My dog smells so bad. She threw up last night. For no apparent reason! We were just sitting on the couch, watching Fred Armisen and Carrie Brownstein in Portlandia (which is now on Netflix Instant), when she started making this "HURK HURK" noise and then "bleeeaaaarrgggghh." Green, bubbly vomit all over the rug.
I think I gave her too much turkey ham. She has a sensitive stomach, that dog. Whenever I give her too many treats or snacks, she starts making that "HURK HURK" noise and then "bleeeeaaarrrggghhh." I held her in my arms and sang sweet lullabies to lull her to sleep. Then I put her down on her bed and rubbed her stomach.
But today she is staaaaaaaaanky. Every time she vomits, she gets it all over her mustache (Do dogs have mustaches? It looks like she has one, but she's a she, so I dunno.) and the smell lingers until we shower her, but I JUST showered her. Like three days ago. I don't want to do more work. So she's sitting next to me, stinking up the place with her day old vomit while I consider bathing her again.
What a conundrum.
Except not really. After I typed that last sentence, I took her to the bathroom and spent two minutes washing her face. Then I spent two minutes drying it off.
Total time spent: four minutes.
Total stench level: 7%.
(I farted.)
That's been a problem of mine. Not the farting, but the whole ignoring problems and hoping they'll change thing. Too passive, not enough man. That's a goal for 2012. Be more man. I have a lot of goals, but being more man is up there, along with dunking a basketball, which has been one of my resolutions for the past few years (still working on it, but I think I need to give up on the leg press and move on to squats or something).
By man, I think I just mean assertive. Actively reaching for my goals instead of sitting around and moping because my goals haven't reached me. I've started by switching up my diet and work out routine. Yeah, yeah, everyone tries to lose weight every year. But not this guy. I'm trying to gain weight. Gonna increase my protein intake and get mad muscles, yo. Mad muscles.
After my surgery this year, I got really discouraged because I couldn't work out for a month and a half. All of the muscle that I had built over the years started slowly atrophying. "What's the point of working out to the max if it can all be undone by one faulty organ?" I asked myself. So I kinda half-assed my workouts and ate whatever the hell I wanted (because when you ain't got no gallbladder, you ain't got no worries).
"NO MORE!" I said as I wiped Dorito crumbs from my mouth. I went out and bought three cartons of eggs and a tub of whey protein. I worked out to the max all last week and I'm STILL sore, son. I yearn for the days when I could bench press half a Shetland pony. When I could curl four ten pound newborn babies. When my dog couldn't sleep on my stomach because it wasn't soft and cushy.
Honestly, I know it's a pretty vain goal. More muscle? Why not do something useful like learn a new language or help out the homeless? And I'd like to do those as well. But in 2011, I felt like my life was just kinda crumbling around me. Lost my job. Didn't do much in terms of improv. Didn't get published. Didn't attempt stand up again. Didn't read much. Nothing. Wanna know what changed in my life from January 1st, 2011 to December 31st, 2011? My gallbladder was removed. The whole year, I just sat on my ass and watched Netflix or played videogames.
A lot of those things I don't have much control over (Harold Team, getting published). But my muscle mass is one thing that I can control. I have to take control of my life and steer it in the direction that I want, but I have to start somewhere. And if a mean deadlift is the jumping off point that will lead me to a better life in terms of career and hobbies and religion, then so be it.
I've started a few other activities as well. Attempting to learn guitar (I know six chords now), reading more (gonna start on The Grapes of Wrath today) and writing more (sup, yo?). Hopefully I'll be able to keep pushing and doing them, even when things get tough.
People always say the first step is the hardest, but I don't think I believe that. The first step is the easiest because you're just barely putting your feet into the water. You're a beginner. No expectations. It's the next step that's the hardest. And then once you've done that step, the following step is the hardest. And then the next step after that. Because once you've taken the next step, that next step is the new first step and it becomes your comfort zone and it's always difficult to break out of your comfort zone.
So I'm going to keep on taking those next steps. That's what 2012 has been about so far and, hopefully, I'll continue with it.
Oh, also, there was a fire in our building a couple nights ago.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Friday, September 9, 2011
Hard Like a Rock
I’m sitting in a cafe. Argo Tea and Coffee. Their slogan is “healthy signature drinks.” All in lowercase letters. It’s a cool place with delicious chocolate croissants, but mediocre mochas. They taste like watered down Miss Swiss hot cocoa. I don’t want that shit. I want cinnamon and dark chocolate syrup and double shots of espresso and warm milk. Not that cheap powdered stuff. Delma got something called a matte latte. It tastes like Listerine. For all I know, it is Listerine. And it was $3.95! Come on, Argo. $4 for a cup of mouthwash? Not in this economic climate.
I asked for a free wi-fi pass code, but it says the code has expired. I’m too lazy to go ask for a new code, so I’m trying to leech off of any open wireless network I can. People are wise to those tricks in the city though. I haven’t been able to find any open networks. It’s ok. I would’ve just wasted time on Facebook.
Some people have interesting names for their networks. I tried logging onto “poopdick” with the password “dickpoop,” but it didn’t work. I thought maybe “Grendel2’s” password might be “Beowulf2,” but nope. I didn’t try logging onto “PoontangDynasty,” but that is one classy name for a wi-fi network.
Our network is “POPTHATCOOCHIE.” I heard it in a 2 Live Crew song once and thought it was funny. I still think it’s funny. It makes me laugh. When I was a teacher in Sacramento, a coworker and I would say that before every faculty meeting.
“POP THAT POP THAT.”
“POP THAT COOCHIE.”
“SHAKE THEM TITTAYS.”
Those were professional times.
That makes me sound all cool, doesn’t it? “Back when I was a teacher...” I only taught Algebra for one summer. I don’t think that really counts, but it was a lot of fun.
I haven’t had very many jobs, but a few of the jobs I’ve had make me sound like a total bad ass. Construction worker, medical writer, teacher, freelance writer and sandwich cook (only because I sliced off the tip of my finger with the meat slicer). Also, I was a busboy. For about two weeks.
