Stars in a Nutshell

[Antny]

Employed Astrologist Sally Brompton writes:

If today is your birthday...
You're thinking too much of the past and not enough of the future. That, in a nutshell, is the message of the stars on your birthday, and if you take it to heart and look forward rather than back, there's no limit to what you can accomplish this year. Imagine that, beginning today, you're starting life anew.


Today is my birthday.

You know, maybe Ms. Sally Brompton and her nutshell have a point. Maybe I have been thinking too much of the past. Maybe it is time to start my life anew. And maybe I will chronicle the next year of my life in this journal, as I attempt to test the boundaries of Sally's assertion that there is "no limit to what I can accomplish this year."

Will my journal be a fairy tale or a tragedy?

But first...

WHY I'M LOOKING BACKWARDS

I have a lot of reasons to examine the past lately.

1) On May 11, my mother died. The night of May 9, she had a mild heart attack. But doctors quickly discovered that due to side effects from my mom's treatment for lupus, the heart attack had ripped a small hole in the back wall of her heart. She had emergency surgery the evening of May 10 - incredibly rare surgery with only a 40%-50% survival rate - in which doctors grafted a synthetic patch over the hole in her heart. She survived the 8-hour surgery, but 6 hours later the patch broke, and 2 hours after that, she was gone.

May 12 was Mother's Day, suddenly a day of remembrance rather than celebration.

It's the first instance of personal, permanent loss I have ever felt. I am overwhelmed by memories, elaborate and trivial. How can I not stare in the rearview mirror? I don't want to drive right now. I don't want to think about future milestones that my mom will no longer be here to witness.

P.S. The following is not okay:

Scene: A funeral home. My mother lies on her back in a casket beside me. There is a line of CONCERNED PERSONS waiting to express their condolences to the family.

CONCERNED PERSON: I'm so sorry for your loss.

ME: Thank you.

CONCERNED PERSON: If there's anything I can do, please let me know.

ME: Thank you.

CONCERNED PERSON: So...how's New York?


I had this conversation over and over and over again all night the evening before the funeral. And I'll tell you something: I don't fucking know how New York is. My mom just died. Now leave your green bean casserole on the table and go home.


2) In December I ended a long relationship with one of the most amazing people on the planet because I was afraid of committing in light of my career aspirations. I will call her Bonky. After 4-months of self-examination and mindless career aspirating, I am pretty sure I made a huge mistake.

I came to NY so I would not be 50 and think, "I bet I could have...." I would know one way or the other. Well, what if I'm 50 and I think, "I threw that away for this?"


3) Speaking of career...I came to NY to be a director in the theater. I have had mild success, working steadily (most often for little or no pay) and creating a few things I'm proud of. Probably of most note: I assistant directed Andrew Lippa's THE WILD PARTY, starring Taye Diggs and recent Tony-nominee Brian D'arcy James, and I just finished directing a new musical, MISTER, starring Anthony Rapp. Too bad THE WILD PARTY flopped and MISTER was a piece of crap.

But lately I've been feeling like a fat man in a marathon: out of breath and way behind. But if a fat man in a marathon sees an ice cream truck and decides he'd rather eat a double-chocolate dipped than finish the race, is that okay, or is he a failure?

It's cloudy today and incredibly humid...like being trapped inside an animals' mouth.

 

[Antny]

My Chance To Survive The Night

Mad Genius Composer/Lyricist/Playwright William Finn writes:

The thing about explorers is: they discover things that are already there.


Ironically, I started my birthday celebration last night at a bar called THE BITTER END. There were four of us in the bar: me, the bartender, an old lady eating peanuts, and a drunk guy cutting up lemons. I had three scotches and read The Onion. Bitter indeed.

At 7:00 I met my roommate, his girlfriend, and Bonky for dinner. (Bonky and I are hanging out some. So far the results have not been catastrophic, but on the other hand Nora Ephron is not begging to turn our story into Meg Ryan's next star vehicle.) I had filet mignon and many glasses of sangria. Did you know sangria has brandy in it? Delicious.

Near the end of dinner, I knocked my water glass onto the floor and broke it. Somehow small shards of glass ended up in Bonky's ankle. It was an accident, but throughout dinner I had been attacked by my roommate and Bonky for always having to win arguments (which is unfortunately kind of true), so the glass attack, while tragic, did end the bombardment.

I do NOT always have to win arguments!
SMASH!
Now bring me some more ice cream cake.

They all got in a cab and went home. I - wow, I just realized I don't remember how I got uptown - went to McManus after stumbling around in the downpour for an hour or so because I kept forgetting where I was going (and I was convinced my drunken rain march was helping me discover things about my current state, things I can now no longer remember).

At McManus I had beers, I had fun, I fell asleep at the bar, I threw up my filet mignon on the sidewalk, and I hailed a cab for home.

Scene: The backseat of a taxi. CABBIE has just driven over the 59th Street Bridge. ME is so drunk he cannot form words.

CABBIE: Hey buddy, wake up! Where do you live?

ME: Thrippy ay...knock shove-a dunna.

CABBIE: I can't understand you.

ME: Thricky-ate! (beat) Fenny.

CABBIE: Forty?

ME: Fenny!

CABBIE: What are you saying?

ME: Son fenny dun and the shivel. Thrippy ay. Fenny.

CABBIE: Look, I don't know where to take you.

ME: Jus keep goin! Keep goin!


I don't really know how I got home. But I did get way way drunker than I needed to. It was ridiculous, and yet somehow cathartic. Recently I've had the incredible desire to destroy something - throw a rock through a television, take a bat to a windshield, etc. - but last night, I destroyed myself and today I feel a lot better.

It's gray and breezy and perfect today, like clean sheets in the morning.

 

[Antny]

She's my Rushmore

Narcissistic Playwright & Extracurricular Activities Junkie Max Fisher said:

Maybe I'm spending too much of my time starting up clubs and putting on plays. I should probably be trying harder to score chicks.


I realized last night that I wanted to go on a date soon and I had no free nights to do it. It's not that I'm spending my nights scraping cash together or duty-bound to ladle-it-out at a soup kitchen or anything particularly noble like that, I have simply made choices that all but exclude chances for my penis to come into contact with vaginas.

Actually, truth be told, I am not really looking for my penis to touch down in and around multiple vaginas, but I think it would be fun to be one of those people who "dates." I'm not even looking to be a playa...just one of those people who "dates." And by "dates," I mean "spends personal yet uncommitted one-on-one time with numerous members of the opposite sex with whom the tension and possibility of 'something more' exists, whether or not it is ever realized."

But wow, who has the time for that? Those I-bankers who spend their nights throwing cash around at singles bars, and take home a different lady every night, actually get paid for their careers. I'm a freaking temp. I get paid to sit on my ass and surf the Internet. And at night I have to spend my time working on my "career" so I hopefully won't be 40 getting paid to sit on my ass and surf the Internet. I don't have time to go to singles bars and throw my cash at ladies.

