and Pasta

2008-01-07T00:01:00.000-05:00

Dear God,

I don't know what I said. Maybe it was something I did. But whatever it was that I did to deserve this weekend, holy shit (sorry), I am penitent. Remorseful. Guilty. Balls-on terrified of your wrath. Because, holy shit (sorry), this weekend could only have been a punishment. I don't know whether it was Jessie puking all over my bed, the homeless man I got arrested for peeing on the tree next to my car, or the fact that the Steelers lost a game they were so close to winning, but Jesus testicles in a Kitchen Aid, this was a horrible, horrible weekend.

It started well enough.

Jess and I had a cute dinner at home, and decided to make a date out of the evening and go to a movie. There are about 11 amazing movies out right now - it's the first time in a long time (maybe ever) that I felt like I wanted to see 90% of the movies that are out. We chose "Charlie Wilson's War" which, if you haven't seen it, shame on you. It. Is. Amazing. I had forgotten what good dialog sounded like. This movie was so funny, so well-paced, so brilliantly acted, and so incredibly damning that it is easily a Top 3 movie experience of the past two years. The combination of Mike Nichols and Aaron Sorkin is something I will now seek out - Sorkin's writing, what he perfected on "West Wing," is pitch-perfect, hilarious, never contrived, and always sharp. Add to that Tom Hanks (amazing), Julia Roberts (likable enough), and, oh my God one of my favorite actors, Philip Seymour Hoffman (who managed, somehow, to steal a movie from Tom Hanks), and you know it has to be good.

And it was. I loved it. I would see it again. I want to own it. Genius. Go. Now.

The night ended with me battling Bowser's minions in "Mario Galaxy" on the FRIGGING WII THAT JESSIE GOT ME FOR CHRISTMAS. Talk about amazing gifts '07 - here, unbeknownst to me, she researched all the different gaming systems, decided that the Wii would be the one we could both enjoy, realized it was impossible to find and so went on craigslist and found a guy selling one for a not-as-insane price whom she then met after school in the library of the Beatley Library, handed a wad of $20s, and surprised me with the damn thing on the way home to Pittsburgh. The thing is amazing, and I'll reflect on it further at a future point (preferably after I've become a "Pro" in Wii Tennis).

Saturday started with mind-boggling nookie - what could be better?!? - and then, oh dear, dear Reader, the weekend took a horrible, horrible turn.

Or rather U-Turn, of destiny, to the most horrible place in Alexandria: Generous George's Positive Pizza and Pasta.

First, let me state unequivocally that this was not my idea.

After years spent eating out instead of cooking for my damn self, I have developed a finely-tuned sense about restaurants. I almost instinctually know if it's going to be a good meal or a bad one within the first three minutes. I see it as the payment for the horrible toll that eating out has taken on the physical age of my body which, at last count, was sharing a birthday with dirt. And I had a bad feeling about Generous George.

I don't know whether it was the matching 15-foot nutcrackers at its entrance or the fact that the building was painted a Pepto-Bismol pink, but whatever early warning system I have flashed from yellow to red, and I, like a good American, ignored the crap out of it. We were ushered into a restaurant full of families with small children. On the wall, a placard hung ominously that read, "Reader's Choice: Most Kid Friendly Restaurant 2003," which, I later came to believe, was when they had made the dough of the pizza we ate. Oh. My God. Who hates me.

This place looked like a dilapidated Chuck E.Cheese. Grotesque wooden animals stolen from abandoned county fairs hung lifeless from the pink steel-beamed ceiling, their faces, a mixture of regret and permanent shock, staring bleakly at the massive bronze clock that stood watch over the pink restaurant with the pink chairs. Between the animals were rusted cars and three-wheeled wagons which dangled like corpses between pink steel teeth. On the wall were massive portraits - a girl, dressed in white, sitting in front of a massive grand piano; a Rockwellian-styled boy and his wagon; one of those old black-and-white photos of a wrestler that you always see in Greek or Italian-styled restaurants. Wait... what? And what are all these old newspapers doing on the wall? It looked like Chuck E. Cheese had gotten drunk and run over the Olive Garden. Horrific.

We ordered the antipasti salad (which was a mistake, as the pillows on my bed would later come to learn) and a pizza, both of which were disgusting, dry, tasteless and, as we found out today, covered in the germs of someone's butt. And which cost nearly $40. This is the first restaurant I've ever been to that was so bad, I am motivated to write a letter.

Flash forward to Saturday night. We have a great time over at my cousin Laura's. She lives over by U-Street, which is this sort of revitalized cultural district that has giant murals of Duke Ellington and other black jazz greats on the sides of buildings. We watched the Steeler's game which, as many of you know, ended with frustration, annoyance, and ultimate acceptance that we just didn't deserve to win with all those turnovers. It was fun to put on my Steelers jersey and root for them, though. They showed us one hell of a game in the second half.

Then came Sunday.

It was the fact that the homeless man had stared me straight in the eye as he pissed next to my car that made me call the police on him.

When he was sleeping on the stoop, I passed him and felt a loud note of pity and concern. I fantasized about going up to him and being able to, I don't know, say something or do something that would magically transform him. I thought of him as I carried the groceries upstairs, because I live in a nice part of town. I mean, NICE. He was a reminder of how fragile all this financial stability really is. Without my family and Jess, I thought, I would be like him.

But then he woke up, and as I was unloading the last groceries from my car - this is King Street, mind you, the place with the French restaurants and the boutique shops - he stood up, came over to the tree by my car, opened his pants, and pissed. For like 15 seconds. Just pulled out his dick and pissed. Two girls walked by behind him, their faces unreadable. I look over at him long enough to confirm that yes, oh my God, he is pissing. I then register that he is pissing right next to my car. Not on my car, mind you, but there is some splashing going on. And he is staring straight at me, his eyes unblinking as he relieves himself as if to say, "I see you, and I piss on everything you are." We locked eyes for, what, 1 second? And that is when I resolved to call the police.

You are on my street. Your piss is splashing on my tire. It is fucking broad daylight, families are walking around, I'm trying to unload groceries, and you are pissing in front of all of us. Isn't there somewhere else you should be?

Of course I was horribly conflicted about what to do. Something about the fact that he'd stared right at me the whole time made me angry, though, the kind of white-boy anger that I never have, and I realized that in that moment I wasn't angry at just him; I was angry at Damascus man. I was angry at the guys with the speakers in the white van, angry at every poor-looking jackass who'd gotten one over on me, who'd played me for a fool. And now you're looking me in the eyes as you piss in front of me? Ooh, it got my goat.

Of course, being an idiot and not being able to find the non-emergency number, I called 911, who promptly explained to me in no uncertain terms that by dialing 411 on my phone, I could have gotten the correct number. Hopefully nothing burned down while I extracted that valuable information. I called Alexandria police and explained that there was a man on my block who pissed next to my car.

"Is he a homeless guy?" the officer asked.
"I think so."
"Black, white, hispanic?"
"Black."
"What is he wearing?"
"A dark blue coat, a hat, dark pants."
"What color pants?"
"I don't know."
"Was he urinating on your car, sir?"
"No, no, he didn't actually urinate on the car, it was next to the car."
"Oh. That's good. Do you want to leave a name?"

I was grateful in that moment that I could call someone and make it their problem, that I could put the onus on them to get the pissing homeless black man off of my block. After I got off the phone I, honest to God, sat with Jessie in our apartment and ate fresh cherries. I ate fucking cherries as the sirens blared, and spit out pits as the mentally unwell black man got arrested for peeing in front of me. It'd be a great scene for a movie, only in it I'm the bad guy. I told myself that maybe they can get him some help, you know? Get him to a shelter, or at least give him some damn food. But mostly I just didn't want him peeing on my street. I felt territorial. Challenged. And dammit, man, there are people walking all around you. At least go in the alley in the back.

I think that might have been when God sent the plague, because it wasn't long after that that Jessie went into my bedroom to lay down. She hadn't been feeling well all day - cramps and the like. I was watching the replay of the presidential debates when I heard this wretching sound from my bedroom. Jessie screamed, "Martin! Help!" and, sensing there was actually something wrong, arrived just in time to watch her explode purple, chunky vomit all over herself, wave after wave of it all over the bed, the comforter, the pillows, her shirt. Between heaves she asked for a bowl and I ran to get it. She couldn't sit up, and just kept puking all over herself. I thought she was going to choke on it and die. I grabbed her hand, pulled her upright, and she wretched into one of our mixing bowls, the bed, her shirt, her hair - everything covered in spew.

Five minutes later we were laughing, but I don't think I'll ever be the same. Here she'd gotten food poisoning from Generous George. He was generous alright, but not, apparently, with the soap in the bathroom, because someone touched their butt and got Jessie sick. I, on the other hand, am inexplicably fine (though talking about it makes me feel like I have to puke). I can actually say I held someone's hair as they puked. You really know, in that moment, just how much you love someone, because if there was ever a time when you DIDN'T want to love someone, it's when they're puking all over your bed.

Poor Jess. It seems like she's always sick. Hopefully she feels better soon. I'm trying to be a good caretaker. I spent the night watching the Republicans and the Democrats debate and occasionally emptying the "barf bowl" (this seemed strangely appropriate somehow). The barf bowl is apparently a grand tradition in Jessie's family - I was taught to, you know, puke in the toilet, but to each their own.

I am terrified at how fragile it all is, how one moment you have a bed to sleep in, and the next minute it's full of puke. It is terrifying to know how close we all are to pissing on the sidewalk, how many things have had to happen that were out of our control to keep us out of that situation. I said a prayer for the homeless man with the half-eaten sandwich. Words echoed in my head, words that I always liked but secretly feared: "Whatever you do unto the least of these, you do unto me."

Sorry I got you arrested, Jesus. Please make Jess feel better soon.

And, holy shit (sorry), close down Generous George's Positive Pizza and Pasta.

Your,
Martin

Digg It

2008-01-03T00:50:00.000-05:00

Check out my sexy new Digg button!! ---------->>>>>>>

I'm not entirely sure what it does. I think it is for bookmarking useful things, so I can't imagine the Captain's Blog ever getting Digged (Dugg?) for any reason. I actually don't really know what Digg is. It just looks so damn official to have it in the post. I feel like a blogger now. Though the "0" is kind of making me self-conscious.

I also had a mini-crisis yesterday because I made the mistake of Googling "Captain's Blog," and accidentally plumbed the depths of my lack of creativity. There are over two million results for "Captain's Blog," many of which are, in fact, on Blogger and many of which, true enough, are not this blog. Sadness. If you google "Captain's Blog Martin" I am the third result, which is weird but at least a little comforting. I think I need to change the title to something more unique. Tooch suggested calling it "The Man of Poor Choices." I can do what Emily did and be a "Martin in the Sun." Maybe I'll steal Mat's and be "A Breath of Fresh Martin." The best name, of course, is taken by Fake Steve Jobs , which has been cracking me up nonstop as of late. Perhaps I'll make a blog called "Revenge of the Frigtards."

I don't even talk about Star Trek here. I mean, I love it - if TNG comes on TV, I'm basically shot until it's over (unless it's the episode where Riker jousts with his father, b/c I've seen that one like 13 times). "Inner Light" was a transformational viewing experience. I still maintain "First Contact" is one of the best sci-fi movies out there. But the name "Captain's Blog" just doesn't really fit here anymore, you know? (I can tell you're enraptured by my inner-monologue). It's a play on words from a show that I love but don't talk about. It'd be like naming this blog "Words from Dagobah." I need something that captures the angsty, over-wordish, haplessly revealing nature of this blog. Suggestions welcome.

So, how is 2008? So far it seems like a decent year, no? Today was the first day back to work, and I confess I was excited to be back. It wore off after an hour or so as the reality of just how busy I am settled back in, but I feel like people have realistic expectations and as long as I'm working hard, they'll have no problem with me. I wrote my first 2008 date today. It felt very weird to scrawl the round little "08" at the end of it. I need to find a non-cliche way of saying, "It's hard to believe it's been eight years since high-school," but, as we learned earlier about me and two million other people, I'm not that creative. (Also, Blogger is trying to spell-check "cliche" as "cloche," and I don't see how that is any better.)

I saw $15 man last night. I was in the car, and Jess got out to run into the apartment for something, and he was walking up the street, dressed in nice khakis which my stupidity must have bought him. He asked her if she knew anything about Virginia, Maryland, and "Damascus," and she said no and ran inside. I watched as he approached an older couple in my rear-view mirror, unfolded the paper he carries around with numbers written on it of the fares to Damascus, MD. I tell you I have never been more tempted to take my car and run over somebody. I wished I had watched more CSI so I knew how not to get caught. The only thing that stopped me from getting out and saying something, the only thing that stayed my lips, was the fact that he played me, and I lost. Jess told him "no" this time and he left her alone. That was all I needed to do, but because I am a sap who wants to save the world one poor little person at a time, I got duped. It was like buying the speakers out of the van, only the only thing I bought was a crushing sense of stupidity. I mean, he's just selling a story, right? I bought his story. Paid $15 for his story. His bullshit story. I'm having fun fantasizing about what I'll say if I see him again. If he doesn't recognize me, maybe I'll pretend to be really concerned about everything he has to say, let him go through his whole shpiel, open my wallet, and then look him in the face and go, "Look, why don't you case someone else's block before I hit you in the face with this metal trash can?" Mmm... passive aggressive rage expression... I was so pissed to see him again, and even more so at my complete lack of action. I kept thinking of the words, "All that is necessary for evil to succeed is for good people to do nothing." And I realized I am totally that good person who does not want the job of kicking the ass of bad people, even though secretly I wish that I did.

So, new adventures abound. Dave would be proud - I got locked out of my apartment today and so I got creative with a credit card. Good thing, too, because it was cold outside. I waited until all the cars had passed and foot-traffic was at a minimum.

You know, just in case. Who knows who I would have thrown $15 at in a vain attempt to save the world?

Your,
Martin

Happy 2008!

2008-01-01T02:09:00.000-05:00

Dear Reader,

Happy New Year! I hope your holidays were festive, painless, and eventful. I've been on a whirlwind tour that started on December 22nd and ends in Alexandria tomorrow evening. Christmas has been a table for one at the Cafe Crazy.

I did everything on my list. I saw friends. I dueled to the almost-death in an epic game of Risk which will soundly echo through the ages (if only for the massive miscalculation that allowed the yellow armies a last dying breath to spit at me). I took up pipe smoking. I gave my grandparents the video Christmas card I made for them (it featured everyone in my family taking turns saying "Merry Christmas!" and adding a personal message). I spent a day color-timing with Dave, and wrote half of the first featurette script. I smoked cigars with Mark on the back porch. I worked from home and actually got some work done. I saw cousins and aunts and uncles and spent more time with my nieces and nephews than I have in the past two years combined. I wrote with Mat. I helped Jessie navigate a friendship minefield as we all struggle to redefine ourselves under the searing heat of adulthood. I got to watch others open my gifts, got to have a little Christmas with my Mom and another with my Dad. I got to drive Mark's manual VW Jetta all the way to Ohio and back and only stalled it once! I went piano shopping for four hours. I met my sister's new dog. I rung in the new year with a kiss or seven from my future wife.

This was, like, in eight days. Jess spent the week sick with the flu. I had a great Christmas. Hers was, frankly, horrible, and we're both excited to go back to Alexandria and regroup. The second day I was here it felt so...comfortable... and I realized that mentally I've barely left. Sitting on the steps at 5725 feels as natural as it ever did. Maybe more so now that I appreciate it for the oasis that it is. I felt like at any moment Scott would come out to smoke a cigarette, or I'd see Bryan walking up the steps after a long day at the office. Time stretched and stood still. In one moment I was seven and creeping down the steps to see what Santa brought. In another I was 70, looking back on all this and wondering, "Where does it all go when it's gone?"

The whole week became a meditation on family and friendship. I have a weird disconnect sometimes with the things of my childhood. I have to remind myself, for instance, that my sisters are the people I grew up with. We just don't get much time to be siblings, what with the kids and crazy schedules. Even more rarely we talk about the happy times before the divorce. It was a long time ago now - 16 years come this August - and those windows are shuttered for longer and longer periods, only opening now for brief, meaningful glimpses that cast a sad shadow on what is left. My father's financial stability should be my mother's, you know? Little sadnesses slip through cracks in the windowpanes.

But so, too, do little joys. I am absolutely adored by my nieces and nephews. Of course you're thinking, "Duh, Martin, you are, like, the coolest!" (I'm paraphrasing your adoration for me, of course), but the adoration of children is in many ways like the adoration of a puppy dog - warm, uncalculating, and unceasingly fixated on play. And when they ask you what you "do," they are asking, "What are you doing?", as in, "What are you doing right now that could possibly be more important than playing with me?"

I totally burned out on being "Uncle Martin," but that's okay. They were worth it. And they're not my kids, so I have the luxury of time to recharge. Slowly the secrets of unclehood reveal themselves.

On the friend front, I had many meaningful interactions. Dave and I had a blast color-timing scenes from the movie. I feel closest to him when we are working on something together, and in 2008 I want to find other things beside the movie we can share. Mat and I had another "Steps of Life" conversation on the hallowed ground of 5725 Phillips. He is allergic to smoke, and yet sat on the stoop with me for an hour as I tried vainly to keep my pipe lit for more than 10 seconds. Trying to paraphrase a conversation with him would be an exercise in futility, so just take my word that it was, per usual, awesome. I am blessed with guy friends who can be cheering the exciting finish of a Penguins game in one moment and discussing the intricate mysteries of love and life the next. Much as the rain does not make friends with shallow pools, I do not make shallow friendships. If you're my friend, it is going to be an intimate affair because, if you haven't noticed, I hate surface-level interactions. Not that we need to be rowing in each other's deepest waters all the time, but I want to feel like I'm interacting with your gears and springs, not your clock face, you know?

I was reminded this break, by some of the troubles Jess was having with her friends, just how important my friendships are, just how fragile the agreement is on which they are based. It was a wake-up call in many ways. When I was younger, I could afford not to pay too much heed. People called me whether I called back or not. Now, though, as those people grow and get stronger, and I realize their value to me, I simply cannot afford to lose one single friend. They are far too precious, and are becoming harder to replace. I will keep that in mind when it's time to write an e-mail or send a card. How hard is it really to make the little motions that remind someone they are in your thoughts?

That's definitely one resolution for 2008. As I approach getting married, I need to shore up my other relationships, too. I have a feeling they are only going to get more important, not less.

-Martin

I loooooove you!

2007-12-22T01:07:00.000-05:00

So I've decided that the number of "o's" someone uses when they tell you they "loooove" you is inversely proportional to how much they actually love you.

It's like smiling only without raising your eyebrows, and I am onto you. The abundance of letters does not make up for the dearth of practical, tangible affection. "If I use more letters, it'll read like I actually feel it!" Yes, well, no. That is incorrect. One "o." It's like keeping your promises, doing the things you say you're going to do. If you do it, you don't have to emphatically talk about how you *want* to do it. You just did it. It's done. Doooone.

Speaking of proportions, the blog has been disproportionately silent as of late, especially considering the number of things I've had to blog about. The more that happens, the less I blog. I don't understand this curious phenomenon. You'd think I'd have more to say, but nope. Maybe it's because I should say something about what's going on that I don't say anything.

I am so fascinating sometimes when I talk about me.

Anyways, a lot has happened. I, like you, am ramping up for Christmas. I got all my shopping done early this year, so I've been able to largely avoid the steaming, huddled masses lining counters with their "Santa on a Motorcycle" (there is a reason you don't know who invented this) and those mutant mint-tainted Three Musketeers bars (if you want a reason to be against stem-cell research I find these disgusting things to be a good start). I shopped online this year, which was a curious experience. I spent most of the time ogling things I wanted, even buying one or two (yay MiniDV tape organizer!) before forcing myself to focus on others and pick up a few gifts. I didn't go too crazy this year. I dropped about $400, considerably less than I've dropped on Christmas in the past. I remember one year I dropped over a thousand damn dollars on Christmas and I wasn't even working (I remember this vividly because I am still paying for it three years later -- Merry Christmas, Citibank).

Wal-Mart almost killed it for me, though. The spirit almost died. If the spirit of Christmas was a vampire, Wal-Mart would be the wooden stake (Made in China).