The majority of those aren’t as cool as they sound.
I was a construction worker in the same way that a bat boy for the Cardinals is a professional athlete. I worked for my uncle one summer and we put up silt fences to protect mud and other debris from entering the sewers at construction sites. I did get to operate a Bobcat tractor though. For a day. That was pretty sweet.
And that medical writer thing? It was more of a personal assistant, something I would never want to do again. I worked with a 65-year old lady who once got so mad at her computer that she told me to get Bill Gates on the phone so that she could yell at him. And she had a Mac. I did manage to write a brochure that ended up being published though. It was on liver cancer. So it wasn’t a total waste of six months. Also, I had access to all the gingersnaps I could eat. That, too, was pretty sweet.
And the freelance writer thing? That’s what I’m doing now, except not really. I do stuff for Demand Media. I write articles on how to change headlights on an ‘84 Civic and how to find a Kakuna in “Pokemon Red” (here’s a hint: check Viridian Forest). But I get to work from home. Which is also pretty sweet.
The sandwich cook is the only thing that’s 100% legit. I worked at Jersey Mike’s in Houston and lost twenty pounds that summer because I only ate turkey sandwiches. Also, I sliced off the tip of my finger with the meat slicer. But I think I already mentioned that.
I just looked up the "Pop That Coochie" video on YouTube. Wow. It's practically porn.
There was also this comment left by debie420:
"just cause they white dont hate cause a white bitch can get down !!!! in fact any color can get down !!"
I'm glad this is a world where any color can get down. It's the little things in life that make it worth living.
I asked for a free wi-fi pass code, but it says the code has expired. I’m too lazy to go ask for a new code, so I’m trying to leech off of any open wireless network I can. People are wise to those tricks in the city though. I haven’t been able to find any open networks. It’s ok. I would’ve just wasted time on Facebook.
Some people have interesting names for their networks. I tried logging onto “poopdick” with the password “dickpoop,” but it didn’t work. I thought maybe “Grendel2’s” password might be “Beowulf2,” but nope. I didn’t try logging onto “PoontangDynasty,” but that is one classy name for a wi-fi network.
Our network is “POPTHATCOOCHIE.” I heard it in a 2 Live Crew song once and thought it was funny. I still think it’s funny. It makes me laugh. When I was a teacher in Sacramento, a coworker and I would say that before every faculty meeting.
“POP THAT POP THAT.”
“POP THAT COOCHIE.”
“SHAKE THEM TITTAYS.”
Those were professional times.
That makes me sound all cool, doesn’t it? “Back when I was a teacher...” I only taught Algebra for one summer. I don’t think that really counts, but it was a lot of fun.
I haven’t had very many jobs, but a few of the jobs I’ve had make me sound like a total bad ass. Construction worker, medical writer, teacher, freelance writer and sandwich cook (only because I sliced off the tip of my finger with the meat slicer). Also, I was a busboy. For about two weeks.
The majority of those aren’t as cool as they sound.
I was a construction worker in the same way that a bat boy for the Cardinals is a professional athlete. I worked for my uncle one summer and we put up silt fences to protect mud and other debris from entering the sewers at construction sites. I did get to operate a Bobcat tractor though. For a day. That was pretty sweet.
And that medical writer thing? It was more of a personal assistant, something I would never want to do again. I worked with a 65-year old lady who once got so mad at her computer that she told me to get Bill Gates on the phone so that she could yell at him. And she had a Mac. I did manage to write a brochure that ended up being published though. It was on liver cancer. So it wasn’t a total waste of six months. Also, I had access to all the gingersnaps I could eat. That, too, was pretty sweet.
And the freelance writer thing? That’s what I’m doing now, except not really. I do stuff for Demand Media. I write articles on how to change headlights on an ‘84 Civic and how to find a Kakuna in “Pokemon Red” (here’s a hint: check Viridian Forest). But I get to work from home. Which is also pretty sweet.
The sandwich cook is the only thing that’s 100% legit. I worked at Jersey Mike’s in Houston and lost twenty pounds that summer because I only ate turkey sandwiches. Also, I sliced off the tip of my finger with the meat slicer. But I think I already mentioned that.
I just looked up the "Pop That Coochie" video on YouTube. Wow. It's practically porn.
There was also this comment left by debie420:
"just cause they white dont hate cause a white bitch can get down !!!! in fact any color can get down !!"
I'm glad this is a world where any color can get down. It's the little things in life that make it worth living.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Ants in a Trance
When I was in 7th grade, I came down with a bad case of athlete's foot. I'm not really sure how I got it as I didn't play any sports and I never showered after gym class. In fact, the most draining physical activity I participated in was walking home from school carrying my trumpet case. Yet there I was, diagnosed with itchy, itchy tinea pedis. I found that scratching my feet with my hands did nothing so my ingenious 12-year old self came up with a solution: socks. Beautiful, beautiful socks.
I would turn a sock inside out, place it between my toes and pull it back and forth, back and forth. It was like playing a viola or a cello, only instead of creating beautiful music, I'd be rewarded with temporary relief from the fungal foot infection. My sisters thought it was gross and, to be honest, it was. I'd torment them by tossing my used socks onto their beds and laugh as they flipped out and used a broom to remove the diseased piece of fabric.
It was really gross. After a particularly violent bout of sock-scratching, it wouldn't be unusual to spot pieces of dead skin stuck to the sock. But it worked.
I was filled with ingenious solutions to physical problems like that. If my back itched, I'd lift up my shirt, place my back against the wall and squat. Up and down, up and down, each movement scratching my back better than any number of fingernails could. If my ear itched, I'd jab a Q-tip in there repeatedly. In and out, in and out. Most of my physical problems revolved around itchy parts.
Eventually, my mom caught on to my sock habit and forbid me from ever doing it again. Instead, she said, try using some tough actin' Tinactin.