Besides, that doesn't really sound appealing to me. Those I-bankers are really miserable on the inside. Rich...and miserable on the inside.

And I'm not.

Rich.

But I am busy. Like last night, for instance, I had to go to auditions for the Lincoln Center Director's Lab, then I had to cancel drinks with Elenna so I could go home, sit on the couch, eat hummus-titos, and watch THIS WEEK IN HISTORY. (I had no idea people believe Sirhan-Sirhan did not act alone. Nor do I know how to spell Sirhan-Sirhan.)

Bonky is busy too. We were supposed to "talk" this week, but she's too busy and now she's leaving on Thursday to go to Germany for a week with her mom.

That shouldn't really have any bearing on me dating or being too busy to date, and technically it doesn't, but it's kind of like a dash of cinnamon in pot full of chili - I can't really taste it but it makes all the other spices more mild.

Scott tells me I should stop thinking about it so much and that I should date whoever I want, whenever I want, and deal with Bonky once she knows what she wants. Charlie just asks me to help him beat "Super C" on our 8-bit Nintendo.

Looks like Mad Dog and Scorpion are on the hunt for some Vile Red Falcon.

It's stinking hot and sunny today, like getting a hug from a garbage man.

 

[Antny]

Innocents Abroad

Wild-Haired Humorist Mark Twain said:

There is nothing that saps one's confidence as the knowing how to do a thing.


I have a friend who upon seeing his first Harold night at UCB said, "Oh, that looks easy. I can totally do that."

What a dumbass.

But most of the improv at UCB lends itself to this ignorant observation because it seems so effortless.

Oh, I've sit through a disintegrating, bale-for-your-life Harold a time or two, but mostly shows at UCB are completely free of that "Oh God, he's going to fall off that ladder and kill himself, it hurts to watch" kind of tension. It's invigorating.

Last night I caught 2 Naked Babies + 3 From Mother at 10pm. Perfect team improv. The kind that would make my dumbass friend think his sorry, straight-play-acting self could just jump right up on stage and join in.

But that show, Rule of Threes, and practice groups with James Eason and Jackie Clarke this week reminded me of two big lessons, things I already knew but sometimes forget when I'm in the thick of it:

1. Have fun.

2. Play simple.

Those should be so easy! But, Jesus Christ, I end up in a lot of scenes that suck rocks simply because I am not making fun choices or I'm trying too hard.

Last night's show was like an ass full of butter - simple and fun. Everything else just slid right into place. I have to remember to play that way.

P.S. I have never actually filled an ass with butter, but one time in the fifth grade I was home alone with my brother making hot dogs and on the package it said to put the hot dog on a buttered bun, so I spread butter on my ass and stuck a hot dog in my crack.

It wasn't nearly as hilarious as I wanted it to be.

It's gray and cool today, like seeing a whale but not being able to touch it.

 

[Antny]

Grave Situations

My laconic father John King writes:

We went by mother's grave. Not much to it. Just a spot where the grass has not started growing.


I was standing in the hospital waiting room watching television when the surgeon came out. In the same even tone of voice he had used six hours earlier to tell us my mom had done as well as possible in her surgery, he told us that now her heart had stopped.

We waited....the doctors prepped her body...and we went back to see her. She was in the same exact place she had been six hours earlier, only now the tubes were gone and there was no machine forcing her chest up and down.

I touched her skin. It was still warm. I looked down at her through tears and thought I saw her eye move under the lid. A trick of the light, sight through saltwater, impossible hope.

Then we went home.

Not much to it.

The next week was the hardest. The ground pulled out from under us, everything churning, things long buried pulled back to the surface. I cried a lot and that helped me dig.

Then the funeral. Closure. The casket underground, and the spot covered with flowers. A kaleidoscope.

Thirty-six days later though, it's Father's Day. I'm in New York. The flowers are gone and there's just a spot where the grass has not started growing.

This is when it feels the most real, the most permanent. The scar is obvious but the emotional carnival has left town. Sooner or later grass will grow and these weeks will blend into the memories of my life, distinguished only by a hard, stone marker. But for now, there's a barren patch - and I know what's underneath it.

Two holidays have already passed: my birthday and Father's Day. My mom's birthday is next, and after that, my parents' wedding anniversary.

It may be a long time before grass starts growing.

It's warm and sunny today, like chocolate chip cookies 5-minutes out of the oven.

 

[Antny]

The Santa Anita Handicap

Bearded Alcoholic Novelist Ernest Hemmingway writes:

Nobody ever lives their life all the way up except bullfighters.


I am a sucker for $0.99 Stores. I love walking around smirking at the loose-headed hammers, obscenely-scented candles, randomly bent spoons, soiled baby bibs, and hand-painted woodcarvings of clowns and/or balloons available for such a paltry sum. But yesterday, I happened into what must be the BEST $0.99 Store in the world....

------

My day started out early. The alarm was set for 8:45, but I was tossing and turning by 8:15 (could something in me have known what was to come?). At 8:45, I got a nice update on the severity of the wildfires out west, courtesy of 1010WINS and my alarm going off. I put on some shorts and a ripped T-shirt, and walked to the basketball courts at Astoria Blvd.

There's a group of 6-7 of us who have been playing basketball pretty consistently every Sunday morning for the last year or so (except when it is what we call "winter"). We are terrible. No, allow me to capitalize that. We are TERRIBLE. Part of my joy in playing is watching people at the neighboring bus stop smirk at the sheer ineptitude of our game. Old men who need the bus to "kneel" for them before they can muster the fortitude to get their creaking bones up and onto the steps, stare at us with looks of pain and disappointment akin to watching a dog die.

Yesterday none of us even had a ball. This puts a severe strain on the game, even at our skill level. So we waited while Matthew jogged to his apartment (15 mins), got a ball (2 mins), then waited for the subway to bring him back (25 mins - the jog home, he said, made him "really tired").

Then we played basketball. Or, we played at basketball. I sweated a lot and went home to take a shower. Next I ate a turkey cheeseburger deluxe platter with Ross and Charlie at the Last Stop Cafe (so named because it is at the last stop of the N train! - sadly, it took me over a year to realize this). I said my goodbyes to Ross - not too teary since he'll be back in a week and a half - and I headed into Manhattan to meet Tara.

A quick word about Ross: what a cool two weeks he's had. I have rarely seen such sustained glee in anyone. UCBT, you have done a good thing.

I'm reading this awesome book right now on the subway called SEABISCUIT. It's about a gangly racehorse from the 1920s & 30s that won a ton of races and became a national obsession. At the time, he actually got more column inches of press than FDR, but now he's almost completely forgotten. Riveting! No, really. If he dies at the end of the book, I am afraid I am going to cry.