Jessie, for some inexplicable reason known only to the swirling thundercloud of crazy that is her consciousness, decided we should go to Wal-Mart to buy gifts for teachers at her school. I sort of concurred with this plan, despite my relative loathing of Wal-Mart (relative=absolute). The place is synonymous with cheap and dirty and I didn't want Jess to spend much money on people she works with, so the option seemed ideal. That was, of course, until we got *into* the Wal-Mart, which apparently around Christmas becomes a third-world refugee camp stuffed with barely clothed children running and screaming, women hauling large baskets full of colorful, worthless items, men in roving rape bands moving through the isles, and people in bland outfits ringing them through with procedural dullness. It was like "Hotel Rwanda" with a frozen food aisle. And there we were, amidst the swirling darkness, clawing desperately for "candy bags" and M&M ornaments, when I felt Christmas slipping away, being replaced by a bitter, hard, angry voice that said, "What is all this bullshit anyways?"

Came this close to losing Christmas. Fortunately we left without buying anything (the lines for the registers would have embarrassed a DMV agent) and so escaped with our souls intact. But only just barely.

This past Wednesday was the company party. This was actually an amazing time. It was the perfect opportunity to test out my latest Conversation Obliterators(TM). I may be losing my hair, but I still possess a superhuman ability to awkwardly end a conversation. Jess howled at the four times it happened - some loosely-assembled group and I would be making inane conversation about what we all "do" (son of a BITCH) and suddenly out of nowhere I would drop some unrelated clunker in there that would send people running. I must do it subconsciously out of bored desperation. I think I actually told people that Jess and I have to drive our recyclables to the recycling center, unlike everyone else in Alexandria who gets theirs picked up with the trash, and how that made us good people. Conversation: Obliterated.

We spent the weekend in New York City with Markimus. At one point I think I gallivanted. I can't be sure. We had a great time, as always. High points included walking around Rockefeller Center on Saturday night, exploring St. Patrick's Cathedral (which is straight out of an amazing fantasy book... my god, the ceilings!), seeing the light show, ogling the tree. That we did it in a literal herd of people only made it more fun. Exhausting, but fun. On Sunday we saw "Wintuk," a Cirque du Soleil show at Madison Square Garden. It was great - definitely whet my appetite for one of the Vegas shows. It also made me feel incredibly lazy, because I pay to watch people in better shape than me do things that I can't. Like, for instance, spin four hula-hoops around myself. Where do you practice something like that?

So, a random time. It's been a good week. I am so excited for Christmas. Work has been crazy - had to deliver a 100-page, 8,400 word module today which was a HUGE accomplishment - but it's going to simmer down. My plans for the holidays?

1. See friends.
2. See family.
3. Watch my nieces and nephews open their gifts.
4. Buy cigars to smoke with Mark.
5. Epic Risk game.
6. Complete video Christmas card to my grandparents.
7. Color-time with Dave.
8. Do Christmas stuff with Jess.
9. Caroling with the Wildfires.
10. Relax, write, and eat cookies.

Talk to you soon, Dear Reader. I loooooove you!!!

Martin

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Conformist

2007-12-12T14:17:00.000-05:00

Dear Reader,

I'm really onto something with this "what do you do" business, finding evidence for my loathing in the sweetest, most innocent corners of our cultural consciousness. Inspiration surrounds me. The evidence is mounting. Pretty soon I'll take my case to the people, but ere that I will develop my theories on the Captain's Blog.

That's right: Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is what is wrong with America.

For those unaware, a brief review: I hate the question "What do you do?" Sure, the question has its place when determining certain information, but if this is a social conversation and we haven't met before, do not ask me what I do. I will make something up. I will lie to your face and talk about you to the 11 people who inexplicably read this blog. Because, let's face it, you don't care what I do. You just want to know that I do *something* and that your taxes are not paying for me to exist.

So, getting into the spirit as I usually do, i.e. decorating trees, wrapping gifts, avoiding homeless people, I turned on some Christmas music and, lo, actually listened to the lyrics of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer."

Oh my God, this is a horrible, horrible song.

The lyrics to this song would better suit a sad violin solo from "Schindler's List" than the bouncy, ragtime-inspired traditional version. This is a song about a neglected outsider who only gains societal acceptance once the hegemonic "Santa" has a use for his hideous mutant deformity. In short, this is sick, sick, sick.

Let's take it line by line:

Line 1: "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer had a very shiny nose."

Physical deformities are not funny. We wouldn't sing a song about "Thomas the Drunken Cripple had a very wooden leg." At least not in public. And not together. And not to such a catchy melody. Why is it okay for the reindeer to ostracize Rudolph for his nose? He didn't choose to be born that way. And who were his parents? A lightning bug and a Volkswagen? How did he get that nose anyway?

Line 2: "And if you ever saw it, you would even say it glows."

Obviously, Rudolph is a recluse. "If you ever saw it" implies that no one has ever seen it, which makes sense because Rudolph is often sitting alone in a cave, crying.

Line 3: "All of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names."

I wouldn't come out of my cave either if the other members of my community laughed and called me names all the time. Do they throw things at him too? Sling racial slurs like "Rednose!" and "Redder!"? Maybe they kick him. In fact I'm sure they kick him, having stitched a "kick me" sign to his fur when he was asleep in his cave, his eyes crusted from crying all the time.

Line 4: "They would never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games."

Of course. In fact I imagine tormenting Rudolph *is* one of their reindeer games.

Line 5: "Then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say..."

Why is Santa coming under the cover of fog and darkness? Is he afraid to be seen going to Rudolph's cave, much like one is afraid to be seen going to see a Kevin Costner movie? Maybe he's always felt bad for Rudolph.

In fact, wait a minute. Santa always is wearing red... follow me on this. Couldn't one even say that Santa has rosy cheeks that... that glow??? What if Santa is... is Rudolph's father?! That sick, sick pervert! Which reindeer do you think is the mother? Whose shame are you, Rudolph? Dancer? Prancer? VIXEN. OF COURSE. We should change the song to "Rudolph the Bastard Love-Child." You disgust me, Santa. What would Mrs. Clause think? UNLESS SHE WAS IN ON IT.

Line 6: "Rudolph with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?"

I hate you old man! You never loved me! No amount of fog can obfuscate my loathing for you!

Line 7 is the killer, the crux, the big cajones. This line is what really should go down in history.

As evil.

Line 7: "Then all the reindeer loved him, as they shouted out with glee..."

Oh, so NOW they love him? Now that he has a purpose? Now that he can "do" something they recognize as worthwhile? Where was your love for him when you were kicking him and pointing to his cave of sadness and laughing? This is exactly what's wrong with America. I can't imagine Rudolph is the only reindeer with a deformity. How long has Blitzen's fifth hoof been there? Exactly. But before this allegedly foggy night, Rudolph couldn't "do" anything except be hideously ugly and try in vain to dodge the reindeer-pissed snowballs the others threw at him.

Why wasn't Rudolph enough before he could guide the sleigh? Was he any less of a reindeer, really? Why do they love him only after he does something they recognize? What if Rudolph had a gift for ice sculpture? What if he was working on a tell-all memoir that Oprah would put on her book club? No, they don't see that. They only understand one thing, and that is the drudgery of their own lives, the monotony of which is only broken up by making fun of "Rednose."

Line 8: "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, you'll go down in history!"

As an example to the rest of the world of what happens when "what do you do?" is allowed to be asked in polite conversation.

I rest my case.

The 100th Post

2007-12-04T23:24:00.000-05:00

Dear Reader,

Woo! Light some candles! Sing that copyrighted song! The Captain's Blog, started in earnest in, dear God, 2005, has hit its 100th post. For those who are new to the blog, welcome. You are entering a strange, passionately over-generalized yet highly amusing world. For those of you who are regulars, welcome back! You honor me by returning every day (except Wednesday... nobody visits on Wednesday). Thank you!

I had a lot of competing ideas about what the 100th post should be about. Should it be very short, containing only a humorous picture? Should be it a long recounting of the amazing weekend I just had?

Jessie had a great idea. In honor of the 100th post, she suggested that I make a list of 100 things. The question was, 100 of what? I thought about doing "100 Things I Hate About Windows XP," which would not only be highly satisfying but would get a head start on the 200th post, "100 More Things I *Really* Hate About Windows XP." I thought of listing the top 100 blog moments, making some fabulous blog retrospective, but that seemed way too appropriately narcissistic and, frankly, redundantly redundant.

The winning idea is this: Martin's Top 100 Moments of 2007. Not my favorite moments, not the best moments. These are the top moments, the "Hitler as Man of the Year 1939" moments, the ones that changed me, moved me, taught me, inspired me, humiliated me. They are mistakes, triumphs, failures, wild successes. Some are comprehensible by anyone, others belong only to me. They are not listed in any particular order, only the one in which I think of them. [Captain's Note: If I left out a moment you think should be here, don't be upset. Exact your revenge by leaving a comment!]

En guarde.

Martin's Top 100 Moments of 2007

100. The reaction of Jessie's mom to the new engagement ring ("Oh my God!")
99. Learning how to hold a cigarette with Emily ("Don't Bogey it.")
98. Playing pool with Brian Holland and his roommate.
97. Watching the sunrise with Dave at Ohiopyle.
96. Stabbing the Darth Vader pinata through the heart with a shattered badminton pole while surrounded by great friends.
95. My last game with Hit The Deck after 11 seasons.
94. Eating the $18 Wagyu fillet at Mark's amazing dinner for us at Ono.
93. Laying a flower on Gran's casket.
92. Quitting the Apple Store, even though I loved working there, because I knew I was leaving town and didn't want to learn the new material about the iPhone.
91. Wading into the Gulf of Mexico at midnight, stumbling drunk and crying.
90. Missing my graduation ceremony after 4.5 years of school.
89. Writing the paper "Experience as a Problematic Rhetorical Strategy for the Wife of Bath" and getting an 'A' from a professor I respected more than any other at Pitt.
88. Being rejected by Georgetown in DC, accepted by Northwestern in IL, and then moving to DC with no job and no plan.
87. Getting hammered on White Russians at "Big Lebowski Night" with the 5725 crew.
88. The two hours gathering soil for the garden with Nate.
87. Eating Blue Bell ice cream at Vicky's house.
86. Fighting over, and completely resolving, an argument with my father.
85. Landing in Atlanta for a connection flight and feeling like I was descending into a city in the clouds.
84. Realizing that I had finally earned Carl's respect.
83. Having to re-shoot the first Dregr scene at midnight after accidentally taping over it.
82. Talking about World of Warcraft with the kid before going on stage in Peoria.
81. The night spent at the hotel with Jessie in Philadelphia.
80. Watching the "Our Mrs. Reynolds" episode of Firefly with Mat.
79. Walking a half-mile into the ocean in ankle-deep water and seeing the cloud of green fish swim around my feet.
78. Fireworks show at Ben and Tara's house over the 4th of July.
77. Waking up at 5 AM to go fishing with Dad and Mark.
76. Falling off of a jet-ski with Jess in the Gulf of Mexico and being surrounded by wild dolphins (I need to stay away from Gulf of Mexico, apparently).
75. Attending the labor day concert on the capital lawn, drinking the free water and listening to amazing music.
74. Going to McDonald's in the rented Mustang to get cheeseburgers off the dollar menu at 11:30 PM.
73. Smoking Kahlua cigars and drinking Heineken, watching the rain, and then shooting off fireworks at the beach.
72. Giving the April 12th concert with Bryan and duetting on "Super Mario Brothers."
71. Lying in Jeffrey's pool talking about the future while a thunderstorm raged around us.
70. Tooch and Jeep's Halloween party and me putting my face in the fire and breaking a chair.
69. Tubing down the Conequenessen and trying to rescue Jess only to pull her down the river without a tube.
68. My night at the priory with Jess for her birthday. Yum!
67. John Williams concert at the Kennedy Center.
66. Walking in front of the tractor-trailer sobbing, screaming "This is who I am!!!" and barely making it off the road in time before getting killed.
65. Smoking on my back lying underneath the billboard texting Emily and asking, "Why is this so hard?"
64. Showing off my junk to Jessie's friends.
63. Mark's superhuman drive off the 18th tee at the 2nd Annual SSCC Invitational.
62. The snowmobiling jumping contest at Chautauqua.
61. Seeing Jenn again and doing her ADR in two hours.
60. Filming with Jeffrey and Luke and Rebecca on the old soundstage.
59. Blowing out the candles on my 25th birthday surrounded by my favorite people.
58. Eating Dave's falafel and storyboarding with him and Steph.
57. Sitting behind the wall and drinking Maneshevitz (sp?) at Mary's Kay's wedding
56. Shoving the TV up the steps in Alexandria after having dropped it on Jessie's finger necessitating a midnight run to CVS.
55. Catching no fish on the fishing trip but still managing to see: amazing dolphins, two sea turtles, and an endangered sunfish.
54: Going to Rochester with Mom to see Tony and Lisa.
53. Hanging out with Deimel and Sara for the first time in three years.
52. Meeting up with an old friend after 7 years of hard feelings.
51. DoubleShot performing in the lobby of Dave and Busters.
50. Playing at after-hours with Brian for the first time in Sedalia.
49. Showing the polio trailer to WQED bigwigs while being dressed like an itinerant guitarist.
48. Running out of money on my way to Alex Bay.
47. Smoking a hookah naked and drunk on vodka.
46. Seeing King Tut's dagger in Philadelphia, the most beautiful man-made thing I have ever seen.
45. Going to the Renaissance Festival with Mat.
44. Finding out there was nothing in the tunnel after all.
43. Snorkeling with Mark and Jess and Jasmine off the island with the deserted fort.
42. Playing the piano at the market in downtown Philly.
41. Getting drunk on $8 Lambrusco with Mat and Jess while scarfing Chewy Chips Ahoy and playing Dirty Minds
40. Dave calling at 10 AM to offer me a 5lb bag of spaghetti when I had no money.
39. The three-figure amazing dinner at La Bergerie with the Caesar Salad and the raw egg and the fish and the souflee and the escargot soup.
38. Laughing at the crazy man at the wax museum who ran his wheelchair up and down the line hassling for hand-outs yet could somehow afford the museum.
37. Eating at the rib crib with Bill and Jess.
36. Randomly calling Steph and talking for over an hour about everything.
35. Eating not one but TWO turkey legges.
34. Recording my CD with Bryan over two days in August.
33. Eating the best seafood dinner of my life at the Salt Rock Grill in Indian Springs, FL (oh my God the crab legs).
32. The call from Emma that I had gotten the job after all.
31. After-hours at the piano with John and Gabriel, a.k.a 20-minute "Amazing Grace" and 12th Street Rag in all the keys.
30. Emily and I walking up to Jeffrey's house and crashing his birthday party after having not seen him for 5 years and 2 years, respectively.
29. "Ticklish Tom" duet with Bryan on Saturday afternoon in the John Stark Tent.
28. Watching "Airplane" with Brian Holland and howling like teenagers the whole night about "Dick Hyman."
27. King of the Hill contest at Chautauqua.
26. Sleeping in the Egyptian cotton at Nawal's, eating an amazing dinner, and sharing a Tetley with Petley.
29. Ordering Chinese food with Tony and hearing him read my liner notes out loud.
28. Making the list of family questions in Wooster.
27. Curling up in front of the fire at WW'07 and nearly dozing off.
26. Putting the bike rack on my car with Dad.
25. The first time I held Sean Christian Gaines (my hand was bigger than he was!)
24. Sleeping in the twin at Mom's house over the summer.
23. Getting my health care card in the mail.
22. Riding in the car with Vicky, Dan, Evan, Jeffrey and laughing our asses off about the rough neighborhood dominated by "the shovel people."
21. Wednesday night performance at Sedalia in the tuxedo with tails.
20. Meeting Richard Dowling.
19. Arranging "Swanee" on a Thursday night and performing it in competition on Sunday.
18. Sitting in the editing room with Carl at 4 AM and talking about life.
17. Co-Hosting the radio show with Bryan and helping him move out of his apartment.
16. Smoking on the porch with Scott.
15. Going to not one but TWO Steelers games (both mysteriously against the Bengals).
14. Watching "Planet Earth" with the roommates.
13. Throwing lessons with Dave W.
12. Chris C., after not seeing me play dodgeball for months, exclaiming, "When did Martin learn how to throw? Holy crap!"
11. Walking the abandoned Drake line at dusk with Mat.
10. Losing at Peoria after everyone told me I was "number 1."
9. Getting the care package from Mr. C.
8. Presenting on the post-modern, dystopian elements of "Crash" to my film class.
7. Sex on the third night of the Florida vacation (holy yikes).
6. Decorating the apartment with Jess.
5. Writers' Weekend forest walk.
4. Emily dancing to the "The Charleston Rag."
3. The first time I heard the voice of my therapist.
2. The last time I ever took Paxil.
1. Touching Gran's shoulder at her viewing.

Wow. Okay, that was hard. And then easy. And then hard again, because I had too many. What a year. I can't believe how far I traveled to get back to where I am. Thank you for being there for me, behind me, with me, and beside me. More adventures on the way, no doubt.

Your,
Martin

A Change of Heart

2007-11-26T09:58:00.001-05:00

Okay, so I've been giving some thought to my last post. I had an interesting conversation with Mom about why she doesn't journal, and she said something I'd never heard someone say. "I'm afraid that if I write it down, I'll change my mind about it the next day, and what I've written will seem uninformed or wrong. What if I disagree with myself?"

Now, to this I replied, "The whole point is to disagree with yourself. You can only write from where you are, not where you were or where you will be. Tomorrow you will be somewhere else - maybe even someone else - and that's the fun of it. Tracking how your feelings and beliefs changed is one of the major reasons to write, because no other chronicle can so accurately preserve your own journey." For instance, I look at my posts from early 2007, and I don't even recognize the person who was writing to you. I was drunk every night, I was smoking - I can still remember one night, smoking on the steps with Scott, where I blurted out my entire life story while shivering uncontrollably (a particularly low moment). Or the time I walked in front of a tractor-trailer while yelling to Jess, "Why won't you love me for what I am?" I'm not that person anymore. But! I *was* that person at one point, I've *been* that person, and so now when I look at my life and meaninglessly wish for it to be more interesting, I can look back and go, "I've had it more interesting, and it was really not that great."

So, the whole point of that introduction was this: I think I'd like to amend the vitriol of my last post. It's hard for me sometimes, because I want my writing to be entertaining, so I never know how strong a viewpoint to take. It seems like the stronger the opinion, the more it affects people and the more entertaining it becomes. And I stand by much of what I wrote.

I think I was imagining some very particular scenarios in which I have interacted with strangers. This weekend, as my grandparents and family asked me about my job, I realized that they weren't evaluating my worth as a person. They were relieved to know that I was going to be okay. "Martin is okay," I can hear them thinking. "I don't have to worry about him anymore." And they were genuinely excited, like I'd passed some big test, and the whole interaction went easier because of that newfound peace. I still stand by my loathing of the "What do you do?" question. It is an evaluative probe that enables us, unconsciously, to rank people. "Oh you work at McDonald's?" I can hear their social status careening in a ball of flames from here, and that shouldn't be the case.

I like Vicky's idea of asking questions that are interesting to the person you're questioning. Think about how different the world would look if we actually cared that the questions we were asking were somehow relevant to the person we were talking about. Now I want to know what those questions would look like so I can ask them.

And the marriage bit: you have to understand my context. I'd just come from a weekend spent with Jessie's family at a funeral, so we interacted with an enormous number of older people who only knew us by the fact that we were getting married. I was like, "Hello? I am my own person, too." When friends or co-workers ask about it I don't think, "Screw you for asking." Well, okay, maybe sometimes, but not for the reason which I originally insisted.

So. I am big enough to change my mind. And I still hate that question, and will not ask it anymore. And I will yell at you if I see you ask it, so be forewarned. My new question is: "What are you interested in nowadays?" Further revision to be expected.

Hope you guys are doing well. This is post #99. I wonder what the heck I'm going to write for #100...

Martin

The Curse of "What Do You Do?"

2007-11-22T01:22:00.000-05:00

Hi.

Had an interesting conversation today that put a couple of things in perspective. I left it feeling glad I that I moved away from Pittsburgh and got a good job. I don't think most folks thought I had it in me, frankly. They see my forwardness about my own faults as an admission of weakness. Me identifying my own quirks, however entertaining they might be, sometimes works against me. Jessie translated it for me thusly at one point: "People think you're a joke because you act like you are one."

Of course you already know that, having read nearly 97 posts where I wrestle, hopefully humorously, with my faults and foibles (holy crap, we are having a party at 100). I try to find the things that are funny about me and around me and I take pleasure in identifying them. But what I realize now is that it came to a point where the people around me - faced with that penultimate annoying question of "What does Martin do exactly?" - cried out for a hero to save them from their seemingly baseless fandom.