It worked for my dad. Which, come to think of it, is probably how I ended up with athlete's foot in the first place.
She took a can from my dad's closet and I watched in fascination as my feet turned white when she sprayed them with Tinactin. It was like covering them with snow and, even better, it actually cooled the itching. Eventually, the athlete's foot went away and I forgot about the can of Tinactin for a few months.
I found it again during my freshmen year of high school. I had left half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the windowsill and ants were climbing all over it. Not just any old ants. Vicious, vicious Texas fire ants. I had seen the damage that those ants could do. My sister accidentally fell onto a pile of fire ants when she was three and, immediately, the ants swarmed her calf and began biting or stinging or whatever it is fire ants do. She still has the scars on her leg from that fire ant attack.
Looking for something to kill them with, I found the Tinactin in my desk. Somehow, my 14-year old brain made the connection between a spray that "cools" athlete foot and "fire" ants. I aimed at the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and sprayed the Tinactin all over the windowsill. The ants turned white and stopped moving. Some ingredient in the Tinactin actually froze the ants solid! I went downstairs to tell my sisters, but by the time we got back to my room, the ants had thawed out and disappeared.
It was one of the moments of discovery that I'm sure Galileo or Newton experienced. I tried it on various insects after that. Flies, mosquitoes, ladybugs. It never worked as well as it did on fire ants though.
A few days ago, I was having a midnight snack. Delma and I have been having dinner earlier and we've been going to sleep a little later than usual because we're addicted to Mad Men so at around 11:37 PM, I got out of bed, had a handful of cashews and went back to sleep. I must have dropped a cashew or two on the kitchen floor because when I was making breakfast in the morning, I noticed a dozen or so ants crawling along in a line.
I got really excited and, in a fit of nostalgia, went searching for a can of Tinactin. I found some underneath the bathroom sink and quickly ran back to the kitchen. Things have been a little weird recently in terms of money and goals and my reasons for coming to Chicago, so I was eager to go back to a simpler time, back when I had athlete's foot and only had to worry about book reports and Algebra. I held the can above the ant parade, pressed down on the trigger and sprayed them with Tinactin.
The white cloud settled down onto the ants, covering them in a fine white mist. Immediately, all of the ants started flipping out and experiencing convulsions and spasms and seizures. Then, one by one, they each curled up into a little ball and stopped moving.
Thinking they had all just frozen, I went to take a shower. When I got out, I went into the kitchen to check on the ants. They were still not moving.
Things never really work out as well as you remember.
I would turn a sock inside out, place it between my toes and pull it back and forth, back and forth. It was like playing a viola or a cello, only instead of creating beautiful music, I'd be rewarded with temporary relief from the fungal foot infection. My sisters thought it was gross and, to be honest, it was. I'd torment them by tossing my used socks onto their beds and laugh as they flipped out and used a broom to remove the diseased piece of fabric.
It was really gross. After a particularly violent bout of sock-scratching, it wouldn't be unusual to spot pieces of dead skin stuck to the sock. But it worked.
I was filled with ingenious solutions to physical problems like that. If my back itched, I'd lift up my shirt, place my back against the wall and squat. Up and down, up and down, each movement scratching my back better than any number of fingernails could. If my ear itched, I'd jab a Q-tip in there repeatedly. In and out, in and out. Most of my physical problems revolved around itchy parts.
Eventually, my mom caught on to my sock habit and forbid me from ever doing it again. Instead, she said, try using some tough actin' Tinactin.
It worked for my dad. Which, come to think of it, is probably how I ended up with athlete's foot in the first place.
She took a can from my dad's closet and I watched in fascination as my feet turned white when she sprayed them with Tinactin. It was like covering them with snow and, even better, it actually cooled the itching. Eventually, the athlete's foot went away and I forgot about the can of Tinactin for a few months.
I found it again during my freshmen year of high school. I had left half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the windowsill and ants were climbing all over it. Not just any old ants. Vicious, vicious Texas fire ants. I had seen the damage that those ants could do. My sister accidentally fell onto a pile of fire ants when she was three and, immediately, the ants swarmed her calf and began biting or stinging or whatever it is fire ants do. She still has the scars on her leg from that fire ant attack.
Looking for something to kill them with, I found the Tinactin in my desk. Somehow, my 14-year old brain made the connection between a spray that "cools" athlete foot and "fire" ants. I aimed at the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and sprayed the Tinactin all over the windowsill. The ants turned white and stopped moving. Some ingredient in the Tinactin actually froze the ants solid! I went downstairs to tell my sisters, but by the time we got back to my room, the ants had thawed out and disappeared.
It was one of the moments of discovery that I'm sure Galileo or Newton experienced. I tried it on various insects after that. Flies, mosquitoes, ladybugs. It never worked as well as it did on fire ants though.
A few days ago, I was having a midnight snack. Delma and I have been having dinner earlier and we've been going to sleep a little later than usual because we're addicted to Mad Men so at around 11:37 PM, I got out of bed, had a handful of cashews and went back to sleep. I must have dropped a cashew or two on the kitchen floor because when I was making breakfast in the morning, I noticed a dozen or so ants crawling along in a line.
I got really excited and, in a fit of nostalgia, went searching for a can of Tinactin. I found some underneath the bathroom sink and quickly ran back to the kitchen. Things have been a little weird recently in terms of money and goals and my reasons for coming to Chicago, so I was eager to go back to a simpler time, back when I had athlete's foot and only had to worry about book reports and Algebra. I held the can above the ant parade, pressed down on the trigger and sprayed them with Tinactin.
The white cloud settled down onto the ants, covering them in a fine white mist. Immediately, all of the ants started flipping out and experiencing convulsions and spasms and seizures. Then, one by one, they each curled up into a little ball and stopped moving.
Thinking they had all just frozen, I went to take a shower. When I got out, I went into the kitchen to check on the ants. They were still not moving.
Things never really work out as well as you remember.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Apart-a-ments
Our apartment flooded a few weeks ago.