I met Tara at the dried-up fountains at Lincoln Center. We walked up through a street fair. I do love a street fair. I got some fresh-shaken lemonade and introduced Tara to the deliciousness of Mozzarepa! We also saw some woman playing guitar and singing Indigo Girls ("I am intense, I am in need, I am in pain") while standing in the hot, stinky smoke of cooking meat. Strange fire indeed.

I realized I am supposed to be friends with Tara and yet I have only seen her improvise like 3 times. That is a poor showing on my part.

A little more subway SEABISCUIT and my next stop was the Skylight Diner for some tomato bisque soup and a meeting about potentially directing a show this fall. A theater company I co-founded produces triptychs of one-act plays. We commission plays from authors by giving them each one word of a popular trio of words (for example "wine, women, & song"). They complete their plays, we put them together into an evening of three one-acts, then the same five actors perform all three plays. So far we've done the aforementioned WINE.WOMEN.SONG., STOP DROP & ROLL, and a Christmas show: HO! HO! HO!. Up next: LATHER RINSE REPEAT.

I left the Skylight Diner and before I knew it, I was on 32nd Street between 6th and 7th Avenues, staring up at the mecca of $0.99 Stores: Jacks $0.99 Store.

This bitch has a frozen food section! I bought a big bag of frozen waffle cut potatoes, 2 bags of Simply Potatoes brand fresh hashbrowns (never frozen), a pack of Sara Lee pepperoni, 2 packages of Sara Lee deli turkey, 2 bags of frozen cheese tortellini (ready for boiling!), celery salt, garlic & pepper seasoning, fajita seasoning, a Laurel & Hardy CD of rare recordings, and a Boris Karloff CD of an old radio show called "The Inner Sanctum."

Thirteen dollars and three cents.

With tax.

Bullfighters, my ass.

It's hot and sticky today, like lying in a vat of room-temperature fish.

 

[Antny]

If I Only Had The Words (To Tell You)

Rehabilitated Piano Man Billy Joel once wrote:

I have absolutely no idea at all what is being said despite the dialogue.


There is one girl in my life who is and has always been my "fantasy girl." By "fantasy girl," I mean: I want to have sex with her. But I'm not just talking about having amazing, sweaty, skin-tingling, can't-walk-for-three-days, we-just-broke-everything-in-my-room-that's-not-made-of-wood sex; I also love her.

No, I really do love her. In the good way.

We've known each other since 6th grade, but our friendship really started in high school when I fell into the unenviable role of being "the big brother she never had." Oh the many hours I spent on the phone discussing her various and numerous liaisons, advising her on which of her many suitors was most worthy of her love, all the while wanting to shoot myself in the mouth with the proverbial unrequited love gun that gets passed around from time to time.

And here's the thing: she always dated complete tools. And I don't just say that because I wanted to shoot these idiot butt monkeys in the face with a quite literal unrequited love gun. These guys were dumb. And boring. And dumb. They were so dumb. So she fucked them and hung out with me.

This is a perfect recipe for unhealthy lust. But I really do love her, like a sister. A sister that I want to have sex with. Not really. Okay, really. But not really. Except...really. But I wouldn't.

Yes I would. But here's the deal: last night I was walking with her to Dempsey's Pub, (she's in town for a few days from Chicago (where she is getting her PhD in Neurobiology or some such thing) with her boyfriend of the last two years (who is also getting his PhD, is not dumb at all, and is, on the contrary, pretty fucking great - yay for her!)), and we were talking about this and that, catching up, and she told me I was her "best friend in the world."

This took me off guard. I care about her. I love her. But...we talk like twice a year. Since college I have only seen her four times. So, in some ways, I felt sad that I was her best friend. But she was really excited about it. She told me all of her friends know about me (none of my friends know about her), she thinks about me all the time (I sometimes think about her), I am the first person she wants to talk to when she has a problem (I share no similar impulse), and she wants me to be her "maid of honor" when she gets married (at which point I thought, "Oh wow, I guess I would probably ask her to be in my wedding.").

At first when she told me all this, I felt like a jackass. But then I realized, I'm her "fantasy friend." The truth is, it's insane that I could be her best friend, just like it's insane that I could still want to sleep with her after so many years. But that doesn't make it not true. And it also kind of balances out in a strange way into something pretty great. We really love each other, unconditionally, and that's pretty rare. It's that good kind of friendship where we don't have to keep up with the details because it all falls into place when it should. I'm really grateful for that. Besides...honestly, I love her now but I want to sleep with her five years ago.

Of course, that doesn't mean if she broke up with her boyfriend we couldn't pretend it was 1997.

It's ridiculously hot and humid today, like having nothing better to do than get peed on by a horse.

 

[Antny]

Virtual Anonymity

Anonymous Yahoo! Group Creator GaCowboyGuy writes:

Hey Fellas. I have sensed an overwhelming need to create this site for the good of Bisexual Cowboys. It is not intended for Gay folk, but for Bisexual Cowboys who might be married and need to talk about their feelings, dreams, and, well....being a Cowboy. I'd ask also that no porn be posted here. Mugshots of members, family, pets, horses only, please. I chose the name of the club for a reason. A fella is a man first, cowboy 2nd and then the smallest part of his life is his sexuality.


I think it's important to know what you want.

And I think it's even more important to know who you are.

In the past few weeks I have met a lot of new people at UCB and beyond, and I have noticed that I make no impression. I meet people, and when I see them again, if they do remember meeting me (which they normally don't), then they definitely don't know my name.

I'd be lying if I said it didn't bother me, but I've come to the conclusion that this keeps happening because I rarely allow anyone to see who I really am. This is mainly because I'm shy around new people and automatically assume they have no interest in me, but it is also because I don't know who I am, and I definitely don't know what I want.

I want to be a bisexual cowboy.

I want to look at myself and be able to say, "You know what? I love being a cowboy, but I also want to have sex with both men and women. And not only that, I want to discuss my feelings and dreams on the Internet. And I also want to see what the horses of other bisexual cowboys look like."

These are simple things. Of course, I'm not really into the bisexual or cowboy part of this scenario (I would be interested in seeing pictures of bisexual cowboys' horses), but I really admire GaCowboyGuy. Here's a guy who's complicated and not afraid to show it. He meets you and he puts it right out there:

"Hi, how you doin'? I'm GaCowboyGuy. I am a bisexual cowboy."

You're going to remember him, right!? While I'm all:

"Hi. I'm Anthony. Oh! Nice to meet you. Yeah. Yeah. Uh-huh. Really? Wow. That's cool. No, Anthony. Yeah."

But that's the whole thing! GaCowboyGuy knows what he is. I have no idea. I'm like The Man Who Wasn't There: "Barber? Okay. Dry Cleaning? Okay. UFO? Okay. I'm just gonna smoke this cigarette."