Said hero is, namely, me. Employed.

I confess a bit of glee about having a job title that nobody understands. My description of what I do explodes out in a tornado of important-soundingness, a swollen tempest against the squalls of feigned interest that constitute most human interactions. I am an information architect. whoosh-BAMF! You are in a cloud of unknowing. My job title is so confusing it MUST make me more important than you. You're sorry you asked, aren't you? Now I'm not only useful, I must be more useful than YOU.

I have decided that this Americans pissing contest occurs because the vast majority of us are miserable and want to know that others are as miserable as we are. Haven't you ever noticed that little sag people get in their faces when you love what you do? That little jealous silence that follows where they either try to find something about that job that must be frustrating ("Oh, I'd never have the patience to do that...") or they just murmur something half-approving and change the subject?

I hate that in America, it doesn't matter what you do with your day so long as it involves working for somebody else. As long as you're employed somewhere, people can put you in their little "useful" box and interact with you. I could be writing the next "Rhapsody in Blue," but if I'm not pulling down a paycheck every two weeks I might as well be an old couch. People can't categorize you if you're not working. The most they can do is associate you with taxes and food drives, even if you're wearing Versace glasses and drive a nicer car than they do. I remember working for Apple 15 hours a week, making enough money to basically afford to park my car near the Apple Store, but because I had an answer to "What do you do?" that was concise and cool-sounding, people left me alone. Hell, they even respected me a little.

When you're independently wealthy, though, people don't care what you do. You could just go around peeing on children all day and if you had money no one would second-guess why you always have a Nalgene full of Crystal Light.

I notice the same need to categorize when I'm with Jess. Everyone, friend and stranger alike, wants to know when we're getting married. It's all they see when they look at us: People who are getting married. They don't see a teacher or an artist. They see unmarried people. And it's not just them "being nice." They want to know when we will get married so they can know how long they have to wait before they can put us in the little "Things I've Figured Out" compartment they have in their head. An engagement at least has a little drama associated with it, a chance things might not work out, go south, crash and burn. That makes people interested, but only in resolving that anxiety. I am convinced that, as humans, we like to think that the world can be categorized, can be predicted and controlled. The things we learn carve channels in our mind, and instead of making new channels we try and force all the water to flow through the old, i.e. "But I already dug this hole in the ground to bury you in!"

It makes me want to do random things. Scary things. Disappear for three days with no indication as to where I've gone. Wear a different wig for seven days and chart people's reaction. I have this fantasy, at parties, that I will make up a different answer to the question "What do you do?" for each person who asks.

Guest 1: "I didn't realize Martin was a marine biologist. He went to Cornell and everything."

Guest 2: "Marine biologist? I thought he was a nature photographer."

Guest 3: "Hey, did you guys hear? Martin is next in line to go to the International Space Station!"

Fuckers. What do you care anyway? If I tell you what I do, will that make you feel better? Try this question. It is so much better than "what do you do," and it starts a much more attractive conversation. Ask: "What are you excited about nowadays?" Go ahead. Try it. I promise the conversation will be rewarding. More rewarding than asking, "How can I categorize you today? Worthless, or worthwhile?"

Anyways, yes. I am doing this. I'm showing up on time to work. I'm doing a good job. I'm holding down a big-boy opportunity with aplomb. Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised at the surprise and doubt of others. I certainly shared it. I'm still amazed I was able to transition this easily. And I feel like a bad, bad boy for posting something at 2 AM. WAY past my bedtime. Bad Martin. Bad.

Let's cut this crap that I need defended to anyone. I can take care of myself.

-m

On the Shoreline of a Crystal Sea

2007-11-20T00:01:00.000-05:00

Dear Reader,

I’m back.

I might have gotten some molecules scrambled, passing through the thick mist that descended over my life the past few days, but can still move my fingers and feel my toes. It’s enough to keep on going, even though right now I am really hungry for some sunlight to burn off the fog of death.

Outside my window, while we were gone, Alexandria filled the trees along King Street with white Christmas lights. Jess and I had just come back from a weekend spent with death, with dark thoughts, my own rampant imagination putting every face I cared about in a coffin and burying them in the cold earth, and I can’t describe what it was like to come home and find our tree-lined street illuminated with a million twinkling stars hanging overhead. Jessie’s first thought was that she wished her Grandmother had seen it so illuminated, our new home warm, inviting, and timeless.

I kept telling myself that I shouldn’t have been so upset for someone else’s grandma. I mean, I have my own grandparents. Jess and I aren’t married. I knew Gran well but we’d only seen one another a precious few times. And yet I was a total wreck on the drive up, at the viewing, at the funeral. I cried, like I will for my own grandmother, for all the new memories I didn’t get to make. And now I’m sitting at work, and I feel different. Uncomfortable. Waiting. I feel like I could die at any second, or those around me could die at any second, like it’s a war being waged around me and my weapons are my breath and my heartbeat, and I have limited ammunition. As long as I can keep firing, I’ll live, keep the hunter at bay, but right now I feel persecuted, invaded, and unsure.

The worst parts of it are the big questions. You know the ones you asked as a kid? “Where do we go when we die? Will I get to see my family again? What will I look like as a spirit?” Yeah, well, they don’t go away. They get louder, angrier, more infuriating. Jess and I found ourselves asking them again, only this time we were furious at our inability to know. I wanted to torch the veil and peer beyond it, burn a hole in the not-knowing, the not-being-able-to-know of it. And then my rational mind, who is an unemotional problem-solver, said, “You know, the simplest way to explain Heaven is that we invented it to make ourselves feel better about dying.” And I had those kinds of thoughts, one after the other. I’d present my old answers, my ones featuring God and St. Peter and mystical gardens and saints and the smell of roses filling the bedroom – all the artillery my own grandmother gave me - and one by one they fell under the crushing weight of my disbelief. Religion was no help. All death did was ask questions for which I have no answer, and I feel like I’m vulnerable to attack.

So, it’s weird. This whole weekend has been weird. I saw her body. I touched her cold hands. I laid a flower on her casket. And yet it feels like she’s still alive, and all we buried was the car she was driving. Is it weird to say that it felt like she was at her own funeral? I got the image of her sitting in a chair, snoring, which is exactly what she would have been doing during the service. Jess said she felt like her grandmother’s hand was on her shoulder. I prayed to her to watch over Jessie. Part of me accepts that as perfectly true, and another laughs and goes, “You’re kidding, right?” I remind myself that I can’t explain, well, much of anything going on around me. You ask enough questions and you get to a point where not only do you not know, you can’t know. Mat called it the ant and the bulldozer. All the ant knows is that the ground is shaking. He doesn’t know why, nor can he. He’s just an ant (all I could picture was a little ant getting squashed by a big bulldozer that didn’t care at all, and the more I thought about it the sadder the analogy seemed). He can’t perceive the greater truth that the bulldozer is there to build a condo for people to live in, etc... etc…

Jess and I stopped at Mom’s house on the way back from Erie, and my sister and her kids were there, along with Derrick. I have the coolest nieces and nephews in the world. They are absolutely at that fun stage when their self-critical voices are an undeveloped squeak and they haven’t learned to be bashful about saying and feeling exactly what is on their mind. I was holding my niece Mariah (who delights in raising her arms, looking through you and saying firmly, “Up!”), and suddenly I started to tear up. I held her little soft body close to me, my hands as big as her whole back, and felt an overwhelming desire to laugh at all her jokes, applaud all of her goofy creations, and make her feel like she was the center of the whole, happy world. I must have glimpsed a little of what a parent or grandparent feels in that moment, this sense that you exist now to ensure this little life makes it up and out into the world. To hold new life after so much talk of death was like clear bells ringing out over a foggy morning. It seemed that much more precious, that much more urgent to do the things I felt like doing in my heart and most importantly to spend time with the people that I love. I’m glad the holiday is almost here. It gives me the perfect opportunity.

I held my new nephew, too. Sean Christian. He’s just a little bigger than my hand. He’s just learning to see, the first rays of light travelling from his eyes to his brain. I wonder what it is like, that constellation of information suffusing your waiting synapses, everything firing for the first time as though it had been waiting for eternity to do so. I got the image of Gran as a candle that, having burned brightly for a long time, went out and, hundreds of miles away, a new candle was lit, was just starting to perceive the brilliant lights of this world. Maybe that is what death feels like – a birth into a constellation of new light that cannot be seen with the eyes of this world.

I met with Mat on Saturday night. I headed over to Squill and met him for an impromptu meeting at Eat’n Park, Pittsburgh’s answer to iHop. We talked about death over chocolate cake and a bowl of chili. I didn’t agree with much of what he said, but in his defense I didn’t agree with much of what I was saying, either. I just felt completely out of sorts, wholly not myself, and was glad to have the company. He is a bright light himself, and he burned off much of the mist that had settled around me. My mom burnt off more the next morning, and today, sitting at work, I can feel it slowly lifting. I admit I’m excited to have the old sun rise again. I could use the sight of some familiar light on the new eyes that death has given me.

Your,
Martin

Shirley

2007-11-14T23:28:00.000-05:00

Jessie's grandma died last night.

I don't talk about death on the Captain's Blog. It's not a part of my world. It's not what I think about. It's not what I deal with.

Today, I was shaken. We were shaken. Hard.

I had a big long post about how the day unfolded, but I deleted it. Words seemed garish and inconsiderate. As I was writing, I looked up at the picture of my own grandparents I have at the foot of my bed, their faces slowly fading into sepia, and in that long moment I got the image of us all as leaves on a great tree, some budding, others green in their prime, gathering light; and still others are browns and reds and yellows, slowly loosening their connections to the branch until one night, dreaming of sunlight, they drift down, away from the others, to the unknown ground below.

The viewing is Friday. The funeral is Saturday. The worst part is Jessie's sadness, repeated like a prayer through thick tears. "I'm so sad, I don't know what to do, I'm so sad," and I, powerless, can only cry along with her.

Goodbye, Shirley. We love you.

The Road to Damascus

2007-11-11T23:30:00.001-05:00

Road to Damascus
n. a religious conversion; a revelation, especially about one’s self; in other figurative uses, denoting a change in attitude, perspective, or belief.

Hi!

Just got back from NYC. It's a five-hour drive up the East Coast, passing through the Jundland Waste that is Delaware and the farthest-point-from-the-bright-center-of-the-universe that is Jersey. $21 in tolls between here and Mark.

I mean, come on.

Mark, my brother, is living the actor's life: waiting tables, going to auditions, falling in an out of love, staying equal parts inordinately positive and on the verge of falling over. He is such a positive force, so fun to be around. His attitude towards work is incredible: he takes every job he gets, no matter how small, and makes it his own. Whether he's doing construction, washing dishes, acting, or waiting tables, Mark makes himself indispensable; every manager loves him, says "Mark is my guy." It's amazing. I've never been like that. In my other jobs, I always felt hired in spite of myself. Only Apple and this new job have been different, places where I was finally able to sink my teeth in and invest something. I'm getting a good reputation where I'm working now. It's the first time I've pushed myself to work hard, to constantly produce, to stay busy. I get there early, I stay late. It's weird. It's new. I like it.

I'm in kind of a pensive mood tonight. Jess and I were walking up our street after getting home late tonight, and there was a black man across the street talking to a guy on a mo-ped. He saw us, and the biker pointed as us, and the man came over, thanked us for not running away, and proceeded to give us this really intricate story of how he'd served 10-years in Virginia and now was trying to find his way to Damascus, MD. He had papers, highlighted for effect, and amounts written on the back of the page of how much he'd need to get where he was going (Metro, cab, bus).

I opened my wallet, saw $15 in there, and gave it to him. I should have just given him $5, but whatever.

Jessie asked me after if I had smelled the alcohol on his breath, too. Of course I had. I noticed the Nautica shirt, the fact that he was decently well-groomed. That's what got me - it was the contrasts, the desperation and the preparation, the breath and the papers, the absolute plausibility that this man was just trying to make his way somewhere, whether that was Damascus the place or Damascus the bar. I spent a good half-an-hour afterwards annoyed about losing $15. I'm writing this still annoyed. I mean, that's a lot of money. Not as much as one pays in tolls on the road to NYC, but still a lot of money. That's a whole Tricky Fingers CD (now available on iTunes because I rock). It was only a few weeks ago when I had less than $15 in the world, when I myself considered hawking CDs for gas money to get to Alex Bay.

And then it hit me.

I can work for 45 minutes and make that money back. Hell, I can write e-mails to my friends for 45-minutes and make that money back. I've spent nearly that long writing to you. Three weeks ago, $13.90 was all that I had in the world, and now I make that in the time it takes me to eat lunch. I mean, I'm no millionaire, but I also don't have to worry about what happens if I get sick, what happens if I want to get contacts, what happens if I need to pay my rent. This is the first time I've felt like I've got some buffer between myself and the realities of the world that doesn't consist entirely of my father. And dammit, it feels good. It feels really good. I've never felt it before. I want to keep feeling this.

If $15 is the toll I have to pay on the Road to Damascus, then so be it.

Anyways, I have to tell you all about our time in NY! Monday will be a slow day at work. I'll write then. For now, I'm going to forgive myself for being a gullible nice person, and be thankful that I have a job to go to that doesn't involve posing as an ex-con...

Your,
Martin

The Starship Martin

2007-11-06T23:29:00.000-05:00

It's not often I get to embrace the geeky chic of my blog's title. In fact, I think it's good for the sake of humanity that I don't, at least not all the time. But I am about to unleash my inner-geek, the one that has spent hours on eBay looking at iMac G4's and fantasized as a child about owning a gyrocopter. Yes, I'm trying to decide, when I get money (Lord know when that will be), which Sideshow Weta toy to get: something from Star Wars, or from the Lord of the Rings.

Good. You're still reading.

I think many geeks have struggled with the Star Wars vs. LOTR question. I personally have resigned myself to feeling lucky to have both rich universes in which to play, and I've never been asked to choose in anything other than a theoretical, hypothetical "you're on a deserted island and you can only take one trilogy" kind of question. Now, however, a choice must be made. These things are obscenely expensive (hundreds of damn dollars) and carry a kind of geek chakra that can scarcely be ignored, but I can only afford one. Star Wars or LOTR. Darth Maul or Gandalf. Yoda vs. Dooku or Aragorn at the Black Gates. It's a hellish question I've been avoiding by doing ample research at work, using slow moments to research the figures in 360-degree animations. It's an agonizing choice.

Now, for those of you who think it is folly to spend more than $12 on anything related to a movie franchise, let me give you this example. Two years ago, I found out about Sideshow Weta from the LOTR website. I did a search on eBay and found an incredible Ringwraith statue. We're talking something ungodly cool - I fantasized about it on my fake fireplace, its red, sinister eyes and blood-soaked legs keeping watch over the living room. In 2005, the horse went for $300. eBay it now, however, and it goes for $800. For a statue of a fictional horse.

So the danger is two-fold: It appeals to my geek, and it appeals to my inner collector. Maybe having money will not be such a good thing after all. I was enjoying getting rid of excess stuff, and now I will be spending all my time picking up things like Star Trek: TNG on DVD and Master Replicas of lightsabers. Things could get very crowded very quickly. It could be a nightmare of geekish proportions. And now that I have an office, the allure of the things only grows stronger. "This would look great on my desk!" I'm already plotting to take my giant Yoda poster in. I took the lamp in to warm them up, but no one knows the truly dastardly dorky things I have planned for my little corner. They should be glad I lost my lightsaber-wielding Obi-Wan piggy bank that made noises whenever you put in a quarter.

Anyways, I thought it would be fun to post about something other than work, because obviously it's all I've been thinking about. My project manager told me today that I was doing a very good job! He even used an exclamation point. This man was in the navy, rides a motorcycle on the insane streets of DC, and came to work on Halloween dressed as a member of KISS, so for him to use that kind of punctuation really meant something to me. It was confirmation that I've been going about this the right way. What can I say - if I have to be there anyways, I'd rather be busy.

(also, if someone could please check the Martin for an invasion of the body-snatchers, that would be great. thanks.)

Martin

A Love Note from the Office

2007-11-06T16:03:00.001-05:00

I moved my desk around today. I turned it 90-degrees. People came from all across the office to see my new setup. "This is so nice," they said. "It's really cozy!" I can't tell if they're jealous or they just don't want me to be mad that I sit in a corner all day, but either way I found the attention highly entertaining.

Isn't it funny how things that we would barely care about outside of work become this huge deal when we're at work? It is fascinating to me how people change when they are here. My favorite exchange is the awkward quick smile, the one that you give each other when you pass in the hallways, don't really have anything to say, but need some way to acknowledge each other. It's hilarious. People look like they're twitching. I find myself doing it, too, trying desperately to think of something to say to this person I just met and know very little about.

As you can tell, I'm not as busy as I was the past week. There is no way I would have had time to write to you last week. And, truth, I liked being busy. It was such a change from the past, um, months. Today is slow. But that's a good thing. It means I kicked butt so hard the past five days that I don't have anything left to do today. My project is going to the graphics department, and untli they put it all together and it's time for us to do quality-control, there's not much for me to do. I'm debating who to ask for more work. I am definitely interested in staying busy. It makes the days go faster. It makes me feel like I should wake up and come. Today I slept through all my alarms and still woke up in time to get here with no problem, but I know myself: I did that because I knew there wouldn't be as much to do today. I have to stay feeling busy and productive and important or I'll start acting the opposite, and then I've sabotaged myself.

The good news is that I'm better at playing the game of myself. Am I the only person this crazy?

The Second Week

2007-11-05T23:39:00.001-05:00

It it just me, or has everyone been talking about death recently?

I think just about every conversation I've partaken in recently has in some way referenced a sick, dying, or dead person. Some are ones in my own sphere: my grandmother, Jessie's grandmother, etc... while others are just amorphous relations, co-workers and the like. This guy fell out of a tree. This one is in the hospital. This one had to choose whether to live or die. Mat and I saw a woman get hit by a car on Saturday. She fell so close to Mat's car it's a miracle she didn't hit her head off of our fender. I thought of the tarot, how Death means change, and I wondered if the twisting seasons brought out the morbid side of everyone.

It's just a little darker at night, people. And the sun comes back.

I'm feeling strangely silent of late. When things are going well, there's not much to be said, and things are going well for me. I'm doing a good job at my new position. I am well-suited for the kinds of work they have me doing so far - it's a lot (and I mean a LOT) of asset-management and organization, which in my life I'm merely "meh." On a computer, however, I can make a folder with the best of them, and I've nearly mastered the art of alt-tabbing out of GChat in time for the VP to walk by. (I'm super excited about getting a new, smaller desk tomorrow that I can turn around so my back is no longer to the hallway, my computer screen exposed. I'm like a jumpy critter at work, squirreling away my conversations at a footstep or creak.)

It was only on Sunday morning, as I was puking up my stomach lining, that I reconsidered the amount I drank on Saturday night at the Halloween Party hosted by Tooch and Jeep. The party was so much fun, as all of their parties are, and from what I remember I had an excellent time. I was trying to figure out which made me sick: the quantity or the variety. I haven't handled vodka well since I OD'd on it in Florida seven years ago, and I had that, beer, and some kind of mulled wine which God did not intend to be chugged (think thick, cinnamon-y apple cider). On Sunday night, still sick, I wondered about whether I had hit that point when your body loses the will to put up with your poisons and gives you hell in order to change your behavior, but I seriously think the mulled wine is a more likely culprit.

It was good to come home this weekend, though it's a bittersweet experience now. The trips are such whirlwinds that you don't get to really experience anyone for a satisfying amount of time, and part of you expects people to drop everything and throw a parade that you've decided to grace them with your presence. Jess and I used to lament how people expected us to have no life of our own when they came home, and here I found myself wishing for the same thing. I'm home! Didn't you miss me? How did your world revolve without me in it? The truth of course is that it's only the first few days apart that feel long, and the rest jumble together until, when you reunite, it seems no time has passed at all.

On Sunday I had lunch with someone I hadn't seen in seven years. He was the only person I'd ever gotten mad enough at to sever all ties and communication, and seeing him was a nearly out-of-body experience, like I was watching us talking as opposed to actually being there. The answer to the question "How have you been?" contained things like, "Well, after high-school I went to Florida and got a degree, and then I came back and got a Bachelor's at Pitt." Usually that question has something to do with groceries and chores or the events of the day, but in this context we were talking about four-year chunks of life that had passed. It's kind of scary, frankly, that you can update someone on yourself with such brevity, compressing seven years into seven minutes with nary a blink. I felt very big and very small at the same. But it was a good meeting. A healing. I was proud of myself for calling him up.

