A Change of Heart

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?"

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

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

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

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

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

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?

m

The Second Week

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Lenovo laptop. As in, not a Mac.

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

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

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

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

Anyone want to buy a wench?

Martin

The Eleventh Commandment

XI. Thou shalt grow up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Martin

Summons from the Queen

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

Yeah. About that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

Okay. So.

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

Just. Wow.

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

Martin

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

Dear Reader,

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

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

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

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

A sample, for your enjoyment:

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

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

...

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

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

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

-m

I Am an Idiot

Dear Reader,

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

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

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

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

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

That is, until she chose me to go first.

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

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

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

So.

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

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

-m

Just Don't Be Yourself

Dear Reader,

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

Yeah. It was like that.

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

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

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

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

Here's my journal entry from Friday night:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, I felt like a man.

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

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

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

Etcetera... etcetera...

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

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

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

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

Exhausted. Have to wake up in six hours."

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

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

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

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

More later. For now, wish me luck.

Your,
Martin

$13.90

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

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

What actually happened:

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

Comcast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your,
Martin

Morning Light

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

Life Is Better Behind the Camera

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

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

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