I'm definitely at a crossroads in my life right now. And I know what I need to do is stop trying to get people to like me or to do the "right thing" or whatever and just do what makes me happy, be myself - but I don't know what that is.

I can't decide if the last few months are a new awakening of personal self-awareness and growth, or if I'm just coming to the conclusion that I should have just gotten a boring, high-paying job right out of college and embraced the fact that I'm more like my father than I want to be.

It's breezy and summery today, like watching a dog romp.

 

[Antny]

How Now Dow Jones?

A Friend I'll Nickname "Coleslaw" E-mailed Yesterday:

here's the thing: today, the market is practically crashing. there is word on the street that we are not just headed for a recession, but perhaps a DEPRESSION. i don't know. i WANT to see the show tonight. i am always up for a drink. i just don't know if i have the funds.


I GOT DISSED!

Coleslaw was supposed to go with me to see "The Made-Up Musical" at UCB last night, but mid-afternoon, she sent me this e-mail and bagged out.

"There is word on the street that we are not just headed for a recession, but perhaps a DEPRESSION."

That's total bullshit! Coleslaw dosen't know anything about any word on the street. She's poor, she's a temp, and the only thing she's ever invested in is an air conditioner.

I got totally slammed. This wasn't going to be a date or anything, so I'm not really upset about it. I've just never been slammed so creatively in my entire life. I mean, it's one thing to say you don't have any money, but it's something else entirely to try to get me to believe you base your social plans on the ebb and flow of the international economic environment.

"Hey, sorry I didn't call you back yesterday. They issued a report on cattle futures and I just didn't feel like talking."

"You're hot and everything, and normally I'd totally make out with you, but the dollar is weakening in comparison to European markets, so I should probably just go home."

"No whore! Unemployment is at an all-time high!"

Anyway, I went to "The Made-Up Musical" by myself and had a good time. Afterwards I went to McManus and had some beers with the star of "Made-Up Musical" and one of the stars of "Gun Love." I was kind of tired, so at first I wasn't going to go, but then I remembered French President Chirac was almost assassinated last weekend, so I figured I had no choice.

It's 87 and sunny today, like the cast of "Golden Girls."

 

[Antny]

I keep thinking I'm a grown-up, but I'm not.

Wacky Weatherman Harris K. Telemacher said:

A kiss may not be the truth, but it is what we wish were true.


I fell in love with Bonky on the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island. We were in one of the inside cars, the ones on a track that roll forward like a tiny rollercoaster and swing out over the park as the wheel goes around. Bonky didn't know it was going to happen, so when it did, she screamed and grabbed my arm.

I didn't say anything. It was far too early in our relationship for that kind of nonsense. But I remember looking at her and thinking, "Wow. I'm in love with her. How fucking cliche that we're on a stupid ferris wheel."

I think most of my life is spent in the pursuit of movie moments. I know I don't live in a movie. I know that people who engage in the crazy antics prevalent in romantic comedies end up with warrants for their arrest and critical injuries, not barbed repartee and tongue kisses in front of fountains. But that doesn't stop me from wishing I could be the badass who stands in the yard holding a boombox over his head or falls in love with Einstein's niece.

In college, I got back together with a girl who cheated on me because I thought it would be so romantic to take her to the beach in the middle of the night and forgive her. And it was. We dry-humped till dawn. Then I spent a year sitting on her bed in her dormroom watching TV while she slept and went through a depression.

Here's something for you to put in the back of your head: Depressed people do not dry-hump.

Anyway, I say all this because a few months ago, I had my first legitimate, romantic movie moment:

Scene: The corner of 34th Street and Second Avenue. BONKY and ME have been to a nice dinner and drinks. It is the first time they have seen each other since ME told BONKY he wanted to get back together. Dinner was nice, but drinks have led to a drunken argument, climaxing in BONKY running out of the bar and ME finally stopping her on this corner.

ME: Why are you fighting?

BONKY: I don't know.

ME: Then don't.

BONKY: I don't know what to do.

ME: What do you want?

BONKY: I don't know. I'm mad.

ME: Why are you mad?

(BONKY shrugs her shoulders and looks at the ground.)

ME: Why are you mad?

(Silence. BONKY looks around drunkenly. ME stares at her, then also looks at the ground.)

ME: (after a pause) Um...This may the dumbest thing I've ever said, but...no matter how this ends tonight...we're gonna get married.

(BONKY grabs ME suddenly and kisses me. The kiss lasts and we embrace. More kissing. Eventually BONKY breaks away.)

BONKY: (whispers) I have to run away now.

(BONKY runs away. ME stands on the corner and watches her go.)


At this point in a movie, the music swells, a bus passes by, the guy clinches his fist and says "Yes!" under his breath or screams, "I love New York!," and the movie cuts to the following day: quick B-roll of New York City landmarks, a good pop song, and we're suddenly in a diner hearing the guy tell the last bit of what happened to his comic-relief sidekick and his wry best friend. Eggs all around.

In real life, I walked two long blocks to the subway by myself and rode the train to Queens.

I didn't see Bonky again for three weeks.

Now it's July 18th and I haven't seen her since my birthday. Obviously the kiss on the sidewalk is currently beating a hasty retreat to college girlfriend beach trip level...but I haven't been able to let it go. I want it to be real. I want it to mean something.

I want her to call so we can go out for another drink.

It's hot and stormy today, like a dog with his head stuck in a sack.

 

[Antny]

Just For Men

The Box of Hair Coloring in the Trash Says:

Rejuvenate your hair. Rejuvenate your life!


I had never seen my Dad cry before my mom died. He's not a man who shares his hurt. Even when he says "I love you," it's sincere, but there's an awkwardness to it, like he's trying to spit out a bug that just flew into his mouth.

So the morning after my mom died, when I woke up to the sound of him sitting at the kitchen table and literally wailing...I had no idea what to do. I got up, went into the kitchen, and just sat down at the other end of the table.

After a few minutes he spoke....

Scene: Sunday morning. DAD is seated and crying, holding the sides of the kitchen table. There is a half-eaten banana in front of him. ME is at the other end of the table, staring at the banana.

DAD: I'm sorry I woke you, son.

ME: It's okay.

(We sit in silence for a moment, both alternating our stares between an imaginary spot in the center of the table and the banana.)

DAD: I don't get to go in the bedroom and give your mother a hard time this morning.

ME: Yeah.

DAD: (imitating himself) 'Get up! Come on! You're gonna make us late for church! Get out of bed!'

(ME smiles. Pause.)

DAD: I did it every Sunday. Not any more.

ME: I know.

(DAD exhales hard.)

ME: You can give me a hard time if you want.

DAD: (smiles) Thank you, son.