It wasn't too bad. We live in a garden-level apartment (known as a basement in most parts of the world) and Chicago had the worst thunderstorm it's seen in over a century. The thunder was so loud that it sounded like someone was crinkling a bag of Sun Chips inside my head. Those poor Chicago sewers just couldn't handle it and so I woke up at 2:30 AM to the sound of water bubbling into our apartment. I saw my shoe sliding on the floor by itself and I thought we had a ghost problem for a second, but then I turned on the lights and it turned out to be only 2-3 inches of water causing my shoe to float. Delma's brother, Sergio, was sleeping on an air mattress in the living room. The water had yet to reach his face, but it was pretty deep. It was cool because it looked like he was slumbering on his own private island.
Despite the amount of water we got, the only casualties were my favorite rug that I bought at Lowe's for $79.99 and my Nintendo DS. It was a first-generation DS so it was due for an update anyways and with the 3DS dropping in price, it's looking more appealing.
Because of that, we're moving into a new apartment next week. The wooden floors are already starting to buckle and I've been told that I need to worry about mold (I have been coughing an awful lot lately). Anyways, we got a nice one-bedroom place in Lakeview that's like 50 feet away from Lake Michigan. I'm not even kidding. It's super close to the lake and, because of that, it's also hecka expensive. It's about the size of the space we're in now, but it's a couple hundred more.
BUT
The building has its own fitness room! With a treadmill! So the next time you see me, I'm going to be all fitnessed up.
It also has a business center (for business matters) and heat is included, which is going to be a major money saver come winter (September?).
It also has carpet instead of hardwood floors which we kinda didn't want because Vicki pees when she's excited and she's excited a lot, but apparently we don't need to pay a deposit so even if Vicki floods the apartment with 2-3 inches of urine, we won't have to pay a dime.
So that's nice.
The most important thing though, and I never realized how important this was, is the fact that we have huge windows that let in a lot of sunlight. You know what the worst thing is about living in a garden-level unit? Not the 2-3 inches of rain. It's the lack of sunlight. I feel like a goblin hiding in a cave. I'm paler than most of my white friends. I get so frustrated and, sure, I could just step outside, but I'm already inside and I'd have to put on pants and my pants are in the bedroom and I'd rather just sit in the kitchen eating prosciutto. But now I can eat prosciutto while sunbathing! I'm super excited about that.
I'm not super excited about the kitchen. It's tiny. Like, about as big as our bathroom. AND no dishwasher. I'm lazy as fuck so I really wanted a dishwasher, but I suppose that's the price you pay for sunlight and a business center.
I'm really looking forward to living there though, especially since Lakeview is a neat area. I'm just not really looking forward to moving. Ugh. Uggggggggh.
UGGGGGGGGGGGH!
It wasn't too bad. We live in a garden-level apartment (known as a basement in most parts of the world) and Chicago had the worst thunderstorm it's seen in over a century. The thunder was so loud that it sounded like someone was crinkling a bag of Sun Chips inside my head. Those poor Chicago sewers just couldn't handle it and so I woke up at 2:30 AM to the sound of water bubbling into our apartment. I saw my shoe sliding on the floor by itself and I thought we had a ghost problem for a second, but then I turned on the lights and it turned out to be only 2-3 inches of water causing my shoe to float. Delma's brother, Sergio, was sleeping on an air mattress in the living room. The water had yet to reach his face, but it was pretty deep. It was cool because it looked like he was slumbering on his own private island.
Despite the amount of water we got, the only casualties were my favorite rug that I bought at Lowe's for $79.99 and my Nintendo DS. It was a first-generation DS so it was due for an update anyways and with the 3DS dropping in price, it's looking more appealing.
Because of that, we're moving into a new apartment next week. The wooden floors are already starting to buckle and I've been told that I need to worry about mold (I have been coughing an awful lot lately). Anyways, we got a nice one-bedroom place in Lakeview that's like 50 feet away from Lake Michigan. I'm not even kidding. It's super close to the lake and, because of that, it's also hecka expensive. It's about the size of the space we're in now, but it's a couple hundred more.
BUT
The building has its own fitness room! With a treadmill! So the next time you see me, I'm going to be all fitnessed up.
It also has a business center (for business matters) and heat is included, which is going to be a major money saver come winter (September?).
It also has carpet instead of hardwood floors which we kinda didn't want because Vicki pees when she's excited and she's excited a lot, but apparently we don't need to pay a deposit so even if Vicki floods the apartment with 2-3 inches of urine, we won't have to pay a dime.
So that's nice.
The most important thing though, and I never realized how important this was, is the fact that we have huge windows that let in a lot of sunlight. You know what the worst thing is about living in a garden-level unit? Not the 2-3 inches of rain. It's the lack of sunlight. I feel like a goblin hiding in a cave. I'm paler than most of my white friends. I get so frustrated and, sure, I could just step outside, but I'm already inside and I'd have to put on pants and my pants are in the bedroom and I'd rather just sit in the kitchen eating prosciutto. But now I can eat prosciutto while sunbathing! I'm super excited about that.
I'm not super excited about the kitchen. It's tiny. Like, about as big as our bathroom. AND no dishwasher. I'm lazy as fuck so I really wanted a dishwasher, but I suppose that's the price you pay for sunlight and a business center.
I'm really looking forward to living there though, especially since Lakeview is a neat area. I'm just not really looking forward to moving. Ugh. Uggggggggh.
UGGGGGGGGGGGH!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
I'm Using Mugs as Metaphors
I have a favorite mug. It's my Jurassic Park mug that my sisters bought for me in Orlando. I also have a second-favorite mug and a third-favorite mug. My second-favorite mug is my Dr. Seuss themed "Thing 1" mug (also bought in Orlando because Florida is the mug state) and my third-favorite mug is actually a mug I bought for Delma when we went to the Museum of Natural Science in Houston (Texas is the second mug state). She never uses it though, so I have claimed it as my own. It looks a little something... Like this:
I am not using any of these mugs right now, unfortunately. My coffee is currently frothing about in a stupid, plain black mug that we got from Ikea. It only holds a singular cup of coffee. My favorite mugs can hold anywhere from 2-3 cups of coffee so that's probably why they're my favorite mugs. The more coffee the better. They give me the shakes.