I wish I had faster fingers. There are so many little moments I want to preserve here, and the thought of documenting them all is dreamy and exhausting. In the interests of science, I've found a way to blog from work. I know some of you just groaned, but I find anything that is wrong and subversive to be highly arousing. No one would know I'm blogging. They'd just see a typing man, looking intent upon making sense of out something, which is what they want to see. It's no different than what I do all day, frankly, save that the job of being wholly myself involves significantly less list-making. We shall see...

Your,
Martin

He Chose.... Poorly

2007-11-01T23:50:00.001-04:00

So I am concerned about how rapidly old I've gotten in three days. Did I drink from the wrong cup?

The Evidence:

The highlight of the week was learning that I get to go to bed at midnight instead of 11:30. For some reason, this is a huge deal.

Today, I had time to go to Home Depot and get a lamp for my desk. The satisfaction derived from how much this light-source will improve my office experience is not commensurate with the value of this lamp.

Jessie and I spend at least an hour a day complaining about being tired.

I found a way to use the word "commensurate" in a sentence.

I created this list with actual HTML code instead of with any buttons.

This blog post is the shortest one in months.

In other news, I got a $40 ticket from the State of Delaware for being unable to pay a $4 fare.

An Open Letter to Delaware:

Dear Delaware,

What the hell is wrong with you? All I wanted to do was get out of your sorry excuse for a state. Obviously in order to stem the exodus of decent, hard-working Americans from your sociofacist demonocracy, you've chosen to pave your highways in the blood of taxpayers.

I don't know how you found me in Virginia, nor to what end your demonic powers toil, but fuck, man, get a life. It was $4. Get over yourself. You are not a cool state. You are something I drive through to get somewhere else. I would rather go to New Jersey. In fact, I drove THROUGH you to get to New Jersey. You're not even the pussy. You're the LEAKY CONDOM through which I wriggled on my way to the dank recesses of Jersey.

I hope you sink a body of black water.

Love,
Martin

The Company Wench

2007-10-31T23:33:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-29T22:49:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-25T00:02:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-10-24T01:04:00.001-04:00

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

2007-10-22T23:25:00.001-04:00

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

2007-10-21T23:11:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-11T02:15:00.002-04:00

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

2007-10-01T01:16:00.000-04:00

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.

Life Is Better Behind the Camera

2007-09-30T01:47:00.000-04:00

Okay. Feeling a little better. Still scared shitless when I really think about it, but I've returned to familiar stomping ground and am feeling a little more solid than I did during my last post.

Dave and I are in Pittsburgh for the weekend. I made the rather crazy decision to come up here with my remaining dollars and patch up some holes in "Hunt for the Holocron," and Dave, to his amazing credit, was entirely responsible for the idea of getting me out here to do this. I have been feeling really down on myself recently (note the flowery language of my manic-depression below), and I think instinctually he knew that thinking about Jedi Knights and F-stops would cheer me up. Not only did he put his costume back on (the third time after we were officially "done"), but he paid his own way here, fed himself, woke up at 4:50 AM with me after going to bed at 2 AM, trudged around the woods all day, and spent two hours watching the rough-cut and helping me see it in a new light.

We got beautiful footage today. It was the first time I had ever filmed a sunrise. The sun erupted over the far hill, splashing over a sea of low-hanging clouds in the valley below. Dave stood, hooded, on the outcropped rock overlooking the valley, and I was filled with the sense that I was in the right place.

Of course the lens of the camera was a little dirty and we couldn't go as wide as we wanted and the tripod sucks for anything but stills, but tonight, as we watched the footage, it didn't really matter. It is a beautiful shot. Dave called it our "street cred" shot, the one that folks see and go, "Oh, they're for real." The movie, and my life, needed scope. Perspective. The larger picture.

I own the book "Shot By Shot," but I've never read it. I used to be proud of my ability to not read things and still seem to know them, but now I'm just embarrassed that I never took the time. I am convinced that this approach to my life is the reason why I feel so paralyzed now, why I feel so much like the illusion of a person as opposed to a real person. I never wanted to do the hard things. The boring things. If I was really smart, shouldn't I be able to just DO it?

I only remember one thing from the book "Story" (I haven't read it yet, either. There is a pattern here), and it is this: Talent is gasoline with no engine. Craft is the engine. Talent without craft is like gas on the ground - it burns quickly and accomplishes nothing. I have enough of the former and very little of the latter. Perhaps I should start reading.

There were other shots we picked up over the course of the day that belied a new visual sophistication for the film. They would not be present had I not ventured out four years ago with a cadre of friends into the woods to make a Star Wars movie. It sounds so crazy now, you know? I mean, four years is freaking FOREVER. I was 20 when I started this thing. It's becoming a veritable time-capsule.

What I know now, more certain than I ever did, is that if I don't finish this Star Wars movie, I will never be able to finish anything in my life. I can't take the next step until I finish this one. Part of me knew that this is what I needed, that this is what would count, however ridiculous that sounds. And if I don't see it through, I will have sinned against myself and others.

So thank you, Dave. For knowing me better than I knew myself. For inspiring me to keep working. For continuing to put on the suit with the shredded boots and the missing sleeve guards. For continuing to believe in me.

And thank you, Dear Reader, for continuing to read. The other night, writing to you kept me from melting.

Your,
Martin

P.S.- I'll post pictures when I get back to Alexandria on Sunday!

Unqualified to Live

2007-09-27T04:50:00.000-04:00

Dear Reader,

I have come to the realization, perhaps later than others, that I am not qualified to be alive. Yes, it's job searching time, and I am two barrel clicks away from kiss kiss bang.

I can feel my sperm count getting lower from the impotence of unemployment. That shrieking sound you hear are my dreams boiling off in the jobless sun. Soon I will be curled up on the couch, my toes poking through the holes in a moth-ridden afghan, wondering whether to bid higher or lower on the dinette set on "The Price is Right." And then it will be too late. Martin will have gone, leaving nothing but a dried skin on the cushions before he slithers, broken, into nothingness.

Okay, so I'm depressed. And use descriptive adjectives. And am still unqualified to be alive.

I have $81.99 left in the world, with about five times that amount coming in bills. If you think it unbecoming for a man to discuss his finances, let me be the first to heartily admit that I am nothing resembling a man. A man can pay for himself. A man works hard, never complains, bears the labors of the day with skin that crackles and hands like sandpaper. A man never has to talk about money - his gait speaks to his situation. You can see the money in his walk, his saunter, his loping trudge. You can see his money in the smiles on the faces of those around him. He is no liability, no expense to them. Rather, he is the groundwork on which they walk, the planks that stand unbending beneath their high-heeled shoes and sharp edges. My father is a man. My brother is a man. I am nothing resembling a man. Not yet. Not anymore. I don't know when I will be again, or even if I ever did.

It is an awful, awful feeling.

I know I'm not the only one who has struggled in DC. Most of the people I talked to who tried to find jobs in DC lamented how much like Hell's Table the job market can be. So much fruit, ready to be picked, and ten times as many hungry hands, each tearing and clawing for a trickle of syrup under their fingernails. I don't know how I'm going to stand out here. I realized that I am only qualified for film work. None of my other qualifications stand up to the heat of cover letters. And, fuck me, everyone wants to be a film guy. Maybe I can get a job in Hell's kitchen, washing the dishes of the damned (or maybe start a rock band of the same name).

I mean, I'm not entirely worthless, right? I didn't just move to Alexandria and realize, oh Jesus, I'm actually nobody after all. This storm was coming whether or not I was in Pittsburgh. Maybe it's a cruel curse that all of my ideas and contacts and connections and securities and assets and investments are in Pittsburgh, the communities and little rivers and rivulets that I could tap for ideas and sustaining words. I have about four good ideas for film projects and all of them take place in Pittsburgh, making the pursuit of them somehow a negation of my new life here.

The one project that I really want to do involves examining the issue of the exodus of youth from Pittsburgh. In my own small circle I can name you 12 fascinating stories of people who have either chosen to stay and make a difference or leave and forge a different path. I feel that stylistically I could create a film that people my age would actually watch and respond to, one that they could feel and not just hear. I wish I could get up the cahones to write the grant application. I know who I would send it to. Dad has connections at the Heinz Endowments. I could ask Carl Kurlander and Deb Acklin to be on the review committee. I could in five swipes of my pen put this thing into action, and yet I do nothing.

Sometimes I wish I could buy a big eraser, blot myself out, and draw me again.

Anyways, I'm rambling now. At least I'm still good at that. Rambling is easy for words. They were meant to do it. I am not a rambler. I need some arrows along the way, at least once in awhile.

yours as long as she feeds me,
m

The Pirates of Aisle Fourteen

2007-09-01T02:55:00.000-04:00

It's official. I hung all of the sconces. I live in Virginia now.

I am butt-pirating internet access until we can afford Verizon - the little antenna icon on Jessie's iBook is blipping from one bar to three out of what I can only assume is guilt (the network is ironically labeled "LeGal") - but I am connected, and holy crap, for a man who does not "work," I have been freaking busy.

I own a lot of things. Many of them are nice. Some are heavy. Most were unreasonably expensive. And Jessie, bless her, owns nearly as many. Also heavy. Also nice. And all have been moved up and down stairs, in and out of doorways, and from car to room to car for three. days. straight. If we had videotaped it and played it back really fast to the Benny Hill music, you would have some idea of how ridiculous the effort was, how ludicrously enormous. Tonight is the first night where I feel as though things are finally settling in. We've transformed, through an obscene amount of money and finger-breaking labor, a wholly uninspiring space into a cozy, homey, trendy, chic, snazzy, comfy little pad. When I first saw the place back in August, I wasn't exactly thrilled. It looked tiny and glum, a dank hobbit-hole buried above a flower shop. The only thing I liked about it were the bedrooms, and that little glimmer of hope was enough to convince me that maybe we could make something out of the space which, up until about two hours ago, was only a fool's hope.

To date:

i. Three trips to the Goodwill after they'd closed to illegally put donations outside the bin, including, but not limited to: clothing, that stupid color-lamp that would always fall apart when I moved it, a futon (after I had set it up and taken it apart again... elapsed time: 2 hours), a box full of dishes and glassware I inherited seven years ago, futon cushions, old sheets, old comforters, a casserole dish, etc...
ii. Four trips to Target to replace all the things we hauled to Goodwill: picture-hooks, a frigging carpet, comforters and bed sheets, wall-art, a universal remote, pillows, towels, candles, lamps, paper-towel dispenser, tumblers, wine glasses, deodorant, shave gel, a toothbrush, Swiffer sheets, curtains, curtain rods, table runner, salt-and-pepper shakers, toilet paper holder, magazine bin, cookie sheets, shower hooks and matching soap-dispenser, etcetera, etcetera, omigod there is more stuff to bring inside, etc...
iii. Three, as in the number of feet higher the two dumpsters that are not ours got after we heaved our trash into them.
iv. A kagillion dollars, i.e. the amount poorer we are now than when we started shopping three days ago.

And so on.

Even after all of that, it wasn't until tonight, as I surveyed the apartment, still cluttered but much warmer-looking, that I realized we'd done it. We made it into ours. Clumsily, sure, but like vines crawling over dead concrete, breaking it apart and filling it with green, so have we brought greens and yellows and blues and earth tones and the light of a thousand sconces (okay three) into the new apartment, and it looks great!!! As is never the case with us, we failed to take any before-and-after photos. I think we were so busy actually doing the thing that the thought of taking any time to document it seemed like a luxury we didn't have, but I will post photos of the aftermath, the color-coordinated aftermath, and you can see how neat the place looks!

Lots more to say, but there is a girl next to me not getting any more awake. Will write soon.

XO,
M

The Best Birthday Party Ever

2007-08-26T01:25:00.000-04:00

If the title of this entry sounds like that of a children's book, that's because today unfolded like one, cake and all.

My birthday was, of course, Friday. And even though the Family Guy rerun at 3:30 AM on Friday was funny, something about sitting alone on a couch typing about being alone on a couch didn't have the same magic as being surrounded by 40 of your closest friends and family who, gathered around a cake made for 70 people, stood shoulder to shoulder in order to form a wind-shield to keep the candles lit. I think it is something about the little ritual, the gathering, the lighting of the candles, the chanting of thanks and warm thoughts for one person, that on every birthday since I was 19 I've felt like I was in a movie. Because, really, where else but in a movie does one get to look around and see the cast of characters that form your whole world?

This was the biggest party ever held for me, and I only say it like that because of how, if you had invited the 8-year-old Martin to the party, he would never have believed that that many people would assemble for him. Birthdays were always intimate, immediate-family affairs. I never had or wanted the gaggle of friends that you see in movie birthdays - the kids running around with hats, the parents beleaguered as they run from one event to the next. The couple of times other boys came over, they felt to me like intruders. I remember one boy, for my 7th birthday party, guessed all of my gifts before I opened them. If he hadn't been so damn right about all of them it wouldn't have been so bad, but the kid had, for whatever reason, chose to use his powers for evil and so that was that until my 18th birthday. X-nay on the other-kids-ay. And I know Jessie won't believe me, but I seriously did not have any friends to invite until I was 14, and by that point I was still annoyed at Mr. Guessy Pants.

Which is why this evening, as I stood over my vast cake (courtesy of my sister Anna), the words "Happy 25th Birthday, Martin! And Happy Graduation!" scrawled across it in red icing between thick, colorful icing balloons, the twinkle of 25 candles dancing on its frosted surface, I looked around at my friends and family and knew that the wish I would make had already come true. My wish was standing around me, keeping out the wind.

I couldn't blow out all the candles, by the way. Up until this point my cakes have been circular objects with massive candle concentration, whereas this cake was like blowing across a frosted tundra. My breath, heaved out of my mighty chest, curled and licked across the dotted surface, but seriously who can blow out 25 candles spread out over 8 cubic feet of cake? And would you want to read the blog of someone containing that much wind? I think not.

We had copious amounts of food. My family may be a lot of things, but at least we know how to cook for a party. Jessie's mum made fruit salad and hot chicken salad (if there were a list of the Seven Wonders of Food, "hot chicken salad" would be like number 3 or number 4); Mom made burgers that Dad grilled to perfection; Jane brought yummy seven-layer dip; Anna brought the cake and massive quantities of drink; Aunt Sue brought her world-altering potato salad; Aunt Doris brought a vegetable medley, Grandma brought her chocolate-chip cookies... it was like wandering into that part of your head that remembers all of the good food you used to eat when you were a kid and then all of a sudden it was real, right there, and needing to be consumed by you right away.

I was worried about having enough things for people to do, but, as always, people are more adept at entertaining themselves and each other than I give them credit. I used to lament how I had friends who couldn't hang out with one another - I only saw one person at a time, avoiding the nigh cataclysmic chemical reactions that occurred between my friends and each other. Tonight, though, was the complete and utter negation of that Martin Theory. People hummed around, telling stories, introducing themselves, laughing. Mat is particularly gifted at this, the kind of comfortable in himself that people, my family and friends included, instantly like and appreciate. Bryan came too, rather bravely I thought, and had no problems mixing right in with people he didn't know, tossing around the Frisbee, talking music with those who would listen. Dodgeballs were brandished when Dave showed up, and we knew it was only a matter of time before some highly-entertaining physical activity would break out (the wrong-armed, stationary-foot game of dodgeball proved insanely amusing, and to Dave's credit he still managed to get me out...) Chris, to my constant delight, is the coolest 30-something that ever something'd thirty. And Dave Turka came all the way from Philadelphia with his girlfriend, managing, within minutes, to rescue the day not once but twice with his super-human climbing abilities. The only thing that could have made the evening better would have been Mark showing up. It's weird the times that you think to miss people. It's never when you expect.

This all stands in stark contrast to last night. Last night I went to Mat's at 1 AM, distraught. I said, "Mat, you are looking at a man on the verge of losing everything he has built above himself." I told him of my debt, of my fight with Jessie, of my fears about DC and the uncertainty surrounding the next days and weeks and years. I pointed to the sky and told of how, in one terrifying moment, I saw starlight on the glass panes in the tower I've built above myself, shaking in the storm winds, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before all that quivering glass came shattering down.

And that all may well be true. My seven-figure debt is an enormous burden. I don't have a job yet. I'm not in school. There are no guarantees in relationships. But what tonight made me realize, what perhaps Mat was wise enough to let me find out on my own, was that it was not what was above me I should be worrying about, but what was below me that I should be grateful for. The glass may shatter and fall, but it will fall onto sturdy stone, sink into butter-cream icing, be lit by candles and sung to by pillars, and then consumed, happily, by the loving ground on which I gratefully stand.

Thank you thank you thank you thank you. Because of you it was an awesome, wonderful, sunny day.

Your,
Martin

A Quarter Century of Martin

2007-08-24T01:06:00.000-04:00

“The wide world is all about you; you can fence yourselves in, but you cannot forever fence it out.”

In 2.5 hours, I turn 25. As in years. Holy freaking mother of crap I am going to be 1/4 of a century old! Frankly, to deal with it, I am pretending it is happening to someone else. It's like, "Oh wow, that person is 25. I wish I had a sandwich." Me being 25 just doesn't, you know, sound right. Sandwiches, however, do.

And then, as Tolkien points out, it's not like I can fence out the fact that I'm getting older. No, I've got to embrace it, make it mine. I mean, it's happening with or without my consent, so it's more a matter of accepting reality than creating it, but there will be a moment, prolly in the next few days, where I look in the mirror and become okay with being an adult.

I remember, when I used to sell pianos at Trombino Piano, the owner, Mr. Trombino, came to visit me one day. It was very awkward - here was a self-made man, late into his seventies and more tan than God (if he were tan) who had sold accordions out of the back of his car until he'd built a million-plus business, and there I was, the itinerant me who had sold maybe one of two pianos in 7 months and owed Mr. Trombino roughly $3,000 in commission. Needless to say, we talked briefly. It was summer. My 20th birthday was approaching. He asked me, "How old are you?"

"I'll be 20 in a couple weeks."

"20. Time to grow up, son."

Then he left, and his words have haunted me. Time to grow up. Their vagueness keeps them dangerous.

The closest Emily and I ever came to a fight in our brief time together was over fajitas. I had been reading "Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus," and as I sat there spooning guacamole onto warm bread, enlightening her about the heteronormative pages of that little pearl of a book, the fur on her neck stood up, as though a lightning cloud were hovering above, and she said, "If you were any other person, I would have written you off already."

She said later, on the steps of Jeffrey's apartment, that she could see how much I was struggling, as though my manhood was something I was seeking outside myself instead of as an organic progression of me. And as I thought about her words, I realized how that applied to so many challenges in my life, how I was constantly looking outside myself for answers. I just feel like I'm sometimes the least-qualified person to answer my questions. You can't solve a problem with the same mind that created it. When it comes to being an adult, the only image I can see is myself, kneeling before a dais with faceless men in black robes, and wordlessly they lower a heavy metal mantle onto my shoulders. It's like I'm waiting for a moment to transform me magically into 'Man Martin.' And, frankly, it's scary.

I'm in Alexandria tonight. Jess and I managed, by some feat of willpower as yet unequaled in our collective lifetime, to get my television into our apartment. You know whenever you see people carrying a body in a movie? Well, my TV weighs 175lbs, and I could not lift that. We ended up pushing it up the steps screen-side down, and aside from a big crack in the top casing, it's no worse for the wear. Jess wanted to celebrate my birthday today, and we had the most amazing evening.

We live in Old Town Alexandria, which is this amazing, European-styled hamlet town full of restaurants and little shops. There is a restaurant we saw called "Bilbo Baggins," and one of the tag-lines on the windows of the yellow building reads: "Quality Food is Our Hobbit."

Jessie has this amazing ability to hear something once and then make it come true. She knows that it's one of my dreams to go to France again, and so for my birthday she looked up and made reservations at one of the best French restaurants in DC, La-Bergerie. We got there around 5:45, and were the only ones in the restaurant for like an hour. As such, we got amazing service. They pulled the table out so we could sit down behind it, and then they slid it back. We ate in innumerable courses. There was this old Frenchman (who looked strangely like Mr. Trombino) who took our orders, and then yelled at all the other servers in French to work harder. There were more employees than customers, so Jess and I laughed in nervous silence for a bit, counting the chandeliers and watching the little lumiere in the center of the table. We couldn't stay quiet, though, when the food started coming: warm bread, AMAZING baked onion soup, Caesar Salad made table-side with an egg-yolk and anchovies, and for dinner Dover sole with butter and lemon sliced so thin it melted in your mouth, one taste after the other, a kaleidoscope. I loved it. Loved loved LOVED it. Food should be an event. For dessert we had chocolate souffle, and upon tasting it Jess said, "It tastes like womb!" Which is probably the best description of it you'll ever hear. Chocolate womb. Mmmm.

