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

The Best Birthday Party Ever

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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