I'm frustrated. Blah-frustrated. Not grr-frustrated. I'm blah-frustrated with my coffee. My improv. My writing. The weather. Life.
The mug situation is my own fault for letting the dishes sit in the sink for a week. I keep hoping Delma will do them. Eventually, she will, but until then, I'm stuck with lame mugs. Maybe I'll do the dishes. Just this once. Just to use my Jurassic Park mug tomorrow. Maybe.
The improv situation is... I don't even know. It really is starting to feel like I've forgotten how to improvise. I don't even know how that's possible. It's like forgetting how to chew your food. Or how to poop. I hope I never forget how to poop.
It's getting to the point where I'm feeling really anxious before I get on stage. Apprehensive. Agitated. At cetera (I know, I know). I'm not really enjoying it and I'm not having fun.
It might be because I'm nervous about the Harold Commission watching all of our shows? I desperately want to shine in each of these shows and look good so I can be put on a Harold team.
It might be because I've resumed classes at the Annoyance and the change in mindset is fucking with me? I freeze up because of all the rules running in my head. I need to just be. Zen and the art of shut the fuck up.
It might be because I suck? That would be the worst situation. I don't think I suck. I've had kick-ass scenes before where I can feel the eyes of the audience widening because of the shit I'm pulling off on stage. It happened this past Sunday.
But those scenes are staring to become few and far in between. In fact, when I have one of those, I'm amazed with myself. They serve as a reminder that "Hey, yeah, I'm actually pretty good!"
But the majority of my scenes have been bland, mundane, uninspired and just plain boring. I hate it. I don't know how to break out of this rut. Maybe it'll end once the shows are over?
Maybe.
It also feels like I'm definitely not up to the level of a bunch of my peers. They're so quick and witty and fast with words. Motor mouths. I'm slow. Very slow. My improv is more physical as evident by the scene last week where I ate an iPhone for love. It's always been that way.
So it's not that I'm not good, just that I'm different, maybe? Maybe I should try to accentuate my strengths rather than work on my weaknesses? I'd like to be quick and witty, but I have more fun when I'm being silly and touching and grinding and grooving.
I don't know.
I mentioned to Delma that I'm considering taking a short hiatus from improv once the shows end to gather my thoughts and try to reassemble myself and she gave me this look.
:\
And that's all she needed to do, really.
It was a tut-tut look. A look that says when-the-going-gets-tough-you-quit. It wasn't a malicious look. More like a quit-being-stupid look. Because it's true. If shit gets hard, I phone it in and say I can't make it to work that day. It's what happened when I tried to do electrical engineering at UT again. Differential calculus took too much effort so I was like "Screeeeewwww yoooooou, Gottfried Leibniz!"
But I don't think it's like that with improv. I love improv. I moved up to this wonderful city for improv. I hope that, on my deathbed, I'm still doing improv. It's fun and I like creating things through improv.
It might just be the people? I've never understood how some people can improvise with ANYONE and do a bomb-ass scene. Susan Messing, TJ Jagadowski, Blaine Swen. They turn shit into gold. They really do. I want to be that way. And maybe in time, I will be.
But right now, at this moment, at this point in my life, I am not. I need to be comfortable with my partner to have a decent scene. I do my best improv with people who play a certain way. Which doesn't translate well for auditions.
I had two auditions this past week. I didn't bomb them, but I also didn't bomb-ass them ("bomb-ass" is a positive adjective, noun and verb, btw). I just... Eh. Granted, there were 80-something people competing for less than five spots, but still. Them's excuses and America wasn't built on excuses. America was built on hard work.
So what else can I do? Just put my head down and keep on trucking, I guess.
Hm.
I don't know if anyone's going to actually read this, but that's fine. This post was mainly for me to air our my frustrations and try to figure out what the hell is going on with me. And I still don't know what's going on with me. But it'll work out.
One of my favorite improv teachers, Christy Bonstell, said that the life of an improvisor is filled with highs and lows and that it fluctuates quite often. You can have an awesome show and be convinced you're headed for SNL one week, then have a bad show the next and be certain that you're going to spend the rest of your life living in your mother's basement because you suck.
I need to stop putting so much pressure on myself to be "good" and just remember to "have fun." I'm not getting paid for this. Shit, no improvisors are aside from TJ & Dave.
My coffee is gone.
The mug might not have been my favorite mug, but the coffee was still delicious. And that's all that matters, right?
I am not using any of these mugs right now, unfortunately. My coffee is currently frothing about in a stupid, plain black mug that we got from Ikea. It only holds a singular cup of coffee. My favorite mugs can hold anywhere from 2-3 cups of coffee so that's probably why they're my favorite mugs. The more coffee the better. They give me the shakes.
I'm frustrated. Blah-frustrated. Not grr-frustrated. I'm blah-frustrated with my coffee. My improv. My writing. The weather. Life.
The mug situation is my own fault for letting the dishes sit in the sink for a week. I keep hoping Delma will do them. Eventually, she will, but until then, I'm stuck with lame mugs. Maybe I'll do the dishes. Just this once. Just to use my Jurassic Park mug tomorrow. Maybe.
The improv situation is... I don't even know. It really is starting to feel like I've forgotten how to improvise. I don't even know how that's possible. It's like forgetting how to chew your food. Or how to poop. I hope I never forget how to poop.
It's getting to the point where I'm feeling really anxious before I get on stage. Apprehensive. Agitated. At cetera (I know, I know). I'm not really enjoying it and I'm not having fun.
It might be because I'm nervous about the Harold Commission watching all of our shows? I desperately want to shine in each of these shows and look good so I can be put on a Harold team.