Afterwards, we caught the wonderful "Stardust" at the local movie palace. I loved the movie! Very cute, and with a real sense of wonder. It made me want to come home and start writing the scene I dreamt 11 years ago with the wizard and the fires...

There is so much to say. I recorded my debut CD on Tuesday and Wednesday - I'll have to tell you all about it :)

Happy birthday, me. May your fences be wisely set.

-martin

Body Issues Ow Ow

2007-08-16T01:20:00.001-04:00

Ow.

Jesus monkeytit ballfockers. Ow. Every part of me hurts. I feel like Emeril went 'Bam!' on the balls of my feet and now all they need is some olive oil and a little garlic powder and they are ready, tender, and delicious. And red. And purple. And achy, like the rest of me. My hands have that perma-red thing going on - you know how they get when you press them against the leather in a car for 20 minutes before you've lost all feeling in your paws? Yeah. Like that. And my back, obviously having wised up to the fact that I need it more than the rest of me, has gone on strike. It's like, "Oh, you want to stand up? Want to lie down? Pretty hard without ME, huh buddy? Yeah! You like that!"

I digress. Jess and I moved the majority of our stuff down to Alexandria today, and by "moved" I mean "hauled" and by "today" I mean "oh my God it took all fucking day." Having loaded the 16' Budget Truck-From-Hell (I mean really, you couldn't even afford a tape player? a TAPE player? bah), we headed down the PA Turnpike at a stunning 55 mph, careening past trees and slow gophers with aplomb.

It was then, of course, that my body decides to throw me a loop. Or rather, a poop.

I have a long and storied history of getting "the shits" at inopportune times: hotels with no air-conditioning, airplanes over Spain, hostels in Spain, etc... (Did you know that fruit in Spain is actually rather gross, especially when you are hallucinating from the Norwalk Virus?). It's like any time I want to leave my comfort zone, my body has to flush out (I'm punny!) the memory of the old place and absorb a new one. It's still bothering me now, bubbling and gurgling like witches brew, doubling my toil AND my trouble.

It was especially inconvenient when I went to lift the heavy objects. I think I, in association with my netherpurses, redefined the meaning of "self-control."

Just to give you a sense of how much stuff Jessie and I moved (inlcluding her stuff which we picked up in the Springs):

8 small boxes
6 medium boxes
5 large boxes
22 trash bags full of things that SHOULD have been in boxes
6 mattresses
5 chairs
1 piano keyboard
2 headboards
1 futon
2 end tables
1 coffee table
(almost) 1 175lb television
etc... writhing in pain... etc...

Also, there was an 18-step climb to the apartment, and we couldn't park the truck directly outside because, oh right, it was rush hour in Washington, DC, and, oh wait, we don't have keys to get in and then, uh, we drop the TV on Jessie's finger and have to run to CVS at midnight for Bactine and, uh, there is no shower curtain...

So. I am going to bed. Right now. And when I wake up, I will re-evaluate this whole situation with a little more "wow" and not so much "ow."

Yours (what's left of me),
Martin

Fruits and Vegetables

2007-08-08T04:38:00.000-04:00

For my father, every problem in the world can be solved with fruit and vegetables. Feeling low? Here's an apple. Nervous about school? Broccoli with lemon. Dinner at his apartment was like a cooking show for my soul, and every dinner had three constant elements: applesauce, broccoli, and sauerkraut.

Sauerkraut is one of those mysterious foods that appears when you need it and at no other time. Got a hot dog in your hand? Chances are there is sauerkraut within 10 feet of you. Are you inside a festival tent? Chance of Sauerkraut is like 97%. I didn't even know you could buy sauerkraut. I used to think that, like pierogies, the food was constructed in some kind of arcane, ethnic process that grandparents only whispered to each other. But, apparently, you can buy sauerkraut in a jar. Then you can heat it in a bowl, put it next to the broccoli and the applesauce, and within 20 minutes you will have at least solved the one problem you went into dinner with, namely the munchies.

I've been thinking a lot about health care. This is probably because I don't have any. My fabulous coverage through Pitt expired on July 14, and ever since all I can do is picture myself as that guy in SiCKO who has to choose which one of his fingers to have reattached: the one for $60,000, or the one for $5,000.

I don't do well with politics. By my nature I am someone who tries to create harmony, happiness, and though politics at its best is in the pursuit of harmony, all it really seems like now is one big obstreperous mess. The system, which was designed as self-correcting, had some of its balancing protocols removed in the search for more authority, and now We The People have forgotten that, wait a minute, these shmucks work for us, and we've always wanted to say, "You're fired!"

In the same way that supporting Bush has become something of a lead weight in polite conversation, I hope that the debate over health care, and the people standing in the way of a solution, lose similar face in the public consciousness. It doesn't sound that radical to say, "You know what? I think these kids deserve to grow up healthy. I don't mind spending a few dollars for that." Any of us, any decent person wants to see those around them healthy, if for nothing other than our own sanity. I don't know about you, but I find sick people obnoxious. I know I'm a pain in the butt when I don't feel well, and if you don't have your health, well, you don't have much of anything.

So. Go see SiCKO. Take friends. It is eye-opening. And even though it's only one side of the story, it's not like Moore is telling you anything you don't know in your gut, and it's a side of the story whose time has come to tell. That creeping feeling in your gut is not going to get better.

In the meantime, I'm going to find some individual coverage. Hopefully they don't find out about my pre-existing broccoli allergy. I guess there are some problems in the world even a spritz of lemon can't fix.

-m

Chicken-Fried Thunderstorms

2007-08-06T01:43:00.000-04:00

This looks familiar, vaguely familiar,
Almost unreal, yet, it's too soon to feel yet.
Close to my soul, and yet so far away.
I'm going to go back there someday.
Sun rises, night falls, sometimes the sky calls.
Is that a song there, and do I belong there?
I've never been there, but I know the way.
I'm going to go back there someday.
Come and go with me, it's more fun to share,
We'll both be completely at home in midair.
We're flyin', not walkin', on featherless wings.
We can hold onto love like invisible strings.
There's not a word yet for old friends who've just met.
Part heaven, part space, or have I found my place?
You can just visit, but I plan to stay.
I'm going to go back there someday.
I'm going to go back there someday.

Got back from Texas on Wednesday night. The airport was quiet - it was around 1 AM, and the bleary-eyed travelers shuffled in relative silence through the muted grays of the airport. The flight from Hobby, split into two two-hour chunks around Atlanta, had passed quickly. J.K. Rowling's gift for spellbinding kept me entranced for all but the few minutes spent gnoshing on biscuits and cran-apple juice, and the time passed quickly under her able fingers.

Unlike last time, I didn't return from Texas with a fresh layer of skin exposed to the air. Last time, well, I came back a different person. Raw. Vulnerable. Acting out. There were no trips to Galveston this time, no tearful expressions of frustration, no drinking binges. Cigarettes smoked were counted with single digits, not by the pack, and though there were a couple heads banged against a railing, it was short, fleeting, something we needed to work out of our system before we could just be.

It was just, well, good. The whole time. And it got better as it went along, became more real, more tangible, harder to leave.

It's hard to write about Jeffrey and Emily without being unbearably corny. My actual feelings would more closely resemble Hallmark cards, and so in the interest of your sanity, dear Reader, I will spare you the mushy stuff. You wouldn't believe me anyway.

My trip to Texas started on the previous Friday. I went to Dallas to visit Brian Holland, one of the world's greatest piano players, and proceeded to have three of the coolest days in recorded history. Brian is 35, but our age difference felt more like one year as opposed to eleven, and we spent the first night I was there munching on Boneless Buffalo Wings at Chili's (what can be considered the "Theme Food" of the trip - I must have consumed something like 25 of them over the course of the week) and playing pool. I know! Pool! And he and his roommate were really good, and I nearly beat both of them. I came within one shot both times.

Apparently I am a shark. I think it explains a lot.

Saturday was spent at the piano. I don't think I've laughed harder in my life than with Brian on Saturday. We were just really, really good at cracking each other up. After watching "Airplane" on his massive HDTV (I'd never seen the movie! "You just want me to have an abortion..." omg HILARIOUS) we surfed YouTube for three hours, watching videos of piano god Dick Hyman and making stupid, hysterical jokes about his name. I mean come on. Dick. Hyman. It writes itself. We merely chiseled. Smoothed out the buttocks. The joke was already in the stone.

Sunday was spent at the piano, too. It was kind of like being in the room with Hemingway and watching him write, only without the self-loathing and more uses of the word "said." I am a decent piano player. Brian is a god. Just hearing him play would have been worth the trip. The fact that I left with ideas and music and the drive to get better, not to mention with a new friend, was really icing on what proved to be a fabulous slice of cake. Can't wait to see him again.

He dropped me at Dallas-Love Field, and I caught a plane down to Houston. Jeffrey and Emily were waiting for me down at baggage claim, and I felt like a little kid at how excited I was to be seeing them again. I took measured steps so as not to belie the fact that I wanted to run. The past six months blurred and melted, and there they were, together, watching little bags go around the carousel. Emily saw me first and came running, and within minutes we were riding in Jeffrey's car, Rowdy the Audi, thoroughly hugged out.

The next couple of days were a delight. If I could turn that sentence into a cake, it would weigh 400 pounds. I got to see Vicky again after a far-too-brief introduction seven years ago. I think we've set a land-record for number of meaningful words exchanged between people who only met for three hours. And I finally got to meet her partner Dan, about whom I heard wonderful things, all of which he lived up to. Dan has a room in their house that would melt just about any Star Wars fan. I seriously tried to swear fealty when I saw the Stormtrooper with the shield and the lightsaber. Omigod.

You're probably wondering, "That's all? That's all he's going to write?" You see, last time I was there, I came back needing to put all of my experience into words. I needed to have it out in front of me where I could my paws in it, move it around, hold it up under different light. This time, though, I want to hold the moments close, keep them warm and safe. Some of it just doesn't make sense when you put it on the page, and that's okay. It's safe with me. Suffice it to say, the "Muppet Movie" is one of the most beautiful, true films ever made. Life is a movie. Make your own ending.

Can't wait to go back. In every sense of those five-and-a-half words, I. Cannot. Wait.

So many new adventures coming. Much, much to tell, dear Reader. We will watch a thunderstorm pass overhead, admire its swirling blackness, and know that it's alright not to go inside the house.

Until then, I remain,
Your Martin

The Last Night

2007-07-26T04:39:00.000-04:00

Hi.

This is a love-letter to a staircase.

I think the word "ache" is entirely insufficient to describe just how sore my body is at the moment. It is 4:40 AM, and I'm lying on Scott's couch in my apartment, my eyes surveying a living room that, just 12 hours before, was filled to the brim with boxes, lamps, and bags. My stuff. All of it. I spent two days packing it all up, prancing around (yes, I prance - deal with it) with my Swiffer duster singing a song to myself:

Throw it away, Martin,
Throw it away.
Throw it away, Martin,
Don't you let it stay!
We don't need it,
Must concede it,
throw it away, Martin,
throw it away.

Goddamn Mary Poppins was right.

The best part about these past two days was finding that, A) There exists enough cardboard in the world to contain all of my stuff and, B)I don't need half of the stuff I own. I realized that the vast majority of my things could spontaneously combust and, while I would be disappointed, I wouldn't shatter. I wouldn't crumble. Looking at my piles of boxes, my computers, my bed, I realized that the things I value are flesh and blood, people and their transient creations- thoughts, feelings, dreams. That is what is precious. Irreplaceable. Unique. I know how much we loved the Hoenig green apple plates, but Honey, it was time.

So, apparently this couch has quite a history. It was in Mark and Scott's apartment long before it journeyed up the steps to 5725. Legend tells of all the dirty sex that has been had upon it: men with men, women with women, men with men with women. I think this apartment is the last ceiling this old couch is going to have over it. I don't think there's enough Febreeze in the world to defunkify this couch and its sagging face. I've never slept on it, myself. That pleasure was reserved for guests, at which point I had the good sense to lay down sheets and pillows. Six-sense told me that direct contact with these cushions could lead to something sinister.

This is my last night at 5725 Phillips. Well, last night as a tenant anyways. I leave for Texas on Friday afternoon, and I've got all of Thursday to clean up, put away the fest remaining things, say my goodbye to my front steps.

To say that this year was anything less than revelatory would be to short-change it. I can say without reservation that this was the best year of my life. The reasons are multitudinous. I know. I know. Just enjoy the word. But in all those syllables are a thousand good conversations with Mat, a thousand surprises from Jess, a thousand laughs with Scott and Bryan and Dave and Nate. Porous as I remain, I have never felt so thoroughly congealed. There is solid footing here. I can feel it under my toes, like summer grass, and I like it. I like it a lot.

I would be lying if I said that any part of me is anxious to leave. The opposite is true. Well, okay, I do not love my bathroom or kitchen. They are sort of gross. But, people-wise, it is out of love and loyalty only that I leave right when things are getting interesting. Luke wandered in tonight and, seeing the apartment in its current state, said, "Seems like you were just getting settled in." And I was. By God, I was getting settled in. I was getting comfortable. And now, as I sit on this stained and defiled sofa, I feel like I've just watched a fantastic trailer for a movie that I'll never get to see. It is very easy to write sad words about leaving this place. There is a lot to leave.

And yet, a new, fantastic adventure awaits just around the corner. Jess and I are looking to move to Washington, D.C., at the end of August. Together. As in, sharing the same space in the same state for more than seven days. About this I am very excited. We've been together 6 years. I feel like we've earned the right to buy a couch together, make our own dirty, dirty history upon it, you know? Doesn't seem right to be sad when I have so many nice people around.

So, I've decided that instead of being sad, I am going to work hard at keeping what was built here strong and beautiful. And I will come back to climb the steps, no doubt. I will sit upon them and watch the tomatoes grow, the cats wander, the cars park. And part of me will always be at home here, happily young.

yours,
Martin

Things I'm Excited About

2007-07-12T04:16:00.000-04:00

1. Piano lesson with Brian Holland
2. Seeing Emily and Jeffrey
3. Going tubing
4. Not having to say goodbye to Jessie ever again
5. The new laptop
6. The new Spitzfire.com
7. Golf
8. Mark coming home
9. Massive party at the end of the summer
10. Unstoppable Dodgeball season
11. Vegetable garden outside my apt.
12. Making the ragtime CD with Bryan Wright
13. Invading YouTube

Mwahahahaha....

2007-05-16T04:14:00.001-04:00

Dammit

2007-05-16T03:30:00.000-04:00

Why can't things ever just be, you know, good?

In my more patient moments, I understand that the dichotomy of the universe extends to all things, and that lightness and darkness constitute two sides of the same mortal coin.

In this particular moment, however, I am just annoyed.

Now, my life is not as bad as some. My friend Bill comes to mind, who listed off about three or four mega-depressing things that hit him in the span of a couple days: a memory slip at a big audition in front of his old piano teacher, marital crap, a $165 parking ticket, rejection, plague, pestilence, etc... But when bad things happen to you, you being you and only capable of being you, measure those bad things against the other things you experience, so regardless of how many bad things you've been through you're only ever really relating them to the good things that are going on in your life.

I've begun to question my competence as a relationship partner. Jessie and I seem to be on two different levels of existence, both saying the same things but the wet goo that is air and distance and time garbles the words so we end up shouting just to get a message across. It's like trying to talk underwater sometimes, and its only when we can put our arms around one another that we get any real sense of connection, can feel the real and palpable love that is between us.

This polio project, which is exciting and challenging and time-consuming, presents a difficult question. My job now is to assemble a trailer that will knock the socks off of potential donors and champions. If we get funding (six figures worth), then not only does my compensation go up significantly but I'm a shoe-in for staying on the project until its completion. That would also mean, however, that I would have a strong tie to Pittsburgh for another year, and so it would be difficult to make the move that Jessie and I are planning to Chicago or Washington, D.C.

Why not stay in Pittsburgh, you ask? Lemmetellyahsomething.

I love Pittsburgh. It is a great city. The best thing about the polio story is that it showcases my awesome city. I love its rivers. I love its skyline. I love its people and its roadways. I love its story and its problems. I love my steps outside my apartment. I especially love my friends, dodgeball, my family. But, that's the problem with Pittsburgh. When you're born here, they implant little teeny tiny tractor beams that keep you connected to this place no matter where you go. It's like the Shire and its little rivers. And if you don't leave, if you never leave, then you will NEVER leave. You might as well start that family, add that new garage door, and pick your plot, 'cause you is gonna die here.

Now. That is not bad. This is a great place to live. Seriously great. Lot of character. Way too many stories that need to be told and not enough people to tell them.

But Jessie and I have only ever really lived here, and if we stay, we're under the influence of her parents, of my parents, of our friends and our old habits. What we've never really had, not in six years, was a chance to share a space, share the sunrise and sunset, share the mundane things like dishes or laundry or shopping for towels. And even when we did live in the same place, Jess lived at her parents and I lived at my mom's. It wasn't exactly a verdant paradise of relationship bliss, let me tell you, especially when you're trying to not get arrested for making out in the back of a car.

So now I'm presented with this very interesting set of waves that my little Life's boat has to navigate. Somehow I have to make all these oblong puzzle pieces which are dearer to me than anything fit together. They don't have to make a pretty picture, they just have to hold together if the cat walks on the puzzle. It's asking a lot, but everything depends on my being able to do it.

You see, once you get to know me (and you do quite a bit, if you read this thing), you realize that my laissez-faire approach to things is actually a calculated, deliberate defense mechanism against the very stress I'm feeling right now. I can't make everybody happy all the time, but at the end of my life I have to answer to two people, one of whom is incorporeal and the other one is God.

I don't want to look back and go, "If only..."

m

...On The Wall

2007-05-14T01:59:00.001-04:00

Damn it has gotten cold at night in Pittsburgh. I'm buried under my comforter (well, okay, a comforter that is itself buried inside a very manly (very) denim duvet (pronounced "doo-vay" and not "dove-it"), trying to stay warm. We've closed all the windows, turned off all the faucets, fired up the potbelly. They say the toes are the first to go.

Anyways. Where was I.

Ah! First, let me point out that this is the only time in CB's history that I've ever actually provided a continuation of a previous post in which I promised a continuation. Every time the words "Part I" appeared, thou knewest that thee would never see Parteth II... eth. But now, that's all about to change.

Get ready for...

PART II

Actually, in re-reading my last post, there isn't much to continue on about. I'm spending the majority of the next two weeks working on the second draft of the trailer, stopping only briefly over the weekend for a trip to Rochester to visit my mentor and friend, Tony Caramia. Most everything I am as a pianist I owe to him - there are pre-Tony recordings and post-Tony recordings, and it's *amazing* how much better the latter are - and his recordings of Billy Mayerl, whom I love, have shaped my soundscape for nearly 10 years. Do your ears a favor and listen to his recording of "Get Happy" on his Eastman page. You will not regret it. The highest compliment someone ever paid me was that my playing sounded like his, and I would have written it off except it was his wife that said it! Haha. They are great friends, and they love me and my parents. I think they're as excited to see my mom as they are me, which is frankly how it should be. I hope I have enough music prepared.

Actually, this month is CRAZY when it comes to ragtime. The next three weekends are chock-full of ragtime goodness. Memorial Day weekend I'm competing with some friends in the World Old Time Piano Playing Championship at the Hotel Pere-Marquette in Peoria, Illinois, and then I'm off to the Scott Joplin International Ragtime Festival in Sedalia, MO. I got the hugest buzz the other day when I checked the Joplin Festival site and saw my name and picture in the list of featured performers. I consider it a real honor to be featured amongst the other people there - these people are HUGELY talented and I rock out to their CDs all the time. Check it out here (scroll down to Spitznagel to see me!).

I admit I'm actually really nervous for all these gigs. I set the bar pretty high for myself this year, and I'm working hard to try and learn new material for this year's festival. I've got another Billy Mayerl or two, a Latin piece by Hal Isbitz, and I'm trying to get "Space Shuffle" in shape in time, a ridiculously hard piece that is amazing.