We sat there for a long time after that and didn't speak. But as my Dad started eating the banana again, I realized that the way my father had always shown my mom he loved her was by giving her a hard time, ragging her about insignificant things. It was easier for him somehow than saying it, and she knew it, and loved it. It was their game. And now the game was over.

My mom's 56th birthday would have been this Saturday (July 27), so I'm home for the weekend. It's the first time I've been back since she died.

I can't really tell how well my father is doing. I know he's lonely. He makes little comments about how the phone never rings or how much it means to him when someone gives him a hug at church, how after 36 years of constant human contact, the sudden isolation is hard to take. I don't know what to do about it exactly. So I just listen.

He dyed his hair. Nothing radical, but in May it was white and now it's not white anymore. It's kind of a gray, blonde color.

Also, he isn't wearing his wedding ring.

I'm not ready to discuss these changes with him because I'm not sure how I feel about them. But I want him to do whatever he needs to do. So really...at least for now, there's nothing to say.

Meanwhile he's sorting through all of my mom's things (he's found over $1200 she had hidden away so she could surprise him with presents for birthdays, etc. without him noticing a large ATM withdrawal or credit card charge - yet another game, one of the ones she played) and he's trying to figure out what to do with his time. He leaves the TV on (which he never watches) just so it's not so quiet in the house.

This weekend...my dad, my brother, and I are going camping. It'll be nice to get away and do something we did almost every weekend during summers growing up. I just wish we were all going to be there.

Happy Birthday Mom. The three men you lived your life for are all together and thinking about you.

It's rainy with low, gray clouds today in NC, like a snail.

 

[Antny]

For Whom the Bell Tolls

Sober Pastor of Del Rio Community Church Randy Bell writes:

Booze does not have a good reputation. More people die on our highways from drunk drivers than soldiers lost on the battlefield. Families are broken up and violence always follows booze. The drunk only leave their filth to sicken God.


This is really true. Often at the end of a night of ribald drunkenness I will look around my bottle-strewn apartment and think to myself, "I'm gonna leave all this shit here till morning, just to piss God off." Then I crack some heads.

I decided at about 11:30 yesterday morning that I was going to go home after work and drink scotch by myself until I either (a) passed out or (b) ran out of scotch. I was happy with this plan because (c) there's a part of me that really, really wants to be an alcoholic (not forever, just for a few months - about the same amount of time I think it would be fun to be a truck driver) and (d) I kind of had an emotional breakdown.

I always feel like an angst-ridden, whiny jackass when I have days like yesterday. But the truth is, it's pretty unhealthy to hang out with booze by yourself, especially when you're sad. So, I told some other people about my plan. Next thing I know, they made plans to come over drink heavily with me.

Adding friends to the mix made my desire for a temporary respite from - let's call it 2002 - much more socially acceptable and a lot more fun. Thanks friends!

But here's what has come to be my real deal about drinking: I was raised in a family that had none of it. None. Nada. Nunca. I didn't have a drink until I was 21, and as far as my parents know, I've never had a drink (their religious denial about this fact is only exceeded by their religious conviction that I have never had premarital sex).

One night right after we buried my mom, I had this compulsion to go out to the cemetary and smoke a pack of cigarettes over her grave. I don't smoke at all; I wanted to try to make her sit up and tell me to stop. Now, whenever I engage in the parts of my life that my mom either didn't know about or pretended not to know about, I wonder if she's somewhere watching me, disappointed.

I guess I don't care enough to actually stop doing any of these things. But then again, I also had plans after my mom died to start going to church every week, and I haven't done that either. See, when I had the phone conversation with my mom before she went into surgery that was billed as "the last time we would ever speak to each other" (even though at the time I didn't know for certain that would be true), she told me her wishes for my life, and one of them was that I would go to church (my mom was an incredibly religious woman). After she died, I figured, "Well, she devoted her entire life to me, I can spend an hour a week doing what she asked." But I haven't.

I'm not sure why. It bothers me though. And I'm pretty sure it sickens God.

It's nasty hot today, like rubbing up against a sweaty, shirtless, fat man.

 

[Antny]

Water Out Of Sunlight

Abbreviated British Poet T.S. Eliot wrote:

What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.


Scene: Saturday night. Flipside. The back line. ME appears to be fully engaged in the scene unfolding before him, but unbeknownst to anyone else, his wide eyes actually reflect the fierce battle between PRESENT and FUTURE raging inside. We overhear their conflict.

PRESENT: Listen. Support.

FUTURE: In forty-five minutes, I'll be having drinks with Bonky.

PRESENT: Don't think about that. Focus! Watch the scene.

FUTURE: Dear Jesus, please let the drinks I'm about to have go well. Amen.

PRESENT: Stop! Pay attention to what you're doing. Oh look, Chris just tagged in.

FUTURE: This is going to be a disaster. If she tells me she's dating someone else, I'm going to walk out.

PRESENT: What the-? Everyone's singing! Callback! Callback!

ME: (sings out loud with the rest of the team) I'm Gonna Get Laid Tonight! I'm Gonna Get Laid Tonight!

PRESENT: Edit! I should run across...

FUTURE: Wait! I wonder if there's a possiblity that I could get laid tonight?

PRESENT: Shit. Missed the edit.


After Flipside, I walked uptown to Waterfront Ale House to meet Bonky. I had coleslaw; she was beautiful. We drank belgian beer. And we talked. For hours. It was great.

We traded recent dream stories:

MINE - Years from now, looking out a window from inside our house, watching her pull into the driveway with our daughter in the front seat.

HERS - Years from now, running around a church in her wedding dress, desperate because I didn't show up.

Obviously there are some issues to be addressed, and I have a lot to prove. But...we both got to be frank about where we we've been and where we want to be. And then we engaged the inevitable question: So, what do we do now?

We didn't find all the answers; she's very conflicted. But...we're going on a date next week. Her idea.

No expectations. No promises. Let it ride.

Thanks Jesus.

It's clear, breezy, and beautiful today, like a smile when you least expect it.

 

[Antny]

Rarely Pure and Never Simple

Victorian Author and Accused "Somdomite" Oscar Wilde said:

The stage is not merely the meeting place of all the arts, but is also the return of art to life.


I'm directing again. This is probably a good thing since whenever anyone asks me what I do, I always say, "I'm a director."

Then they say, "Movies?!" And I disappoint them by saying, "No. Theater."

Then they try to pretend like they're still interested by saying, "Oh! Which theater?" - to which there is no answer, only a tedious explanation that the person doesn't really want to hear - so I just shrug and say, "Yeah."

That usually ends the conversation.

The frustration of this exchange is akin to the following:

Scene: YOU is on the phone. FRIEND is on a different phone.

FRIEND: Come out and drink a gallon of booze with me tonight.

YOU: I can't. I have practice with my improv group.

FRIEND: (incredulous) What?! It's improv!. What are you gonna practice? I thought you make it all up.