It might be because I've resumed classes at the Annoyance and the change in mindset is fucking with me? I freeze up because of all the rules running in my head. I need to just be. Zen and the art of shut the fuck up.
It might be because I suck? That would be the worst situation. I don't think I suck. I've had kick-ass scenes before where I can feel the eyes of the audience widening because of the shit I'm pulling off on stage. It happened this past Sunday.
But those scenes are staring to become few and far in between. In fact, when I have one of those, I'm amazed with myself. They serve as a reminder that "Hey, yeah, I'm actually pretty good!"
But the majority of my scenes have been bland, mundane, uninspired and just plain boring. I hate it. I don't know how to break out of this rut. Maybe it'll end once the shows are over?
Maybe.
It also feels like I'm definitely not up to the level of a bunch of my peers. They're so quick and witty and fast with words. Motor mouths. I'm slow. Very slow. My improv is more physical as evident by the scene last week where I ate an iPhone for love. It's always been that way.
So it's not that I'm not good, just that I'm different, maybe? Maybe I should try to accentuate my strengths rather than work on my weaknesses? I'd like to be quick and witty, but I have more fun when I'm being silly and touching and grinding and grooving.
I don't know.
I mentioned to Delma that I'm considering taking a short hiatus from improv once the shows end to gather my thoughts and try to reassemble myself and she gave me this look.
:\
And that's all she needed to do, really.
It was a tut-tut look. A look that says when-the-going-gets-tough-you-quit. It wasn't a malicious look. More like a quit-being-stupid look. Because it's true. If shit gets hard, I phone it in and say I can't make it to work that day. It's what happened when I tried to do electrical engineering at UT again. Differential calculus took too much effort so I was like "Screeeeewwww yoooooou, Gottfried Leibniz!"
But I don't think it's like that with improv. I love improv. I moved up to this wonderful city for improv. I hope that, on my deathbed, I'm still doing improv. It's fun and I like creating things through improv.
It might just be the people? I've never understood how some people can improvise with ANYONE and do a bomb-ass scene. Susan Messing, TJ Jagadowski, Blaine Swen. They turn shit into gold. They really do. I want to be that way. And maybe in time, I will be.
But right now, at this moment, at this point in my life, I am not. I need to be comfortable with my partner to have a decent scene. I do my best improv with people who play a certain way. Which doesn't translate well for auditions.
I had two auditions this past week. I didn't bomb them, but I also didn't bomb-ass them ("bomb-ass" is a positive adjective, noun and verb, btw). I just... Eh. Granted, there were 80-something people competing for less than five spots, but still. Them's excuses and America wasn't built on excuses. America was built on hard work.
So what else can I do? Just put my head down and keep on trucking, I guess.
Hm.
I don't know if anyone's going to actually read this, but that's fine. This post was mainly for me to air our my frustrations and try to figure out what the hell is going on with me. And I still don't know what's going on with me. But it'll work out.
One of my favorite improv teachers, Christy Bonstell, said that the life of an improvisor is filled with highs and lows and that it fluctuates quite often. You can have an awesome show and be convinced you're headed for SNL one week, then have a bad show the next and be certain that you're going to spend the rest of your life living in your mother's basement because you suck.
I need to stop putting so much pressure on myself to be "good" and just remember to "have fun." I'm not getting paid for this. Shit, no improvisors are aside from TJ & Dave.
My coffee is gone.
The mug might not have been my favorite mug, but the coffee was still delicious. And that's all that matters, right?
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
I'm Bringing Pickle Back
I, uh... I should be working. I didn't do any work on Sunday because I had rehearsal and then a show. Then I went to a bar where they serve this drink called a "Pickleback" which is a shot of Jameson followed by a shot of pickle juice (it's deliciously delightful). I didn't do any work yesterday because I was recovering from all that pickle juice. I have the nine articles that I'm going to work on today open in another window, but I don't want to touch them.
I'll have to do it eventually, but right now I'm sitting on the bed with my dog on my knees. She's a good dog. Yes, she is. Who's a good girl? Vicki's a good girl. You want some ham, Vicki? TOO BAD, DOG! Ham must be earned. You don't get ham for being cute. You get ham for showing up on time and doing your work responsibly.
I'm not getting any ham today.
I'm making turkey burgers later tonight though. Turkey burgers with baked potatoes. I've been cooking a lot lately. I made milanesa de pollo a week ago for the Fourth of July. I simply followed this recipe, with smooth jazz music and all. I didn't have any bread crumbs so I placed half a package of Ritz crackers into a Ziplock bag and used my meat tenderizer to tear that shit up. Shit was delicious.
As a result of the picklebacks and milanesa de pollo, I'm gaining back the freshmen fifteen. Also probably because I haven't been able to work out (STILL) because of my stupid gallbladder surgery. Actually, that's not entirely true. I guess I can work out now, but after being out of the game so long, it's hard to go back. And then I'll have to put in all that effort, just to get back to where I was before the surgery? Ugh. It's not pretty.
I feel like it's a similar situation with the 'prov. Before I left for Houston and California at the end of May, I was at the top of my game. That's one reason why I got into "Recess." I had this kick-ass audition (definitely the best audition I've ever had) and then I took a nearly three week hiatus from improv and I get back and it's like I forgot how to perform. It was really weird. I'm just barely starting to get my groove back after being home for nearly a month.
We started our 5B shows at iO a few weeks ago. They're going really well. I was scared that people were going to be assholes and try to upstage everyone in order to stand out. The Harold Commission (the committee that decides who is going to be put onto a Harold team once the 5B shows end) is in the audience for every show, taking notes on everything and everyone. You can tell it's definitely in the back of all of our minds no matter how hard we try to hide it, but the shows have been a lot of fun. Everyone's been really supportive and, last week, we had the best show I've ever been a part of while in Chicago. I'm excited for the next four weeks, but I'm very sad at the fact that I probably won't be able to continue at iO. I might retake level 3 because I did NOT like my teacher and I felt that I didn't really get anything out of the $300 I spent for that damn class, but we'll see.