So, that's going to be fun. Jessie has offered to lend me her laptop so I can keep track of, you know, the world when I'm traveling all over creation. I'm going to take my camera and my camcorder - maybe I can do a Captain's (travel)Log(ue).

Gots to get up early. Take care.

m

Mirror Mirror

2007-05-12T03:15:00.000-04:00

Damn it has gotten warm at night in Pittsburgh. I just lie sprawled out, no heavy comforter keeping away the cold, no chill air to cool the blood. Now it's just balls-out allergies and heat, wipe the snot somewhere, take a Benadryl, and sweat. Well okay, maybe not all at one time, but there are moments, damn you. Moments.

Aside from the transforming world, I am doing the best I've been doing since I started doing anything at all.

I am now officially a professional Avid editor. The polio movie brought me onto the project, and my task for the next three weeks is to deliver a trailer so sparkling that no one with change in their pocket will be able to watch it and not throw money at us. Aside from the creative challenge, the miracle is that I'm getting paid, generously so, which is unbelievably satisfying because I earned this opportunity. I worked my tail off in class, and I delivered on my promise of a development trailer.

A little backstory to make the mountain peak seem higher:

When I was a freshman at Pitt back in, lord help us, 2003, I took a screenwriting class. It was a graduate-level course, and looking back now, and on how poorly I did, I understand just how out of my league I actually was. That said, I found the class amazing. My professor, Carl Kurlander, seemed like some kind of demi-god, having come from the land of Hollywood and with real credits under his belt. He dissected stories and pitches for stories like a chef flays carrots, and he had people in tears, myself included, in the war of ideas that was the class.

He encouraged us above all to tell personal stories. I remember proposing a biography of Scott Joplin. Surely, I thought, Joplin's life would make for good drama: chance encounters, lost loves, tortured genius. Carl obliterated the idea, saying it was much too difficult for a first screenplay and that I needed to find a more personal angle. I agonized over what to do - then, as now, I had a lot of trouble with conflict, with raising the stakes. I am, by nature, a peacemaker, and in writing I find myself in the uncomfortable position of having to do bad things to good characters. A lot of my stories, without outside expectations, would be like oil paintings, detailing out all the colors and shapes of a singular moment, unconcerned with the stirring clouds to the east. As a person I avoid conflict, and as a writer I do, too. That's why, when I went to shit a couple months ago, I was actually delighted to have so much conflict to write about (and, frankly, the blog has been missing some antagonism, don't you think?). It made for much better, easier writing. The conflict drew out and supported the language.

After agonizing over it for some time, I developed an idea about a young boy who, estranged from his divorced parents and picked on at school, finds a haven in his love of Scott Joplin's music. It was called "Solace," named after one of Joplin's best pieces, and I wrote the first ten pages of it for Carl. He told me it had real promise - that if I didn't write it, he would, and he'd make a lot of money.

I realized, though, that I couldn't write it; that it was actually my story, and I wasn't mature enough to talk about that yet. It's impossible to write fiction when you haven't figured out the truth yet, if that makes any sense. Until you know what something is in your own heart, it's hard, if not impossible, to take it to the page. Fiction requires distance and detachment just as much as it requires connection, and I wasn't mature enough to do it.

So, instead of turning in 30 pages of "Solace" and getting an 'A,' I turned in the first script for "Hunt for the Holocron."

I got a C-minus.

Fascinated, I signed up for another class with Carl. Here was someone who didn't like my writing, who didn't like me or the things that I created, and it was precisely because of this that I felt compelled to be around him, compelled to subject more and more of my creative self to him. The second class I took was introductory Fiction writing. I finally wrote something there that had real, genuine pathos, the only problem being that the conflict, at the end, was haphazard, even kind of disturbing and out-of-place. I did a little better in the class.

B-minus.

So imagine Carl's surprise, as we sat in the offices of WQED the other day, to be offering me, Martin, a job working on an important documentary. It was the greatest comeback in life's history as far as I'm concerned, and it only happened because I made a promise and kept it. I worked my tail off for free to show Carl that I was serious, that I was competent, that I was dedicated. It's one of those things for which you'd find a cliche like "If I had a nickel for every time..." or the like, you would use it here.

(to be continued...)

Little Rivers

2007-05-05T02:51:00.000-04:00

Hi.

Not much to say tonight. I'm sitting in the dark, listening to the night sounds outside my bedroom window. Cricket. Cricket. Freight train. Cricket. Scott is chatting with his girl in the next room. I can't make out any of the words through the wall - you know the "Sims" game and how they speak in like a weird, muffled, syllabic language? Sorta sounds like that, interspersed with laughter. I can tell her laugh is from New York. He seems happy.

I've only got another three months here. I can't believe nine months has gone by so fast. For awhile I was letting myself get overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the changes, sinking rather than swimming. I think I just wanted to know where the bottom of the pool was, you know? Now I'm floating, if not swimming, though it seems like those pesky personal projects keep after you until you resolve them. I know I've got a couple loose ends still. I've been sick for nearly three weeks, coughing and the like. I haven't quite gotten up the will to go to the doctor (always an expensive, annoying proposition) but if it keeps up I will have to. At the very least its been a great excuse not to smoke. My pack of Marlboro sits half-smoked on my piano, and has been that way for six weeks. I was amazed that after only two weeks of doing it, I would find myself thinking about smoking, wishing I had one in my mouth. Two weeks. Imagine the people who keep it up.

Things have been good. I am at WQED nearly every day now, working on something or another. Soon I will get paid for the work (or will have to stop doing it). Right now its gratis as I ingratiate myself with the people there. I got this amazing tour today of an Avid Unity system, and it was rather mind-blowing - 16 500GB hard drives networked over fiber-optic cables, delivering 1080i HD to the Avid system. It was beautiful. And surprisingly comprehensible, I might add. I knew what everything was, even the fancy stuff, and I could look at the timeline and know what was going on. I even picked up a couple tricks which I can't wait to try out on my own. HFTH can only benefit from the experience.

I'm working at Apple from 1-7 tomorrow. In the morning Mat and I are working with our dodgeball teammate Julie on planting a garden on Mt. Washington. I don't really do volunteer work like, well, ever, and now I'm plotting to wake up in 5.5 hours to plant flowers to which I am allergic instead of the sweet, tender embrace of sleep which I yearn for like the gods seek virgins. Not that I'm bitter or anything! What can I say, I am selfish about my sleep. I'm sure it'll go great. It will be good to have my hands in the earth.

Does my life sound incredibly boring? I can't decide whether it's at its most exciting or whether it is the caboose on someone else's streamliner. But the things I have, I enjoy - the people I have, I enjoy more. I'm glad it works out like that. I look around at all my stuff (of which I have a LOT) and go, Wow, this is no way cheers me up when I'm bummed out. I've even avoided buying much stuff at the Apple Store, which is hard because man those iPods are slick and I could always use another computer... Money is tight, and after a bit of a panic the other week, I leveled out and got serious about finding work. Not that I'm exactly ready to cut out my soul and leave it on the doorstep of some corporation, nor will I ever be, but I definitely feel motivated to find another job that's going to add some money!

A big shout out to the Doubleshot peeps, who compete for honor and eternal glory in San Francisco!!

Take care. Tend to your little rivers.

Martin

Walking in Circles

2007-05-01T03:45:00.000-04:00

Holy God I've graduated from the University of Pittsburgh.

What are you standing there for? Jesus, get me a drink or something!

Wrote my last paper ever tonight. I would offer you choice phrases from it but that would be ridiculous. Suffice it to say the topic was post-modernism, and if that isn't enough to turn you off from wanting to read it you should go into academia where self-negating theoretical approaches to things are bandied about like acorns amongst drunken squirrels.

That said, I think I had some pretty brilliant things to say, but that comes as no surprise to you, dear Reader, does it?

Ahh. I've been so motivated to write on the blog recently. It's certainly not because I've had more time to write. I find that the more time I have to do things, the fewer things get done. My productivity is inversely proportional to the amount of time I have to be productive. Mum says that the things we do expand to the time allotted them, and so if you're doing nothing, well, nothing is all that you'll do all the time. I should make a list of wise things people tell me. It would be long and worthy, and worth rereading.

So does quoting my mom change your perception of me? Does calling her "mum" instead of "Mom" make any difference? I bet you it did. I bet you you just read that and said, "Why is he quoting his mom? He must live at home and play with himself all the time."

How have you been? I heard about the thing. I'm sorry, I... I didn't know. They'll be able to sew it back on. I'm sure of it. You did the right thing.

So in addition to walking around in circles, wondering where the heck I am supposed to go next, I've been working on a couple of projects. I've got a couple of really neat things in the works (I know, I know, "checks in the mail," but things are actually happening). I'm the lead editor on "The Pittsburgh Polio Story," currently working on the development trailer. My dear friend Dr. Sheahan out at Mother of Sorrows School has me doing something akin to a development trailer for her school, and that will air on local cable here in June. It'll be the first project that I'll have shot, edited, and scored myself. I'm proud of how it's turning out so far. The polio thing should be done within the year, and we're hoping for national distribution. At the very least it'll air on WQED here in Pittsburgh, though I think the story is worthy of everyone.

Still working at Apple. I would write more about it but, um, they fire you if you talk about your job, especially on the internet. Actually I might get fired just for telling you they fire people.

And of course, work continues on HFTH. Mark is coming home in a few weeks and we're gonna bust out some more ADR. It's time consuming but awesome, and he's great at it. Just need to finish out Dan and Jenn and we're good to go on that front. I'm slowly getting a second-wind here, about to besiege the internet with requests for effects help.

I don't feel very pithy tonight. I know how you like it pithy. Like I said, I'm walking around in circles. I picked a bad time to quit sniffing glue. Mm... sweet glue clarity.

Martin

Buying the War

2007-04-27T03:05:00.000-04:00

"The only security of all is in a free press. The force of public opinion cannot be resisted when permitted freely to be expressed. The agitation it produces must be submitted to. It is necessary, to keep the waters pure." --Thomas Jefferson to Lafayette, 1823. ME 15:491

Just watched Bill Moyers' latest, which you can watch by clicking here. It's a great watch, well-made, and it's got me really thinking about just how fragile our nation is.

The video examines how the Washington press-corps, in the lead-up to the Iraq war, failed in their most important responsibility: finding, and communicating, the truth. It wasn't clear to me just how absolutely critical the press is in maintaining our freedom, in enabling us to make informed decisions. Imagine if it were like China or Russia or another one of these fucked up places, and all our news was state-run. How could you ever make an informed decision? You only have the word of these people to go on. If they fail, democracy fails.

It seems almost quaint now to hear Bush and his people make the case for the war, almost embarrassing to see how they made constant connections to 9/11. It's like making a video of yourself at age 16 in which you declare all the things you take as absolutes about life and love and then watching it twenty years later, realizing the stunning amount of ignorance in which you lived. It would be comical if people weren't still dying for it, weren't still giving their lives towards the effort.

I remember once, in the lead-up to the war, I posted something on a forum in defense of Michael Moore. Moore had just delivered his "fictitious war" speech at the Oscars, something for which history will remember him, in my opinion, as a minor hero of free-speech, and within minutes someone posted about how I was a "typical liberal" who would rather have Saddam Hussein in power and how much I hated America. It's funny, I still kinda get pissed just thinking about it, and I think it is because, even then, I knew I was being policed, being branded a minor-traitor just because I called people on their blatant character-assassination. It scared me how powerful this person's vitriol was, how palpable his anger was, and it's little comfort knowing just how wrong he was, just how embarrassed I would be if I were him, to have put my heart into some knowledge only to be shown repeatedly by the last four years just how wrong I was, and how tragic my certainty had proven.

Now, am I sad that Hussein is out of power? Nope. Dude was a douchebag, a whorehound of Hell, and he deserved a dog's death. He deserved death long before we gave it to him.

But we were lied to. I was lied to. My mom was lied to. I know some of you might still have some faith left in Bush, even some faith in this war, and I guess it's hard for me to communicate how much I wanted to like Bush, how much I wanted to believe that it was a righteous war. Is it bad to confess how exciting it was to see the green footage of Baghdad in those early days, the way our bombs lit up the night sky, to feel the might of America throb and pulse and pound, a beating heart spilling blood and destruction in the name of justice?

But you were lied to. The fear that we all had after 9/11, the righteous anger, the trembling fury that shook in our fists as we saw the buildings collapse, all of that was taken, twisted, manipulated and deformed into a misguided fervor. Like an abused child, we all thought we were doing the right thing, that what we were doing wasn't hurting anyone, and now I just feel dirty. Tainted. I'm mad that my generation inherits a world that went from "Tout les Americains" to "Freedom Fries" in the span of a year. I'm mad that our credibility in the world is shot. (I'm also mad at people like Richard Gere, who astound me by being horrible, horrible ambassadors... I mean really, Dick, what the fuck. This kind of thing would make us uncomfortable in America, let alone freaking India).

Anyways. I haven't gotten political on this blog for one reason only, and that is that politics divide people. My whole point here is to connect, to brighten your day, to share my stories in the hope that you find the strength to share your own. I am just so sad about this whole Iraq situation. I don't know how long it will take to undo the damage done. I remember reading once in an editorial that perhaps the only way to win in Iraq was to lose (or feign-death, for the WoW peeps who read this). You know, take a fall and let the little guy feel like he's won. America leaving could be great motivation for Iraqis to feel good about themselves.

Anti-American? Nope. I want to win, goddammit, and if winning the freedom of these frigging people halfway across the globe means sucking up some of our pride, consolidating our armies, refortifying, and strengthening up for the next battle, then so be it (how awesome is Risk? seriously, people, sometimes you have to let the Middle East go in order to pwn Africa).

I hope you're well. Watch the Moyers thing. Some guy on YouTube called him an "aging Marxist," and I've found that the people who get labeled are usually the ones with something interesting to say. Also, the internet makes me fear for the future of humanity, YouTube comments in particular. Sheesh.

always,
m

Whatever You Are Doing

2007-04-26T03:10:00.000-04:00

Stop.

Look at this.

I have been staring at this image for 10 minutes, and now I know why. It looks like a woman. No, I am not crazy, look at the pale pinks, the vibrant reds, the bluish veins. Look at that little swirl to the left. It's a woman. This could just as easily be a well-lit close-up of you. Millions of light years away, an image 50 light years across, just one tiny corner of one tiny corner, is a womb as pink and perfect, giving birth to new stars brighter than our own Sun.

It's from Hubble. The Carina nebula. Meant to celebrate the telescope's 17th year.

Does anyone else take incredible comfort in the fact that we are made of star stuff? Looking at this picture it makes perfect sense to me why women are soft, supple, swirling. The picture is pretty, sure, but it is depicting horrific violence, an incredible maelstrom of creation and destruction, bits and pieces of existence hurling into one another, creating new starlight. Birth isn't painful or chaotic as a punishment. It's just what creation is, two faces of the creative force, light and dark each perfectly balanced. Stars grow, live, nova, die, implode unto dust, and out of that dust swirls new stars. Mix some of that same dust together, add a little water, and you get a new you. Is it possible to look at this picture and not be overtaken by your inner philosopher? Can a human being look at this and not see himself in the collisions, not see his woman in the pink and blue tendrils?

Okay the answer is probably yes, so resist the urge to be a smart ass and comment as such. I'm just saying. Stop and look. You are not puny in comparison to this image. You are enormous. You are as big as the sky.

-m

Sex, Drugs, and Ragtime

2007-04-18T02:45:00.000-04:00

Omg this is the sexiest blog title I've had in months.

Hi! It's been awhile. I can honestly say I've been busy, putting on a ragtime concert with Bryan, working on the polio documentary, finishing up school forever and ever amen, working for Apple... I've been off Paxil for well over a month, having quit cold-turkey after realizing that crap was one of the reasons I was smoking and drinking like a fiend, and so now the only drugs I'm on are for a nasty cold that I caught. I am definitely a medicine-head at the moment, however, so if my prose seems kind of flighty you'll know why.

How have you been? God, we never get to talk anymore. I always feel like there's more to say than I've said. Where to begin.

Sex

Yes, sex. It's been good. I have a great sex life and I'm delighted by it.

Drugs

Already covered. Off of them. I think I smoked half a cigarette three weeks ago and was horribly disappointed with how gross it was.

Ragtime

Ah-HA! Yes! My ragtime life has sprung awake with the lilies. On April 13, Bryan and I put on a ragtime concert at the First Unitarian Church. I wish I had some of the footage to show you - I think I'm going to YouTube some of it, but suffice it to say that we got not one but TWO standing ovations, and it was a delightful return to performing for me. I was so nervous to start out that I completely forgot the first notes of Joplin's "Elite Syncopations" - I had spent the whole day nervous about that evening, and I think screwing up, and surviving, was the best thing I could have done for my confidence. Because after that, I mean, what can happen? You've already screwed up. Worst fear realized, and the audience is still sitting there. Time to move on.

So, I've been good. Playing a lot of piano, working a lot in Avid. My inner life has been interesting recently. As I wander deeper into myself, I'm constantly surprised by the variety of things in my inner-forest: twisted vines, great scars covered by flowers in bloom, strip mines with baby grass peeking through pebbles, streams, smooth stones, lilacs. Jessie's grandfather gave me a beautiful analogy once. He is 90, and so most of his friends have passed on, and he was describing the sadness of it as though they were "great trees who had grown skyward and then suddenly collapsed." I've been thinking a lot about death recently, especially considering the events at Virginia Tech (more on that in a minute), and I'm reminded of when I was in Houston and Emily read my palm. She ran her finger along my life line and said, "Well, mine is longer than yours. Yours is pretty short, actually." And I've wondered, not idly, if she's right, if my life is indeed going to be short. I don't know. I look at the faces of the slain VA Tech students and they look a lot like my classmates, a lot like me. I bet they had the same question when they looked at their palms, wondering how long their life was going to be, what dreams were yet to come. Are the lives of others on our palms as well?

Regarding the Virginia Tech thing, I just don't know what to do with it. I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose your child like that, at that point in life, when you're just getting to enjoy them as a person, a real person. That's how my mom talks about my Uncle Mark, who was killed in a car crash 30 years ago at the age of 21. The sadness was that he was just becoming interesting, you know? Just finding his own two feet. And I don't know if it's tasteless or not, but I think of Lord of the Rings every time I hear of seemingly random violence, think of Theoden donning his mantle of war and all the while wondering, "What can men do against such reckless hate?" The question rings out in my head, wholly unsatisfied with Aragorn's answer, and I feel like it is the question for our times how we as good people respond to those who perform vicious, evil acts.

My first question after I heard the news was, "Where is your God?" The second question was, "How is it right for one person to have the capability of ending thirty lives?" And then I realized that the two questions were connected, both dealing with responsibility, with cause, with reason, and I knew in that instant what I know about my own darkness, and that is it comes from a place beyond reason, beyond motive and purpose and cause. Every person has a well inside of them, a well that, at its bottom, is sludgy and dank, and if its dug too deep or there's not enough water, evil, dangerous things can seep through and bubble upwards.

Friends are the water. Love is the water. And if you aren't filled up, then you can draw some crazy things from the bottom of yourself.

Anyways, I'm waxing. But it does have me thinking about life and about death, about what I'm leaving to the world and whether I'm in danger of dying with my music still inside me. I wish I could spend less time being afraid of not accomplishing enough and more time actually accomplishing, but that seems a silly wish seeing as I'm the only one who can grant it (Disney moment!).

Alright, I'm heading to bed. So little to say, so much time. Wait. Scratch that. Reverse it.

yours
Martin

Serve You Glory On A Silver Platter

2007-03-24T05:04:00.000-04:00

I am nervous about tomorrow.

Well, technically, I am nervous about today. I'm waking up in a paltry four hours, donning a very convincing tablecloth, and portraying Dregr Jarrat again for the first time in two years.

I wish it was the performance alone that I worried about. But it's really the incredible time-crunch we're under to finish what we began, where we began it.

Three-and-a-half years ago, at the soundstage at Pittsburgh Filmmakers, we filmed the Dregr scenes for "Star Wars: Hunt for the Holocron." It was our first shoot. We we so excited we did 12 takes of the first shot, a medium-shot that started with me in the background, walking to the foreground, and cutting Luke into two pieces with my lightsaber. Tomorrow, as we build the set and rehearse the lines, we are preparing to film completely new Dregr scenes to replaces those old ones, new scenes written with all the knowledge about the movie and myself gathered since. And even still, they pose an incredible challenge. They are nexus points, exposition scenes with ties to all the other characters, and as such are very delicate. Add to that the fact that we have only 6 hours with the actress playing opposite of me, and you have a very intense, high-stakes situation.