The look on your friend's face when you follow up this "hilarious" insight with an explanation of forms and group mind and keeping your skills sharp, is the same bleary-eyed trance I see when I actually try to explain that most directors don't really work for one theater. We're freelance. We take the jobs where we can get them.

Well, for the last four months, I've been turning them down.

In April, I closed a new musical downtown called Mister. It was potentially a big deal for me: a new musical starring Anthony Rapp (Rent, A Beautiful Mind, Adventures In Babysitting), great music, great cast, awesome designers - what could go wrong?

Well, the book was terrible. And what's worse, the book writer was a curmudgeonly old coot (I'll call him Crunch Junkie) who thought he was a genius but really had absolutely no idea how to make a musical or, now that I think about it, write an emotionally relevant play. On top of this, he was a control freak...and the producer.

The end product was a nightmare and a fiasco. When we opened and audiences started telling us what most of us had always known - that the book was hilariously bad - Crunch Junkie decided, incredibly, that the book was actually great and the staging was to blame. Then he concocted a story about an "anonymous producer" who was interested in picking up the show but decided not to because "the staging was so horrible."

The sheer ridiculousness of that statement is staggering, outdone only by his subsequent request for me to "come up with five new staging ideas." Yes, he wanted random staging changes from me because he had no idea what was wrong, he just wanted to be able to say he was improving the play while he actually ignored the real problem.

Well, I told him his focus was off, and the entire project slumped to conclusion on the backs of a very hard-working, beleaguered cast, culminating in a rehearsal (run by Crunch Junkie, who had come up with some insignificant staging changes of his own) during which Anthony Rapp completely snapped and Crunch Junkie emphatically told me that I had "ruined four years of his work."

So, I took a break from directing. It's not that I thought anything Crunch Junkie said was true (my cast, crew, and collaborators made sure to tell me it wasn't), I just decided it wasn't worth the headache. Or the alcoholism.

And truth be told, I was burnt out. It had been three and a half years of constant work. Better to walk away, think about what I'd done, learn from my mistakes, and figure out what should come next - not to mention start doing improv all the damn time.

Cut to four months later - I've just started directing a new play called The Forced Confession. It opens in three weeks, and I am thrilled to say I really like the script...and the author.

I've also realized that the things I love about directing are the same things I love about improv: collaboration, creation, commitment, and connection.

This in turn makes me wonder if I really want a career as a director. Do I love directing? Or do I love the pursuit of these ideals? What about all the things improv does for me that directing doesn't?

I should probably figure this out before I apply to grad school.

It is grossly hot and humid today, like a giant clam exploded.

 

[Antny]

A Weekend In The Country

Lyrical Wordsmith Stephen Sondheim wrote:

Best to take the moment present as a present for the moment...


I started freaking out on the beach Saturday afternoon. I had been looking forward to sitting on a beach by myself for so long that when the moment finally came, I couldn't decide if it was perfect or boring. So I started making a schedule:

30 minutes - Lay still
30 minutes - Play in ocean
30 minutes - Lay still again
30 minutes - Walk on the beach
30 minutes - Stop being a retard

------

I never went to sleep Thursday night. After watching OI squeak by The Swarm in a totally fun Cagematch, I went home to join my roommate in the first leg of watching all 24 episodes of 24 in 24 hours. I have to say, it's pretty rad to see the sun come up at the end of the "5:00am-6:00am" episode and then look outside to see the actual sun coming up.

Sure, it doesn't sound exciting - but after you've been up all night "helping" Jack Bauer uncover the plot against Senator David Palmer while hoping against hope that Terri Bauer will find a way to get to her sexy-shirted daughter before something terrible happens - seeing the sun rise on TV and in the sky at the same time is a fucking miracle.

Around 7:15am, I joined my single-serving friends, Muscles In A Tank Top and Elbows With An I-Pod, in a tiny little space Delta Airlines has seen fit to call a "row." Take a lesson from American, Delta. Give us more room throughout coach.

Thirty minutes from landing at PBI, I looked out the window to see an amazing formation of cumulonimbi (thunderheads to the layperson), lined up in a wave pattern like the cartoon weather fronts you see on the projected maps from local newscasts. They were amazing, and made for a nice detour inland over the flat, rotting swampland of South Florida - trailer park after trailer park, separated only by long canals of black swamp water and long trails of grey highway. It's true: sometimes there is God so quickly.

I had hoped to go straight to the beach, but my friend "Tally" had other plans. (I call him "Tally" because his name is Tally. He's important because the reason (read: excuse) for going to West Palm Beach was to see him in a show at Florida Stage.) Tally wanted to go to River Rapids - a water park. Cool by me. I like waterslides. I also like to look at hot girls in bikinis. But the trip to River Rapids left me feeling old, sick, and sun burnt.

I felt sun burnt because Tally and I decided that "suntan lotion is for pussies" and the sun proceeded to mock us mercilessly for being so crass. I felt old and sick because over and over again I would see a hot girl in a bikini only to look up and see a mouth full of braces or an angelic pre-teen smile. BOO! Put some clothes on!!! Stop drinking so much milk!! Or something. This is out of hand. When I was 10-years-old, the girls I knew did not have big breasts, hot asses, and low-cut bikinis. They wore striped T-shirts and one-piece bathing suits with a lizard on the front and looked like me, only cuter.

I've never really been an old fogey longing for a return to yesteryear, but I think kids shouldn't subscribe to Seventeen until they're seventeen! You know what I'm saying? Be kids!

Does that magazine even still exist?

Friday night I saw Tally in The Spitfire Grill. It played in New York last fall, and its failure was blamed on September 11th. I blame its failure on the fact that it sucks. Do not sing to me, "Way ho! Ice and snow. The air is cold and the wind does blow." Those are shitball lyrics. You mock the memory of everyone who died on September 11th when you blame the failure of crap like that on terrorists.

That being said, it was a delightful production.

So Saturday afternoon, while Tally performed the matinee of The Shitball Grill, I went to the beach. Well, I had to sneak into the super-swanky and maze-like Ritz-Carlton and pretend to be a guest while wandering through the hallways trying to find a door that led to the beach and not to the kitchen or a big empty room, but I did finally make it to the beach.

I secured a chair and a little piece of sand, stretched out, sat there for five minutes, and promptly freaked out. After so much going - not just in the last two days, but in the last few months - I felt like I was having a giant muscle spasm. My body didn't know how to relax. I didn't know how to not think. So...I made a schedule.

Then I stopped, scolded myself for the above-mentioned retardness, and took a nap. Then I woke up. I sat up. And I watched the waves crash for like an hour. And I didn't think about anything. It was awesome.

I feel so much better now. I'm happy, I'm tan, I'm excited to be back in New York - plus I've got big breasts, a hot ass, and a low-cut bikini.