For now, though, I have to write this article on how to wire a Ford F-150's carburetor. (GAME-PRO TIP: Disconnect the battery beforehand to prevent any accidental shocks!)
I'll have to do it eventually, but right now I'm sitting on the bed with my dog on my knees. She's a good dog. Yes, she is. Who's a good girl? Vicki's a good girl. You want some ham, Vicki? TOO BAD, DOG! Ham must be earned. You don't get ham for being cute. You get ham for showing up on time and doing your work responsibly.
I'm not getting any ham today.
I'm making turkey burgers later tonight though. Turkey burgers with baked potatoes. I've been cooking a lot lately. I made milanesa de pollo a week ago for the Fourth of July. I simply followed this recipe, with smooth jazz music and all. I didn't have any bread crumbs so I placed half a package of Ritz crackers into a Ziplock bag and used my meat tenderizer to tear that shit up. Shit was delicious.
As a result of the picklebacks and milanesa de pollo, I'm gaining back the freshmen fifteen. Also probably because I haven't been able to work out (STILL) because of my stupid gallbladder surgery. Actually, that's not entirely true. I guess I can work out now, but after being out of the game so long, it's hard to go back. And then I'll have to put in all that effort, just to get back to where I was before the surgery? Ugh. It's not pretty.
I feel like it's a similar situation with the 'prov. Before I left for Houston and California at the end of May, I was at the top of my game. That's one reason why I got into "Recess." I had this kick-ass audition (definitely the best audition I've ever had) and then I took a nearly three week hiatus from improv and I get back and it's like I forgot how to perform. It was really weird. I'm just barely starting to get my groove back after being home for nearly a month.
We started our 5B shows at iO a few weeks ago. They're going really well. I was scared that people were going to be assholes and try to upstage everyone in order to stand out. The Harold Commission (the committee that decides who is going to be put onto a Harold team once the 5B shows end) is in the audience for every show, taking notes on everything and everyone. You can tell it's definitely in the back of all of our minds no matter how hard we try to hide it, but the shows have been a lot of fun. Everyone's been really supportive and, last week, we had the best show I've ever been a part of while in Chicago. I'm excited for the next four weeks, but I'm very sad at the fact that I probably won't be able to continue at iO. I might retake level 3 because I did NOT like my teacher and I felt that I didn't really get anything out of the $300 I spent for that damn class, but we'll see.
For now, though, I have to write this article on how to wire a Ford F-150's carburetor. (GAME-PRO TIP: Disconnect the battery beforehand to prevent any accidental shocks!)
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Two Toned Titties
Sometimes, when I'm sitting at the kitchen table, working on a story, I get really scared because I think an alien is hiding underneath the coffee table in my living room and he's going to jump out and latch onto my face when I walk by and then inject his offspring into my neck. It's a terrifying thought.
It's what keeps me writing.
Once, during my freshmen year of high school, a girl wrote me a note saying that she liked me. I didn't respond. The next day, she wrote me another note that simply read "DIE, BITCH, DIE!" and had a picture of me hanging from a tree with a knife in my torso.
As I was running (re: jogging (re: power-walking (re: walking on the treadmill at 2 MPH))) at the gym today, I started thinking about all of the times I've been embarrassed over the course of my life. After fifteen minutes, I had to stop because I was feeling pretty shitty. I'm not very smooth or suave. I'd make a list of them here, but I figured I'd hold on to those memories and bury them in my brain, where no one can ever find them.
I used to love the Planters peanut guy, Mr. Peanut. I thought he was really elegant for a mascot. Not like Charlie the hipster Tuna who wears a beret and emo-glasses. Mr. Peanut wears a top-hat and a monocle, so you know he means business. Then I found out that he's now being voiced by Robert Downey Jr. Yeah, he's a good actor and all, but Delma once drunkenly confessed to me that she thought Robert Downey Jr. was attractive and now every time one of those Planters commercials comes on tv, I just sit on my futon and tremble with rage. I keep picturing her making out with Mr. Peanut.
Such a smug son of a gun.
In 6th grade, a group of 8th graders kept pressuring me to say that I liked peanuts. Then they kept laughing whenever I would say "I like peanuts." It was only months later that I realized "peanuts" sounds like "penis." Oh, meddling middle schoolers and their homophobic homophones.
If I could go back in time, I'd play basketball.
I'd change a lot of things. Wouldn't have majored in English. Wouldn't have gotten my gallbladder removed. Wouldn't have spent $800 on a drum set that I'd only play for three months.
But if I could only change one thing, I'd probably play basketball. And I don't mean going to Duke on a scholarship and becoming the fifth overall pick in the 2008 NBA draft. I mean playing basketball since childhood. As a hobby.
I want to play basketball now, but I haven't developed any skills and I'm scared of acting a fool in front of all the cool kids on the court.
I've tried in the past to develop skills. Gabriel and I would play one-on-one back in the summer of 2008. We'd work on our shot selection and on our man-to-man coverage, but we couldn't set screens since there were only two of us and after a week I sprained my ankle, an injury that kept me out of the game for over a year. Even thought it only took two weeks to completely heal.
I think that's the biggest thing I'd change though. I mostly like where and who I am now. I always think I could be doing more now, but I'm in a good spot and I've got a lot to look forward to. Also, I'm having lemon-pepper chicken and a baked potato for dinner tomorrow.
Baked potatoes are my new favorite food. The secret to a delicious baked potato is stabbing it with a fork twenty-seven times. The other secret to a delicious baked potato is to bake it for an hour and fifteen minutes. The final secret to a delicious baked potato is lathering it with olive oil and kosher salt. GAME-PRO TIP: Allow two to three minutes for the baked potato to cool, otherwise you may inadvertently play a round of "Hot Potato" with yourself ending with the potato being dropped into the recycle bin.