Jeffrey is here, and I am delighted. He flew up from Houston after work, and he flies back early in the evening on Sunday. We watched the rough-cut, the rough assembly of scenes from the movie, and it was an amazingly revealing experience. I learned a couple of things. They may seem simple, or obvious, but they are genuine surprises to me:

1) The movie will mostly make sense. Nothing insanely random happens.
2) The movie is much, much smaller than I thought it was. It really is just the story of a couple of characters and what happens to them over the course of two days.
3) We actually do need to hear, from Dregr, why he wants the holocron, and why E'Din fights him for it.
4) Despite a couple rough patches, including but not limited to pacing and writing, there are some genuinely exciting moments that feel like Star Wars.

After watching the rough-cut I turned to Jeffrey and asked, "Is it worth finishing?"

He looked at me for a moment and then, choosing his words carefully, said, "Yes. Absolutely. That's not the question at all."

And I felt a little better. He had never watched the whole thing end-to-end, and for him, it was a sign of hope, a sign that maybe there was a movie at the end of all this, a movie worth making and worth watching. It seems a little silly to me now, all this hullabaloo over a little Star Wars tale, like I've picked up a painting I did as a child and traced its lines with my fingers, remembering old strokes and the earnestness with which I made them. Sure, the movie won't be perfect. It might not even be good. But it will be complete, and I will have steered it through, and people will enjoy watching it.

If I can do that, make one person's life better for an hour, then I will have accomplished something truly Good.

Here's hoping.

M

Erect in Defiance of God's Will

2007-03-17T03:15:00.000-04:00

Current time: 3:17 AM. Estimated time until iRooster crows: 5 hours, 43 minutes. Wake-up Track for iRooster: Theme from "Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan." Number of hours scheduled for work tomorrow: 5.

Planning to party all night with friends getting while getting crunked off your ass?

Priceless.

/cliche

How've you been? Good, good. How's that thing that you were stressing over? See, I told you it would all work out.

Life is bigger than a lot of this little crap we get stuck in. I know that. In my mind I know that. I know it like I know an equation, like I know a date. I don't, however, know it like I know a piano. Like I know an image. I can talk about it but I can't feel it, explain it but can't explore it. The phrase "forest for the trees" is so beautiful and I wish I had made it up because I would use it all the time. It's as though, because we only have eyes on one side of our head, we are both spiritually and biologically incapable of seeing all sides of reality, all sides of a situation.

How is it that in the span of five minutes you can go from exalted to excrement? I seriously have been all over the place the past, well, okay fine the past two months but I'm mostly thinking about the past two weeks. On the one hand I haven't felt this creatively virile since 2003. On the other hand I feel like an absolute shmuck who can't even wake up early enough to shave his face before work. Both are true, and yet they seem contradictory. How can you be productive at some things and a total lame-o (wow I wish I had a thesaurus) at other things? "Sure I'll write that beautiful independent short film about two 20-somethings at a crossroads in their relationship, storyboard it and shoot it in black and white and submit it to a film festival," versus, "Jesus, fuck, what time is it ohgodi'mlateagain." It is like some neurotic Odd Couple occupies the same studio apartment that is my brain and fight over the toilet seat being left up. Sure they love each other, but you can't possibly sustain such anarchy, such utter dichotomy in one individual.

I've been thinking a lot about this idea of a non-dual transcendent, a place beyond up and down, right and left, i.e. zooming out the camera far enough to see that east is in fact west and vice versa. If it exists, it is where God is. I wonder why the human brain creates the illusion of separation, of division from oneself, if created by He that is both hard and soft. Why the game? Why can't we see this place for what it is?

I wonder precisely because I feel a division inside myself, a distance from myself. Mark came home for the past couple of days, in from NY to attend a number of business meetings, and he invited me to come hear a motivational speaker. The speaker was an ex-NFL player whose nickname had been "Meat," and the fact that I remember most of what the guy said is a testament to the simple, straightforward wisdom this clod mustered for an hour and a half. He said, "Everyone has a little devil on his shoulder, a doubting Mini-Me who sits there and, cranky as hell, constantly tells you bad news about yourself. To fight 'im, you have got feed your inner giant, feed your inner dreamer. You have got to find that part of yourself that knows you deserve better."

Now, I mean, this is great advice. I love it. Simple, straightforward, correct (the original concept of "the satan" was as adversary. Satan, in Judaic texts, used to work for God, testing the resolve of his followers, and was only later associated with a force apart from God). But the part about "inner dreamer" was what really hit me the hardest, because I am a dreamer. "We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams," to quote Willy Wonka. That is me. To a fault. Or was me before I came up against my limitations, my handicaps, my vulnerabilities, all of the which the real world is elucidating faster than I can make excuses. My inner Slugworth is delighted watch the gumdrops crash, watch as I flail and flutter and try to make sense out of the jumble, watch and snicker as I wake up late, accomplish little, and then think about how much I am not doing and how fast my life is going.

It is a pity party, people. Hope you brought sad streamers and wet firecrackers.

Anyways, it's between that voice, the one that kicks the oompa-loompa in the gnads when it gets angry, and the dreamer, the music maker, the guy with the boat and the creepy chicken beheadings playing behind him, that I dwell. And Wonka destroys as much as he creates, corrupts as much as he consoles. He's a whirlwind, a force of nature, loved and feared, loving and fearful. Man I love words. And that is how I feel. Disappointing. Anointing. Disillusioning. Envisioning.

Okay, point being is that I'm struggling to feel like a consistent person and it's driving me nuts. Moving on.

Happy St. Patrick's Day. I think it's pretty cool that being "Irish" can belong to everyone, at least a little bit. Drink some green beer! I'll talk to you.

Your
Martin

The Beating Heart of God

2007-03-08T00:58:00.001-05:00

Jessie's favorite saying is "your mom." It's the swiss-army knife of her vocabulary, applicable in, well, just about every situation, and it is lodged in my brain.

"How was your day?"
"Your mom."

"What are you up to?"
"Your mom."

"The house is on fire!"
"Your mom."

I'm sitting next to her now, her body warm against mine, her breath rhythmic in sleep. She is a such a pretty girl. I like going to sleep after her, because seeing her plaintive, peaceful visage nearly ensures me happy dreams.

It's my spring break, and between shifts at Apple I decided to loop down to Berkeley Springs on my way to and from Philadelphia. It's a short trip, but I wanted to see Dave and Steph, both to finalize some movie business as well as just hang out. Apparently they live pretty close to one another now, so I'm hoping that ensures that I'll see them both. It's hard for me to keep asking people for help with the movie - sometimes I feel like a wholly incompetent leader, and so when I feel like people have lost their faith in me, it's a blow, not completely unexpected, but still a disappointment. I have an amazing, patient crew, and I think we're at the end of the time where I can realistically expect them to stick around. We have one more shoot coming up though, on the weekend of March 24, and this will be the last one, the last push, the last time. Old faces and new will be there, and I think we will be partying like hell when it's over. I'm to the point where I want to be able to watch and enjoy the movie. It deserves that chance.

I listened to something that changed my life today. Julia Sweeney (remember her from SNL?) has a one-woman show called "Letting Go of God," and it was so bittersweet, so honest, so forthright and thought-out and tragically funny, that it's easily one of my new favorite vessels of ideas. I hope everyone gets a chance to pick up the CD and take a listen. I will certainly be picking up a couple copies and giving them away.

Years ago, Mat and I had a conversation at an Eat'n Park where, for twenty minutes, the beauty and wonder of the universe was glimpsed over grilled stickies. It was right in that time when we were just rekindling our friendship over long talks about writing and the screenplay for the movie, and inevitably we always seemed to, in the course of talking about stories, end up talking about things like the meaning of life and its purpose.

Anyways, for these twenty minutes the muses smiled, and like a cool wind peace and wonder fell upon our table and we became genuinely, truly alright with the great big question marks. The Big Why. The Big Why Not. We realized that whether or not there is a God, this place, this existence is equally miraculous either way. If I am merely an assemblage of carbon atoms, then the fact that carbon atoms can combine to form consciousness is an amazing, mind-blowing instantiation, regardless of whether it evolved or was designed. What is the real difference between God existing and not existing? He is one way of talking about the things that happen to us, but maybe he's not the only way.

The fact that anything exists seems intensely peculiar to me. Why something and not nothing? What created the elemental forces like gravity and magnetism? Who or what lit the wick for the Big Bang? Whether some deity dreamed it up or... or... I don't know, I don't even have the language to try and describe the alternative, the fact that it and we and this are all here is truly, truly stunning. Special. Unique. Gorgeous. You should SEE the stars in Berkeley Springs. For the first time tonight, I could see that the Pleaides are really the beating heart of Taurus, the thicket of starts at which Orion is aiming. Those stars might not be connected at all, might have no idea they are related in the minds of the little Earth people, and yet there they are, existing, shining regardless (I want to type "irregardless" because it is a much better word but, alas, it's not actually a word), and like the beating heart of God they are timeless in their ever-changing states.

Anyways, I'm getting philosophical. I'm sorry. The warmth of Jessie's body gets me all confident, like I could look up at the night sky and feel at home amidst the constellations, the great dragons and warriors and lobsters and virgins, big as half the sky and still infinitely small in the whole of the universe.

Find some stars and look and listen. Let me know what you hear.

Your
Martin

God Broke My Finger With A Dodgeball

2007-03-07T01:51:00.000-05:00

Yup. A dodgeball, people, thrown with a nasty locked-curve. My pinky, too. Poor little guy. He has five weeks to heal, or else I will be giving the world's first one-handed ragtime concert on April 13.

And regardless of what the Blogger spell-check thingy says, dodgeball is one word, one sport, one dream. Ye have not lived lest ye has dodgeballed. I could break ten fingers and I would still play every week. I'd wear oven mitts and catch like a seal catches penguins: with extreme prejudice.

Hi!

I've been good. Very good, actually, which is why I haven't been getting drunk and writing to you about how mean the moon is. Manic-depressive Martin is good fun for about a week, and then it just gets really, really old. It was scary for a time, though; I felt like I couldn't write anything good unless I was drunk. This post may be proving me right, but I'd rather have less to talk about and a thinner waistline than more to say and be Chubs Magee for the rest of my life. My little foray into self-destruction actually gained me six pounds. Leave it to me to find a way to take up smoking and GAIN weight.

So, I stopped smoking. And drinking. Mostly. The rule of thumb has been: Doing one makes you do another, so cut it out, shmuck. Which has worked pretty well, though the sea is unpredictable and storms brew quickly. So far, so good.

I had to realize that there was nothing interesting about being self-destructive. I think a lot of people, myself heartily included, confuse "tortured but brilliant" with "lonely and overcompensating." It's easy to be fascinated by conflicted people; they're like going to see a movie about mobsters. It's a relatively safe way to experience something dangerous. Because, really, we are all capable of picking up a gun and firing it, but those that actually kill people? Wow, man. What kinds of other crazy shit are they capable of? What are they going to do next?

Anyways, so I've been good. Working at Apple. Trying to get a movie shoot together for the weekend of March 24. I started a new screenplay. I'm developing a documentary on young Pittsburghers. Making a CD. Preparing for the concert. Finishing applications to grad school.
Jessie said to me tonight, "Wow. You're actually busy," which was very liberating to hear. Busy is progress. Busy is good.

I hope you're well. Haven't heard from you in awhile. Hope you're staying busy, too.

your
martin

Chautauqua

2007-02-25T20:19:00.000-05:00

I’m sitting on a comfy blue couch, looking up at one of the prettiest ceilings I’ve ever seen. It’s a light, red wood that changes color with the time of day, and it towers over me two stories up. I’m in the Great Room of the “Chautauqua House,” Mat’s family’s getaway in the snow-covered hills that surround Chautauqua Lake in lower New York State, and I am in love.

Looking out the eight great windows, I see a snow-covered Eden; three-feet-thick in perfect white, mottled only by the snowmobile tracks we made this morning. In the distance is the lake, looking like an untilled snowfield, and earlier we saw a plane take off from its frozen surface.

In the center of the Great Room is a stone fireplace that stretches the height of the house. The whole house seems built around this pillar of stone, beautiful symmetry on either side. It’s is a bright, cheery house, unpretentious, with wooden accents and unassuming splendor, the kind of place where, if the walls could talk, you would hear the laughter of happy people.

Like I said. I’m in love.

Nate, Dave, Mat, and I are up here with Mat’s dad for the weekend, enjoying the late days of winter. I had to work last night so I ended up driving myself, and it got a little dicey at the end when I was heading down a one-lane road with snow banks on either side and no outlet, no light, and only the stars to light the way. I made it after some Dukes of Hazzard motions with the car, and after a game of ”Scene It: Sports Edition,” which is the equivalent of me in a ballet class, we headed to our rooms and zonked out.

I awoke to fresh donuts, bananas, and juice. Apparently a pipe had burst over the course of the night and Mat and his dad had been up early trying to clear the frozen water out of it. We sat in the sunroom around a little pot-bellied stove and watched Mat’s dad trail the snow with a snowmobile. It’s a rather dangerous affair if you don’t know where you’re going, seeing as, well, just about anything could be under all that snow and you need to have a sense of what’s around you before the snow falls. We suited up and headed out to “the barn,” which is where the trailer and the snowmobiles are kept. We got a crash course (and I choose this name carefully) on snowmobiling, and then proceeded to have the best four hours I’ve had in months.

I can’t really put into words how much fun snowmobiling is. You’re on a jet-powered pair of skis and you’re screaming across fields and over jumps at sixty-plus miles per hour. No joke. My first run I was nervous – I didn’t know how to balance my weight right, and as such I hold the honor of “First to Fall Off His Snowmobile.” [Granted, I was going literally two miles an hour and it was the equivalent of that scene in “Austin Powers” when that guy gets run over by the forklift.] Nate and Dave followed with much more spectacular crashes, and since the snow was so deep it was like falling into, as Dave called it, a “pillow.”

I recovered quickly, glad to have gotten that out of the way, and proceeded to kick ass the rest of the day, taking jumps at ludicrous speeds and nearly flying off many times. It was a natural thing by the end, like I’d been doing it forever. So. Much. Fun.

We followed that with a game of “King of the Hill,” where we proceeded to throw each other off a six-foot-high snow mound in front of the house until we were so exhausted we couldn’t breathe.

After a short nap, the four of us got in the car and headed to Peek’n Peak. This was my second time there, and I still have no idea what the name means. My first time there is a long, hilarious story about trying to teach Jessie how to ski, which I shall not utter here for fear of embarrassing the poor girl. Suffice it to say, we were not on speaking terms until the next day. [I told you to ride the chairlift with me!] Tonight, however, was pitch-perfect, and I had a blissful three hours of skiing down the mountainside.

I’m not a fast skier. I am a large mammal with incredible Newtonian physics governing the massive momentum I gather falling down a hill on toothpicks, and were I to simply unleash, simply let go, I fear for what consequences would befall the world. Therefore, I ski under control. Ski casual, even. Mat accused me of looking bored, but really I was just enjoying a leisurely stroll down the hill. That is, until we went down a black-diamond, my first, and I kicked tail and roared down the mountain just to know that I could in case I had to save someone in a movie someday. Not that the velocity was entirely by choice, seeing as said hill was nigh a 40-degree-angle, but I didn’t fall, not once. Kept it under the hat. Good form, Peter, good form.

We caught a late dinner at Texas Roadhouse in Erie, where I ordered a 24oz steak I am still digesting, and then headed home, watched TV until we couldn’t, and fell fast asleep, sore and elated.

I awoke this morning to Nate’s voice outside the bedroom door. “Hey Martin?”
“Yeah,” I groggily replied.
“If you want to go snowmobiling, you have to be ready in 10 minutes.”

Ten minutes later I was roaring down the slope, my eyes still crusted over, the wind blowing them open. Dave and I flew around for half an hour, hitting 70mph on the cornfields, and I said goodbye to Chautauqua in a roar of sound and snowflakes.

We caught a huge breakfast at Bemus Point, and then made the three-hour ride home, trying to figure out when we could return. Amazing. Amazing. Amazing.

Like I said. I’m in love. Hope you find your Chautauqua someday.

-m

I Am Hitting On You

2007-02-21T04:32:00.000-05:00

Yep. Definitely hitting on you right now.

I figure if you're seeing me like this, the seduction is pretty much over. I've wined you. I've dined you. Said interesting things and asked perceptive questions. We've talked about old loves and forgiven each other for past sins. We've walked outside and put our hands in coat pockets and realized how great it would be to just bypass the question marks, just say "You have me" and move on. I have you. You have me. Now we can enjoy the moonlight without worrying about the sunrise. You're here. I'm here. We're in black-and-white.

What do you say? Let's wake the neighbors.

-m

Makes You Want an Amstel Light

2007-02-18T03:51:00.000-05:00

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Okay, so I've been thinking about the fact that women don't have hair on their feet. Now, normally, I don't mind the biological differences between men and women. We don't have to have to squeeze a watermelon out of a quarter, don't have to bleed every month for 25 years, don't have to put on make-up or bind our feet in pointy shoes. And yet, tonight, as I was pulling off my socks, I realized that women do not have hair on their feet.

Now, I have hair on my feet. I am a man. I have hair in places God put hair, including my feet and my back (not too much, but enough to be gross). If you're still reading, you'll see that my point is about to be: Feet hair hurts like a mofo if you leave socks on too long. Am I the only man to experience this? The pain of socks left on too long, and the weird discomfort that comes along from hair redirected too long in the wrong direction? And it's not like you can shave this hair. Oh no. Because, on a man, any shaved hair only gets angry and grows back blacker and more angry, vengeful even, until you are a wildebeast with straggly black fur all over your once soft body.

Is there any part of growing up that doesn't involve losing "soft"?

Anyways, now that we've gotten aquainted, I feel like I can tell you about my day, because it was damn good.

I awoke at the crack of 2 PM, the sun dimly misting through my curtains. I checked my phone and found 20 missed calls, all from Jessie and to the effect of, "Why the hell aren't you awake, you were supposed to come down to the South Side and have fun with me." I rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth, and hopped in the car to catch the last our of the Soup Festival on the South Side, one of Pittsburgh's "cultural districts," i.e. where all the magic and pawn shops are. They have lots of tasty restaurants, including a Primanti's, and we had fun with her 'rents wandering the streets and getting free soup. I had a mushroom soup with truffle oil that was absolutely delicious, and only later did I try to imagine how one squeezes oil out of a fungus. Yick.

Jessie and I headed back to my place and I got cleaned up, showered and shaved my face. I wish there was some applause track I could carry around in my pocket, because every time I shave I feel like I should be congratulated, fussed over. I don't know if its because I feel like, by applying the foamy stuff, I'm getting dressed up, but afterwards I'm always disappointed if no one's around to feel my face and go, "Ooh, so smooth!"

We went to the store, bought some wine, bought some veggies. Tonight, Tooch and Jeep hosted a fab "W(h)ine and Cheese Party," with delish fondue and wine, and Jess and I ate about a half-pound of cheese each. Yum! It was gruyere and swiss, according to Tooch, and it was scrumptious on bread, apples, and anything else we could stir around in that pot. We drank whine, played a dirty game of "What the F*ck," and drank more whine. I'm still drinking, dammit, as evidenced by the above sketchy picture. I'm at Mom's house, tucked in the single bed, typing on her laptop like a little kid. She was sleeping on the couch when I came home, tuckered out after a hard day of work on the budget for her friend's business. I was very glad to see her.

Before we went to the party, Jess and I headed to Mt. Washington, which is the hill that overlooks Pittsburgh. It's got the best views of the city, the restaurants that line it aptly named the "Grandview Restaurants," and we rode the Incline down the hill and up and stood on the observation deck. We were standing in the snow, overlooking the foggy, snowy city, and Jessie surprised me with hot grilled cheese sandwiches, brownies, and hot cocoa. She looked so beautiful in the night, snowflakes in her soft, brown hair. She asked me to marry her. Started crying, and I held her, said "Yes," and we cried and laughed together in the snowflakes. I don't deserve her. She is amazing and beautiful and we've shared so much together it will take the rest of my life to try and write it down. I love this girl!!!

She loves her ring, btw. It's so sparkly it glows in the dark.