It's sunny and milder today, like REM without Bill Berry.

 

[Antny]

Depth

Dialectical Philosopher Plato said:

At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet.


My parents' 36th wedding anniversary is tomorrow. In honor of the occasion, I'm trying to understand how you deal with being suddenly alone after 36 years of marriage, 36 years of living with the person you love. It's unfathomable. I am unable to fathom it.

Yesterday I wrote my dad a long e-mail. I called him on Sunday night, but we didn't really talk about the anniversary because...well...we don't really speak out loud about hard, emotional things like that. He always just kind of mumbles and I just kind of bite my lip and finally I say, "So you got the new depth finder installed in the boat?"

Anyway, since I had no idea what to say, and because, honestly, this occasion has very little to do with me and my brother, I just decided to tell him that I was thinking about him and hoping he was okay. Also, I forwarded him my post-Father's Day journal entry (Grave Situations). It was weird to send him something I wrote that was inspired by something he said, but I hoped maybe by sharing what I was feeling, it would make him feel less alone. I don't know if that makes any sense.

I wanted it to mean something to him, but I was sure I would open my e-mail today and have a response from him that said:

HI SON

I am looking forward to taking the boat out this weekend and testing the new depth finder. Thank you for your e-mail.

Love,
Dad


Instead, I got this:

HI SON

It was nice to hear from you. You and your brother help keep me from being so lonely.

You are right our 36th wedding anniversary is Thursday. I am going camping. The birthdays and anniversaries do not seem to be as significant (don't have to find a present) as such things as not having a social secretary or moving her clothes out. The empty closet jumps out as a reminder that she is not coming home.

I appreciate your sense of loss and your concern for me. I find I can talk about who she was or what she did without too much problem. But, if I talk about her being gone or not coming home, I cloud up. I miss her!

Thanks for your journal entry. It's the way I remember it. Just so you know, the grass is growing onto the grave, the edges are moving towards the center. In fact some grass has gone across. I go by most every week and pull the weeds and crab grass and pick up the rocks that keep working to the surface. The ground is healing and so am I.


I know how hard it was for my Dad to write this, how many times he revised that last paragraph in his attempt to make a connection with me and what I sent him - and I cannot even express how overwhelming that is.

Maybe that's the real definition of family.

It's cool and wet today, like spilling rubbing alcohol on your leg then blowing on it.

 

[Antny]

Race For the Prize

Confetti Hurler and Ecstatic Frontman Wayne Coyne wrote:

It's summertime, and I can understand if you still feel sad. It's summertime, and though it's hard to see its true possibilities - when you look inside, all you'll see is a self-reflected inner sadness - look outside, I know that you'll recognize it's summertime.


I've had a rough year. I think I forget that sometimes.

But I was playing Text Twist this morning, trying to decipher the six-letter word YELTNP (you have to get the six-letter word to advance to the next level), and I got very contemplative.

It's really easy to focus on the bad things in life - all the things that don't work out, the tragedies, the worries, the angst. And sometimes it's nice to wallow in it. Self-pity/blame/doubt can be very safe, warm surroundings.

I've definitely been doing that for the last few months. I'm not beating myself up about it. I'm gonna go ahead and say it's okay to spend a few months being sad when your mother dies. And I'm gonna say it's okay to reevaluate things when you're feeling burnt out or disappointed.

But sooner or later, you've gotta make some decisions, and you've gotta take some action, and you've gotta start moving again.

I don't really know where I'm moving to. I am more confused about where I want my life to go (and where it is possible for it to go) than I have ever been, even when I was twelve-years-old and thought I wanted to be an orthodontist. But...I'm ready to explore again.

And luckily, I've got PLENTY of things to do.

I fucking love the Flaming Lips.

It's sunny and warm today, like a big, awesome cheeseburger.

 

[Antny]

There Is Nothing Left To Lose

Guitarist, Drummer, and Frontman Dave Grohl wrote:

I just kinda died for you, you just kinda stared at me.


I woke up late Sunday morning and immediately thought, "Oh shit, I was supposed to play basketball today. Oops."

So I went back to sleep. Then later, I woke up again and I thought, "Hey! I get to see Bonky today! Awesome."

So, I got out of bed, picked up the trash that my fan had blown across the floor during the night, and stumbled into the bathroom. Pee, pee, pee. Wash, wash, wash. Look in the mirror.

Scene: Sunday morning. ME is standing in his bathroom, looking in the mirror.

ME: Oh fuck. Fuck me. Jesus fuck.

ME'S BRAIN: I have a zit on the end of my nose. I have a ridiculous, cartoon, 1980's-teen-movie zit on the end of my nose - on the very, very tip end of my nose.

(I move my head around trying to find an angle that makes the monstrosity marginally palatable, but no dice. My nose looks like an advertisement for Ruby Red Grapefruit Juice. And I'm supposed to see Bonky in four hours!)

ME'S BRAIN: There is no acne treatment known to man that will tame a raging, boisterous blackhead in only four hours.

ME: Shit.

ME'S BRAIN: SHIT! What am I supposed to do? What the hell am I supposed to do? I can't see Bonky like this. But I'm sure as hell not going to cancel on her.

ME: I AM 27 YEARS OLD!! WHY THE FUCK DO I HAVE A MOTHERFUCKING ZIT ON MY NOSE!?!

ME'S BRAIN: God hates me. That's it. That has to be it. God, Supreme Creator of the Universe, Clockmaker of Time, or whatever the hell you want to call Him, HATES me. He hates me. God knows I was going to see Bonky today (for the first time in three weeks!!) and he's punishing me. For what!? FOR WHAT!?!

I shouldn't have said "Jesus fuck."

ME: (to God) Sorry.

ME'S BRAIN: But I had the zit before I said "Jesus fuck" so this has to be about something else! WHAT IS IT!?!


I kind of overreacted. But man - what a crappy time to get the biggest zit I've had since the day I got my yearbook pictures taken senior year of high school. And on my nose too! The end of my nose! I want Bonky to be attracted to me, not ask me to make her a balloon animal.

I smeared Clearasil Tinted on it, which somehow made it shinier - browner, yes, but shinier. Then I went to meet Bonky at the New York Historical Society. They had some great exhibits: NY Times photographs from the 1950s, political campaign buttons from every presidential campaign in the modern era, and a display of Victorian-era board games.

When we met each other in the lobby I contemplated ways to cover my nose with my hand, but short of pretending I needed to sneeze for the rest of the day, I couldn't think of anything. Luckily I'm taller than Bonky, so when we were looking at the exhibits, I stood behind her.

Then it happened: We were in the Victorian Board Games exhibit, walking away from a display of truly despicable "racially explicit" board games (they were incredibly horrible games called things like "Pick 'im From the Watermelon Patch" and, worst of all, a puzzle game consisting of cartoon drawings of minstrel-like characters called "Chopped-Up Niggers"), and Bonky reached over and took my hand.