I just finished Phil Jackson's Sacred Hoops and I was telling Delma that it was weird how well it applied to improv. But then I thought about it and realized that, no, it wasn't weird. It makes perfect sense. Phil Jackson is all about that Zen which is about not thinking and trusting that your instincts will take over. That's one of the secrets to improv as well. Getting out of your head and whatnot.
The book also mentioned that a big reason for the Bulls' success was their ability to push aside their selfishness and sacrifice their own personal glory for the good of the team. I find that the best improv troupes do that. I always cringe when I see a guy walk into a well-established scene that's moving along at a slower pace and try to be funny by himself or take over the scene instead of trusting that his teammates have it under control. With the best shows I've seen, every single walk-on has a purpose and is used to enhance what the two scene partners have established. During the past few weeks of class at the Annoyance, I've noticed that there's one guy who will walk into every other scene in an attempt to insert some funny line into it because he thinks the scene's not good enough. It's usually not very funny and destroys any momentum built by the other two players. It's verrrrry frustrating.
I analyze improv too much.
But at the same time, I don't analyze it enough.
There's a bunch of quotes from the book that work just as well for improv as they do for basketball, but I'm only going to quote one.
For the raindrop, joy is entering the river. - Ghalib
I feel like it applies to life as a whole. I really like it.
In fact, I like it so much, I'm going to update my Facebook profile so that it's underneath "Wait, I'm missing two titties!" uttered by the beautiful and wonderful Delma Flores.
I'm not even going to explain it because that would rob it of its magic.
It's what keeps me writing.
Once, during my freshmen year of high school, a girl wrote me a note saying that she liked me. I didn't respond. The next day, she wrote me another note that simply read "DIE, BITCH, DIE!" and had a picture of me hanging from a tree with a knife in my torso.
As I was running (re: jogging (re: power-walking (re: walking on the treadmill at 2 MPH))) at the gym today, I started thinking about all of the times I've been embarrassed over the course of my life. After fifteen minutes, I had to stop because I was feeling pretty shitty. I'm not very smooth or suave. I'd make a list of them here, but I figured I'd hold on to those memories and bury them in my brain, where no one can ever find them.
I used to love the Planters peanut guy, Mr. Peanut. I thought he was really elegant for a mascot. Not like Charlie the hipster Tuna who wears a beret and emo-glasses. Mr. Peanut wears a top-hat and a monocle, so you know he means business. Then I found out that he's now being voiced by Robert Downey Jr. Yeah, he's a good actor and all, but Delma once drunkenly confessed to me that she thought Robert Downey Jr. was attractive and now every time one of those Planters commercials comes on tv, I just sit on my futon and tremble with rage. I keep picturing her making out with Mr. Peanut.
Such a smug son of a gun.
In 6th grade, a group of 8th graders kept pressuring me to say that I liked peanuts. Then they kept laughing whenever I would say "I like peanuts." It was only months later that I realized "peanuts" sounds like "penis." Oh, meddling middle schoolers and their homophobic homophones.
If I could go back in time, I'd play basketball.
I'd change a lot of things. Wouldn't have majored in English. Wouldn't have gotten my gallbladder removed. Wouldn't have spent $800 on a drum set that I'd only play for three months.
But if I could only change one thing, I'd probably play basketball. And I don't mean going to Duke on a scholarship and becoming the fifth overall pick in the 2008 NBA draft. I mean playing basketball since childhood. As a hobby.
I want to play basketball now, but I haven't developed any skills and I'm scared of acting a fool in front of all the cool kids on the court.
I've tried in the past to develop skills. Gabriel and I would play one-on-one back in the summer of 2008. We'd work on our shot selection and on our man-to-man coverage, but we couldn't set screens since there were only two of us and after a week I sprained my ankle, an injury that kept me out of the game for over a year. Even thought it only took two weeks to completely heal.
I think that's the biggest thing I'd change though. I mostly like where and who I am now. I always think I could be doing more now, but I'm in a good spot and I've got a lot to look forward to. Also, I'm having lemon-pepper chicken and a baked potato for dinner tomorrow.
Baked potatoes are my new favorite food. The secret to a delicious baked potato is stabbing it with a fork twenty-seven times. The other secret to a delicious baked potato is to bake it for an hour and fifteen minutes. The final secret to a delicious baked potato is lathering it with olive oil and kosher salt. GAME-PRO TIP: Allow two to three minutes for the baked potato to cool, otherwise you may inadvertently play a round of "Hot Potato" with yourself ending with the potato being dropped into the recycle bin.
I just finished Phil Jackson's Sacred Hoops and I was telling Delma that it was weird how well it applied to improv. But then I thought about it and realized that, no, it wasn't weird. It makes perfect sense. Phil Jackson is all about that Zen which is about not thinking and trusting that your instincts will take over. That's one of the secrets to improv as well. Getting out of your head and whatnot.
The book also mentioned that a big reason for the Bulls' success was their ability to push aside their selfishness and sacrifice their own personal glory for the good of the team. I find that the best improv troupes do that. I always cringe when I see a guy walk into a well-established scene that's moving along at a slower pace and try to be funny by himself or take over the scene instead of trusting that his teammates have it under control. With the best shows I've seen, every single walk-on has a purpose and is used to enhance what the two scene partners have established. During the past few weeks of class at the Annoyance, I've noticed that there's one guy who will walk into every other scene in an attempt to insert some funny line into it because he thinks the scene's not good enough. It's usually not very funny and destroys any momentum built by the other two players. It's verrrrry frustrating.
I analyze improv too much.
But at the same time, I don't analyze it enough.
There's a bunch of quotes from the book that work just as well for improv as they do for basketball, but I'm only going to quote one.
For the raindrop, joy is entering the river. - Ghalib
I feel like it applies to life as a whole. I really like it.
In fact, I like it so much, I'm going to update my Facebook profile so that it's underneath "Wait, I'm missing two titties!" uttered by the beautiful and wonderful Delma Flores.
I'm not even going to explain it because that would rob it of its magic.
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