Anyways, a lot is changing for me. A lot is in motion. As the "Dude" would say, it's a very complicated case, a lot of layers. I've decided for the time being, I'm only going to focus on the ones that I can feel, that I can affect, and leave the rest to the Universe, to the Amorphous Deity who organizes things. What else can we do but trust to our heart, trust to our feelings?

I hope you're well. I miss you.

Yours always,
m

Freezing Rain

2007-02-14T06:18:00.000-05:00

So dark.

That’s how the sky is, even with the snow. It’s raining outside – freezing rain. The trees are glistening and this is how the world would look if a sorcerer froze it, cast a spell. It would glisten like it’s glistening, sit motionless like it sits motionless. I heard the wind blow outside and the trees groaned and trembled with the effort of moving, cracked and bent under the weight of the ice like old men bemoaning the weather. The snow, all five inches of it, is hard, crackles under my feet as I walk. I wonder how it would be to take my sled out right now in the dark and hurtle towards the bottom of Frick Park. I wonder if I would even see the tree before I hit it, even perceive the solid mass at the end of the white funeral. I think it is precisely because sled-riding is ridiculously dangerous that it is so damn fun.

I know that, recently, I’ve seemed rather cryptic. And it’s because the blog has been a reflection of how I’ve felt in the past couple of weeks. I know its hard for the people who love me to read how much I’m struggling, how damaged the words ring out, even if they are pretty. I’ve been feeling pretty shattered recently, been feeling rather lost and insufficient, using the people who love me to confirm myself, to feel better. This blog post is another effort at reaching out, I guess, though I know full well that it won’t matter to what I connect, won’t matter who replies. The sky will still be dark; will still be frightening.

I am on the wrong meds. I know this for a fact. When I’m off of them, I feel no desire to drink or smoke. When I’m on them, I feel exactly the opposite. I don’t know how a pill that is supposed to make you feel better can so completely ruin you; so completely dismantle the things you hold dear in the world. I tried going off of it over the weekend, and I couldn’t stop shaking, wanted to blow up the Chik-Fil-A that Jessie and I ate at, wanted to drive the car into the Chuck E Cheese and hope that I put the tire in the “100” slot of the Ski Ball machines. Seratonin withdrawal. But I felt really no desire to drink or smoke. It was like the old me, the old Martin. The ice outside has taken out the internet, and I’m typing this to you, sans connection, on the desk I gave to Mat for a dinner and a dodgeball season. Mat and his roommates are sitting in the next room watching “Terminator 3” and are simultaneously enraptured and amused. The ending of that movie was such a disappointment, as though the previous three hours had been all for naught. Arnold dies (again). And this time, he accomplishes nothing. Achieves nothing. Is remembered for nothing. At least it was cool when the truck ran into that building. I hope I never make a movie where the audience leaves and goes, “Eh.” Where the audience leaves unchanged, maybe slightly annoyed that they wasted their time in my world. And that is saying a lot, considering how people spend their time nowadays, whittling away hours on the Internet reading the ravings of people like me, feeling sorry for others and at the same time better about themselves.

I have some good news. Apple has hired me to be a part-time employee! I am no longer seasonal. I can go to the “Young Professionals” luncheon with nothing to be ashamed of, because I, too, have a job. I, too, am contributing something, am helping someone better their own life with technology, with computers. It’s a small thing, but I DO feel better when I go, do feel better when I work.

Helzberg hasn’t called me yet to let me know the ring is ready. I know its bothering Jessie, and frankly it’s bothering me, too. I wish I knew when it was coming, when it would be ready. It is really such a pretty thing. And this time, I know she loves it, know she’ll be delighted when she receives it. I can’t wait to make her happy. I will be happy on that day, too, happy to know that she’ll be in my life forever, at my side forever. Woo!!!

I wish you were here to rub my back, to scratch my head. I got my hair cut and I am damn sexy right now. Whenever my stomach hurts and someone rubs my back, I feel better, like my stomach is hurting for attention. Biological codependency. I miss the old me, the one who didn’t feel sadness so acutely. I miss the me before Paxil. Before drugs. I could handle sadness, could recognize anxiety. Nowadays I feel like a victim, act like a victim, want to be perceived as a victim and taken care of, looked after like a child, nursed and swaddled and loved to sleep. If you are looking for reasons to not take this drug, consider this blog your first stop. The next question is: What am I going to do about it?

I’m taking advantage of the fact that I don’t live alone. I asked Mat to throw away my cigarettes tonight, which he did with great excitement. Jessie sent me chocolate-covered strawberries from Edible Arrangements, and they are AMAZING. If you haven’t sampled these, you have not lived. I don’t deserve her, her amazing, scalding love. We had such a nice weekend together. I don’t want to cheapen it with words. I just loved waking up next to her, feeling her heart beat next to mine. It made everything in the world seem lighter.

I hope you’re well. I need to go see a movie, do something that takes me outside of myself for a little while. A trip, perhaps. Or a retreat, a Catholic retreat where I could go and talk to God for a little while, see what’s been up with him, see if he has any more clue about what he sent me here to do.

Until then I remain, always,

Your
m

Dearth

2007-02-13T04:05:00.000-05:00

Okay. Short post tonight. I'm trying to get some Z's before the GRE tomorrow - I was up late tonight sucking out on analogies (CREDENCE:GULLIBLE::WHAT THE:FUCK IS THE ANSWER I DON'T EVEN SEE A QUESTION HERE), and now I've resigned myself to obscurity in the hopes that, by setting expectations low, anything will be a supreme, utter delight.

Have you noticed I like the word "utter"? I like words that communicate the depths of things, words that sit on the boundaries between sense and non-sense, capture the bigness of ideas.

The title of tonight's mini-post is in reference to a word I thought I knew and put on my grad school statement of purpose, i.e. "The dearth of experienced faculty members," and it turns out it does not mean what I thought it meant. "Dearth," to me, sounds like abundance. A dearth of corn. A dearth of money. No. No sir. "Dearth" means the absence of said thing, i.e. the ABSENCE of experience faculty. I wish Word had an "Idiot" check in addition to their Spell Check (though, since it's made by Microsoft, it would be setting itself off all the time and trying to correct itself interminably).

So. If anything, the GRE saved me some embarrassment, so long as it doesn't prove an embarrassment in and of itself!

I had an amazing weekend with Jessie. I awoke each morning to a made breakfast, sun shining through the windows in the brightly-lit living room of her Berkeley Springs apartment, and each day was spent doing fun things and gathering more stories to tell each other. I promise details - a big long post after my test. I haven't been smoking or drinking - not out of some idealistic, motivated effort to stop but out of fear of getting fat and dying of cancer. I'll take it. If the DeLorean can run on whiskey, man, then fill her up.

But now, I sleep. And wake. And test. And wonder.

Wish me luck.

-m

Looking Up

2007-02-08T02:36:00.000-05:00

Howdy, you.

How often do you look up? I'm not talking metaphorically here, although you do know how much I love metaphor. I am talking physically taking your chin and raising it, aiming your eyes skyward? I know the Discovery Channel tells us that evolution decided we should look straight forward lest the sun burn our retinas, but tell me, how does a flower see the sun so clearly? Certainly there is more to us than hairy stamen.

I live 31 steps above the rest of the world. I stood on my porch tonight, gloved and coated, in the cold of the Pittsburgh dark, watching cars pass by. There is a guy in a striped black hat who drives a white Ford Mustang, the new one they designed that looks at the world with a rectangular grill and big eyes. I love this car. I'm torn between wanting a sports car and wanting a hybrid. One is my masculine side, my if-I-can't-fuck-it-I'll-kill-it side, and the other is my come-to-me-my-little-friends side, the one that likes candles because they smell nice and not the side that likes candles because I cannot fuck the wax so it might as well burn up.

The driver was a young guy. From his profile and gait I guessed he was mid-20's. You can tell how old someone is by how they hold themselves. He walked with a thin, kind of curvy gait, and I knew he was young because even though he was walking home he didn't look like he had a clear idea of where he was going. It was 2AM - where else are you walking? You are either walking home or are you walking to that girl's house wishing you were walking home.

He loped by, 31 steps down, and I heard him cough into the night. I stood, in my colorful scarf and leather coat, watching him, and he never looked up. He never knew I was there. Last night I felt the need to hide behind the garbage cans beside my house when people walked by, but tonight I realized that nobody looks up anymore. We only look forward, hoping the blinding light of up doesn't find us before we're ready.

I had a telescope once. It belonged to an uncle who is no longer an uncle, and I only used it once in five years. I pointed it at the yellow moon. The orb filled the entire viewfinder. It was a cold night, like tonight, and I stood in the backyard of my mom's house and gazed up, blinded by its cold, white light. I realized that even the reflection of the sun would burn me, even the mirror image of truth would scald me, and I looked anyways. I put my hand over the viewfinder, saw as the white sphere filled the creases in my skin, and I knew why I looked up so rarely. What if we see ourselves up there? What if, for a moment, we glimpsed what it was to be really ourselves, our base, beautiful selves, and what if we melted right there, a little puddle on the stalks of the grass, reflecting moonlight in our droplets?

There was a black cat outside tonight. He walked slowly in-between the cars, as though some morsel of warm food would jaunt out in front of him and he could have a warm meal delivered to him, Meals-on-Legs style. I watched him edge between the wheelbases, and as I sipped my Riesling and puffed on my cowboy killer, he looked at me, straight in the eyes, 31 steps up. I froze. We watched each other for a long time, the white patch on his tail burning in the moonlight. Mentally I offered him milk. He walked gingerly on the asphalt, careful not to tread too heavily on the earth, but I guess he knew I didn't have any milk in the fridge and so he looked away, continuing his cautious parade down the street. I wondered where he would sleep tonight. I didn't have milk, but I have a bed. A couch. Peanut butter. I could have fed him, but silently he knew he would be better off in the cold. I hope he's okay. Black cats have it about as bad as a cat can.

I looked down, and saw a few green stalks pushing their way through the leaves and snow. I wondered what it was that had drawn them up so early in the year. They stood there, huddled together for warmth, and I realized that maybe the moon had tricked them, had summoned them prematurely, had promised the warmth of the sun and then delighted in watching them freeze as it does, hovering above the Earth. The moon was a razor tonight, slicing through the cloudless sky horizontally across the galactic veins. It was not the harvest moon, the Moon of bounty. It was the old moon, the cold one, the one who stood by motionless as the Earth boiled and seethed, writhed and groaned. I came inside after only two cigs. It was colder tonight, and since I had three last night I wanted to feel like I was making progress. I'll have one tomorrow, and then none this weekend. I'm learning how to dance with darkness, with the razor moon, and so far, so good.

The car across the street has a boot on it. It's pressed against the pavement like a claw. The car is one of those ultra-liberal things, purple and pretentious and, now, booted. On the back are bumper stickers like "Casey 2006" and "Punish Bush and Cheney for War Crimes" and "Life is short. Dance naked," and I wondered at how easy it was to ruin a color like purple. I only have one bumper sticker, and it is a picture of a stylized Darth Vader with a caption that reads, "Who's your daddy?" Yes. It is subtle, placed unassumingly in the lower-left corner of my bumper. I put it there because it is impossible to find my car in a parking lot. I cannot count how many times I have stuck my key into a green Honda Accord that wasn't mine. This is really the only time I miss the Thunderbird. I could spot its faded purple/blue roof from across the state. Now my vehicle fades into the sea, a wooden roof in an ocean of wooden roofs (shouldn't that be spelled "rooves"?), and I struggle to find myself, sticking my key in all sorts of crazy people's cars, hoping to eventually find my own so I can drive home with my curtain rod and curtain.

I've never been booted. When I first moved to Squirrel Hill I got about 5 parking tickets for being on the wrong side of the road on a Tuesday. I would be a meter maid, only my soul is not worth whatever they're paying. [If you hate children, become a meter-maid, because ultimately that is who's blood you're consuming. Small, small children with big, brown eyes.]

So I stood there, trying to figure out if I felt bad for the booted purple car, or whether I was just glad they never booted me, locked me into the ground, clawed me to the floor. The black cat seemed unimpressed. He'd seen it all before. Not even the frozen pavement fazed him anymore. Somehow, he would eat. He would survive the moonlight.

As you can tell, I don't really have anything to write about. Nothing happened today that I can share on the blog. No one really needed me. I didn't save any kittens or small children. I just wanted to write to you, to imagine you writing back, scolding me for smoking, offering to knit me something to keep me warm at night. I wanted to feel the blank page, to feel like somewhere in the world I could emit enough light to cut something, put some black on white. I bet you those green stems will live, if only out of spite. I kept the ash off of them. They deserved better, daring to grow when all that was around them had given itself to the freeze. That is what I feel I am doing, growing in spite of. Blossoming even though the air is thin and frigid, hoping to catch enough of the Sun to bear me through the night.

Thank you for being yellow light. We'll talk soon.

love,
m

A Good Couple of Days

2007-02-07T05:09:00.000-05:00

Hurro.

A good weekend. A very good weekend. Jessie was home. I looked at stars. It was 4 degrees in Pittsburgh, single-digits. Farenheit. We are talking negative Celsius, people. I stood outside my apartment tonight, watching my breath escape in a little white cloud up towards its parents in the sky, and I could hear the windless snowflakes shivering. It is cold in Pittsburgh.

I love the cold. I love how clear the air gets, how all the heavy non-air stuff shivers to the ground and all that is left is the crystal refraction of light, how the moon and its seas cut through the night in the winter. How taut Orion's bow is pulled, aimed at the wary and courageous Taurus, unblinking, untwinkling in sight of his own death. I've always envied the ancients, the number of stars that swaddled in their night sky. I think it is a crime we are taught what to see in the stars. Sure, part of me enjoys the history of it, but another part wishes I could have named them myself, found the shapes I saw most fit. A ladle instead of a bear. A Christmas tree instead of Perseus. A flower instead of the Pleides. Because really, to whom does the night sky belong? We belong to it. I wonder if God looks at the sky and sees our little blue floating sphere and calls us the eye of some great dog, Cerberus or Scooby, the watchdog, the guardian of the night.

A good weekend. We went out Friday night to Jake's Barbeque and I had a cow on a plate, smothered in Texas-style barbeque sauce. We were celebrating Jessie's parents 32nd wedding anniversary. Holy. Crap. That is a long time, with no signs of slowing down. Jessie's parents amaze me. Inspire me. My parents were married 23 years. I've been alive longer than my parents were together, and here is Jessie, never having known that, never knowing what that is like, 32 years passing by expected, waited for, assured. A gift. That is what a marriage is. A column in the forum of the world, holding all the other friezes up in the sky. Married couples are like black holes, holding the galaxy of disparate people together, providing haven, release, serenity in the security of their gravity. Force-fields of sanity. At least, that has always been what happily married people have made me feel. Not that its a prerequisite, but there is a reason it is old.

Jess and I went to the Cheesecake Factory on Monday for lunch. We awoke and shared eye crusties, and then had a delicious lunch. On Sunday, we went to Wal-Mart and, remembering yet again why I want to punch the corpse of Sam Walton, we waded through the trough of lower-class Americans and purchased our question marks, including a sled, which we took to Frick Park and sledded down the hill three times with no hat or gloves. It felt so good to fall on each other at the bottom, to hurtle towards the trees and then crash in a burst of snowflakes, our legs intertwined, our faces wet. We came home and cleaned my room, which was by all accounts declared a national state of emergency, and Jessie used her Mary Poppin's power to heal it, to reshape it into something beautiful and sane. I bought one of those little stone water fountains. Its trickling in the background now, perched on my radiator, its drip drip drip filling the dark of my room with a comforting ambience. We moved my bed so my feet are at the radiator and thus never cold, and my computer and piano switched, making a grand entranceway into my tiny bedroom. I love it. Love it love it love it. I can create here. I can be sane here.

I stood outside tonight, cigarette between my fingers, watching the snowflakes fall. I really am not a smoker, adoring blog posts aside. I realized that I like fire and I like smoke, so I'm hoping soon to get a fireplace so I can stop being the chimney. But, they taste like peace to me. It is a grand irony, much like anything fried, that that which is pleasurable is in many cases bad for you. And there is no moderation in smoking. A piece of cake once in awhile will not kill you, but a cigarette, even one a day, has been shown to have deleterious effects on one's health (I've been reading up.) Jessie's new tactic, which I find brilliant, is to instead of attacking my smoking, attack my cigarettes.

Ex:

Jess: "What kind of cigarettes are you smoking?"
Me: "Marlboro Lights."
Jess: "Oh, wow. Real man cigarettes. Bet the light ones taste extra manly."
Me: "Shut up. The real ones kill you."
Jess: "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over your manliness. Have another light cigarette."

It's strangely effective. I find myself wanting to smoke real Marlboro's, and at the same time I have no interest. It's like I smoke for a reason to go outside and watch the snowflakes shiver, drink so I can hear the trees talking or the water falling. A good couple of days. I wish I was sled-riding.

Hope you've been well. I'm hanging in there. Sending lots of e-mails, which is awesome and I love how I've rekindled old correspondences and how much they are adding to my life. I've been composing, too. Mat and I worked for a number of hours tonight on building up the Dragontamer theme. When I'm with Mat (and I told him this today), I really get a sense of the journey as the destination. Walking the creative path with him is so satisfying its hard not to confuse the walking with the point, you know? As though sitting down and writing and talking and laughing were what I am here to do, who I am here to be. He's worried about me, and I'm worried about him worrying. We had Chinese tonight and watched the Penguins win. He is a gift from God.

I'm heading to Philadelphia this weekend, and hopefully planning a return trip to Houston in the coming months. Traveling, moving out of my own space, is very exciting and it is helping me to focus on the corners of my own space. Now I listen to the water and don't feel such an urge to run. The gift of a made bed. Of a laundry basket. Of curtains.

Sleep well.

always,
m

Smirnoff

2007-02-04T03:10:00.000-05:00

I realized the other night that benzene is not what I am looking for in a cigarette.

It's been two days since I've had a drink. Well, two days and little under an hour, seeing as I'm sitting here, nice and relaxed, a glass of Smirnoff and cranberry juice in my hand. It's my third of the evening - amazing how happy disconnectedness can make a man. It's like pulling the plug is really just a metaphor for plugging in somewhere else, like a sound mixer moving around the plugs on his board. If we can just connect this preamp to this effect, we'll be good to go, you know?

Had a wonderful day with Jessie. I awoke with her next to me, playing with my nipples with the dildo I bought her for Christmas. Oh, sure, at the time it was a thoughtless gift, but we've come to adore its many purposes, its utility. She is so cute in the morning. It's like that scene in "The Graduate" when Dustin Hoffman wakes up in the middle of the night and kisses his girl - how intimate is that? You have morning mouth, morning breath, the crust of hours on your lips, and yet you connect, pulse with each other, even before your brain has had a chance to turn on and remind you of all its biases. That's what it is like to wake up next to Jessie: Christmas morning, each time with a new gift to unwrap in the midst of haze and excitement.

We bought a new engagement ring today. Zales has proved to be an incredible disappointment with their sales and service, so we returned that motherfucker and went to Helzberg, where we had a delightful customer experience. They have this little room in the center of the store, with glass tiles and bright halogen overhead lamps. That's where they take the folks who are obviously serious about picking up some serious stone, and we sat there and looked at different rings under a microscope, under the halogen. We learned about clarity, about cut, the 4 C's that diamond resellers have perfected in order to get you to spend as much money as possible and feel good about it.

We found a mind-blowing ring. It made the one I picked out look like old socks. The center stone burns so brightly its hard to look directly at it, much like Jessie; she's a Leo, and she burns like the Dark Phoenix at the end of X-Men III, and I am her Wolverine, the only person who heals fast enough to approach her scalding brilliance, her flaming affection. The only thing I'm missing is the claws.

Did you like my last post? I know Dave did, which was sweet. Sometimes I wonder what the nature of my posts should be on this blog, whether I should err on the side of caution or swing the proximate truth in the warm wind and care not who should happen to smell it. Definitely I felt the need to tell the truth, the whole truth, about Houston, seeing as one could talk about me nowadays in terms of B.H. (Before Houston) and A.H. (After Houston). Strange how a large landmass could have such an effect on one's self-perception, or how one body, one body of water could wash away so much soul-sediment. Do you like when I speak in metaphors? They feel sophisticated, typing them. I wonder how they sound.

Anyways, I'm doing okay. It's been two days since my last drink, not counting the past hour or so. Or did I already say that? Structures confound me, sober or drunk. It's hard to know anymore with permanence that which I believe I am or am not.

Yours always,
m