The first real intimate contact initiated by Bonky (while sober) since we broke up in December...and it will be forever linked in my mind with "Chopped-Up Niggers."

ME: (to God) I told you! Whatever it is...I'm sorry!

We're supposed to go out again this Friday. I'm excited about it. I don't know what's going to happen exactly, but I figure, if God, acne, and racists can't stop Bonky from wanting to hold my hand, there's gotta be some reason we're supposed to be together.

It's sunny and autumnal today, like bran muffins.

 

[Antny]

Brownian Motion

Squinty-Eyed Physicist and German Albert Einstein said:

Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted.


Improv saved my life.

Okay, I'm being dramatic.

When I moved to New York four years ago, I left a legacy of shortform improvisational brilliance (HA!) to pursue a career in the theater. My first step in that pursuit was an internship at Manhattan Theatre Club. An internship that paid $105/week.

Doing some quick math, you might notice that $105/week is not enough to live in New York City (unless you want to live without small conveniences - like a roof). So, I got a night job doing desktop publishing at Merrill Lynch.

My schedule was thus:

10am-6pm - Manhattan Theatre Club
8pm-10pm - See theater (most nights)
11pm-12am - Home/Change clothes
1am-8am - Merrill Lynch
REPEAT

Doing some quick reading, you might notice that I never slept. This is mostly true. On the few nights I didn't have to see a show, I would sleep for a few hours, but otherwise, I was a zombie. I basically lived two years in one and I can hardly remember any of it.

But I was making it, goddammit! I was in New York City (yeah!) and I was working in the theater (oooh!) and assisting on Off-Broadway shows (aaah!) and my girlfriend dumped me (huh?) and I never saw my friends (boo...) and I blacked out a lot and ate teabags (wha!?).

It was ridiculous. It was necessary - I would not have been able to live here and do what I was doing otherwise - but it was ridiculous. I don't recommend it. Have rich parents or something instead.

Anyway, those asshole terrorists ended my night job. But that didn't matter, the blinders were firmly attached. I was bound and determined to make a beeline towards the career goals I set for myself back in 1998 no matter what.
Happiness? Later!
Fulfillment? It will come!
Fun? Shut yo mouth!

Then Mr. Charlie Todd moved into my apartment. He was all hyped up on this drug called longform improv. And he kept talking about it while I was studiously directing a plagued production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. I would come home miserable because my set looked like it was painted by a lazy retard who hated me, and Charlie would come home giddy because Michael Delaney just broke off a stick of Nirvana and fed it to him.

I really owe Charlie a lot. Because of him, I read Truth In Comedy and I started seeing shows at UCB and...very slowly, this long-dormant section of my brain started creaking to life. I started remembering how much fun it is to amble, and I realized how very far away I was from the philosophies of improv - philosophies I used to live by.

Blinders are for horses and spastics.

Maybe this is really obvious to everyone else, but to me it was like the sky opened up and Skittles that taste a lot better than actual Skittles came pouring down on top of me. It was awesome.

Now it's October and I'm practicing or performing improv 4-5 nights a week (kickass!). None of my friends understand it (oh well!), my dad keeps reminding me I'm in New York to be a director (sure, sure), and I'm having more fun than I've had in years (BOOM!).

I do still want to be a director, and I honestly think my study of improv is making me a better one. But...who cares!? It's given me a bevy of new friends, it's introduced me to an endlessly facinating artistic sensibility, and it's making me a better me.

Now I'm being dramatic and sappy.

It's cool and bright today, like your mom's hand on your face when you're sick.

 

[Antny]

This Was Uncalled For

Self-Obsessed Orphaned Writer David Eggers wrote:

Why do you want to share your suffering?
By sharing it I will dilute it.

But it seems like it might be just the opposite -- by sharing it you might be amplifying it.
How do you mean?

Well, by telling everyone about it, you purge yourself, but then, because everyone knows this thing about you, everyone knows your story, won't you be constantly reminded of it, unable to escape it?
Maybe.


I always say a prayer when I'm about to fly. Just as the plane squares itself on the runway and we begin hurtling towards either inexplicable flight or fiery death, I mutter something - usually something mildly audible (because the audibility of it makes it mean more), usually something like: "Dear God, thank you. I'm sorry. Please forgive me. I'm sorry. Thank you."

I recite this holy shorthand (developed during 25 years of enforced, instructed conversation with God and Jesus), because the plane will crash unless I say a prayer, and because I have been taught that if you have unforgiven sins when you die, you go to hell.

I'm not saying I necessarily believe this is true (sometimes I probably do and sometimes I don't), but I've always adopted the "better safe than sorry" approach to the possiblity of my soul being tortured in a fiery pit for all eternity. Then last week I flew on a plane, and when I started mumbling, I realized I wasn't talking to anyone anymore.

God is dead, right?

I don't know. I don't know if that's really true. But maybe He doesn't exist. Maybe religion is the opiate of the masses. Maybe we're all wasting a hell of a lot of time. Maybe my mom is dead and I want some fucking answers.

Here it is:

I don't know why I write in this journal. I don't know why it makes me feel better to put things in paragraphs, to distance myself from the guts of it, to have strangers and aquaintances skim my pathos while they sit bored at their (temp) jobs.

I don't know why my brother won't talk about my mom. I don't know why, the night she died, I just stared at him with my stupid mouth open when he said, "I only ever said mean things to her. She thought I hated her."

I don't know why that has to be true.

I don't know why my father is collecting the rocks that work themselves to the surface of my mother's grave in a coffee can. I don't know why he's keeping that coffee can in the trunk of his car. I don't know why he has no idea why he's doing it either.

Worst of all, I don't know why I'm feeling so much anger all of a sudden, five months after she died, five months after I dealt with all the Why?'s and No!'s and How come?'s...and Fuck you, this should have been her wake-up call, not the end!

My dad is keeping rocks from my mother's grave in a coffee can in the trunk of his car.

I have this wicked compulsion to dig her up, to prove it to myself. It's only been five months. She's in a sealed coffin, her body filled with formaldehyde. Except for the melted make-up, she'd look exactly the same way she did the day we put her there. Right? Right? Oh, she's dead? She's really dead? Prove it to me. I want to see it.

I hate old, fat people. I can't stand to look at them. I feel heat rush through me when I pass them on the street: fat, old retired couples doing touristy, retired things together - things my parents will never do. I want to push them down, roll them down hills in wheelchairs with no brakes, snap their shins with a swift kick like a hardcore soccer player. Why aren't they dead? Why aren't they dead instead?

I know. Woe is me, right? Woe. Is. Me.

Well, I want my mom to be alive. How are you?

It's cool and windy today, like Homecoming.