Skip to content

Monthly Archives: November 2006

A Crisis on Crushing Krisis (or, Welcome to NaBloPoMo)

You go to Wikipedia to look up one thing and it turns into your entire night. Not a night about that one thing, but a night about all sorts of things you never knew about before.

For example, I never knew that there is a shrimp capable of producing shockwaves with its claws that can kill small fish or break glass. And I didn’t know that DC Comics’ hero Animal Man could manifest that power, or the power of any other animal, proportional to the size of his body.

I do know a bit about DC Comics in general, which came part and parcel with being a young boy in the eighties. I can rattle off the origins of all the major heroes as if reading straight from the origin cards that came with their Super Powers toys: Superman the sole survivor from Krypton, Batman an orphan, Wonder Woman an Amazon, et cetera.

The problem that DC Comics was having in the 1980s was that the origins weren’t really that simple, and neither was anything else. As a new influx of readers emerged from the simplified realm of cartoons and toys they discovered that Superman wasn’t exactly a sole survivor… Supergirl was his cousin, and Krypto the Superdog was his long lost pet. So much for being Krypton’s last son.

Other heroes had similarly puzzling paradoxes. The problems weren’t the fault of any single writer or editor so much as they was the fault of almost fifty years of accumulated comics continuity. Eventually the continuity became so splintered that some of the odder stories were explained away as occurring on alternate versions of Earth, but even this couldn’t solve all of the confusion.

The result was Crisis on Infinite Earths – a DC Comics event whose stage was the entire multiverse (and every comic title), and whose stakes were the very existence of life as we know it. Various Supermen and Wonder Women from other realities were knocked off over the course of the event, along with their confusing accomplices (like the aforementioned Supergirl).

When the dust settled the DC Universe was “rebooted” with a single Earth, containing heroes with discernable backstories that could be easily portrayed by cartoons and toys. Ever since, any continuity-impacting event is a “Crisis.” Last year had an Identity Crisis, this year an Infinite Crisis.

I swear, there was a point to all of that. Hang in there.

Crushing Krisis has been around for an extraordinary six years without interruption; it’s the longest running blog in Philadelphia.

Longrunning blogs are just as confusing as those pre-Crisis comic book stories. Blogs easily mix the present with the past, and the longer a blog exists the more and more of the present becomes the past in the form of archives. Past personal dramas continue to be referenced and – aside from the occasional backlink – a new reader is expected to keep up with the narrative without the benefit of comics standards like toys, or trading cards. Or stories set on alternate Earths.

In honor of National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo), here at Crushing Krisis we are having a DC Comics style Crisis. A Crushing Krisis Crisis. Krisis’s Crushing Crisis. Krisis of Infinite Crises. I don’t know, choose whatever you think is catchy.

The point is that – for the entirety of November – I’m rebooting.

Because of my participation in NaBloPoMo I’ll be posting at least once every day, and my posts will contain everything you need to know about my life. Every character and plot strand will be introduced anew. No assumptions, no backstory, no backlinks – not even to reference things that were really funny the first time around. And, to up the ante, if I want to link to one of my original songs in order to refer to it, I will need to provide a brand-new recording of the song, commissioned especially for NaBloPoMo.

I hope this novel idea piques your interest enough to stay tuned through NaBloPoMo and Beyond, whether you are a regular reader or a random surfer. Welcome to the all new Crushing Krisis!

Who Am I, Anyhow?

With this month being my blog reboot, I thought an appropriate second post would be something resembling my bio.

I am a blogger. My blog is called Crushing Krisis because I crush-on or am-crushed-by anything and everything, and because my longtime internet handle is “krisis.”

I am a singer-songwriter often too shy or too perfectionist to allow anyone to hear my work.

I am an only child, which sometimes represents itself via my stubborn – often luddite – attitude towards change, as well as my frequent joining and discarding of various recreational activities that involve other people.

I am a Magna Cum Laude graduate of Drexel University. While I obtained my degree I worked one and a half years as a full time, fully paid intern as part of Drexel’s Co-Op program.

I am a Communications Representative at a major Philadelphia company by day, having given up a dream of Journalism in favor of making large(r) sums of money.

I am surrounded by a disproportionately talented and liberal group of friends, the vast majority of whom were made through my (often abortive) involvement with different theatre and music groups in college.

I am obsessed with improving the little things that impact my self-perception. I spend every day obsessing over and trying to improve my budget, my writing, my diet, and my musical skills.

I am a believer in karma – i think if you give good you will always get better.

I am currently the happiest and healthiest i have been in my entire life.

A Picture Share!

Your author commutes incognito to avoid neighbors, coworkers, fans, and roving coke dealers.

Endless Intake (or, Thoughts on Identity)

I often move through my life feeling as though I have no walls – no resistance to the personalities and pop culture surrounding me.

For years I absorbed the opinions and styles of everything and everything else so much so that I had trouble getting a handle on who I was underneath it all. My opinions and reactions were just a collection of easily identified demographic influences – everything to do with what I consumed or the image that others projected on me, and very little to do with me.

I often manifested this uncertainty of self by acting out – needing to grow out my hair, or to wear flashy clothes and makeup, or to be the loudest most-opinionated person in a room. I still like doing all three of those things from time to time, but now I see that – taken as a whole – they were just my way of trying to create a tangible, distinguishable identity. No one could ignore or forget the long-haired boy in body glitter and black vinyl arguing with you at the top of his lungs.

My outgrowth of that phase might be why explain why I have given up radio and television altogether. People often express shock and horror at the fact that I don’t watch television at all; it’s as if they cannot comprehend even the idea of it. Too many people define themselves by the television show they spend the most time watching, and as a minor-league obsessive-compulsive and a major-league fan I was primary amongst that demographic.

After over two years of media deprivation and gainful employment I feel like I have a better handle on “me” than ever. I’ve found enough of my own opinions, tastes, and stories that I no longer need them to be sublimated by the tightly written copy of others.

However, aside from locking myself in my room I still haven’t found a way to resist the influence of people, and how they make me feel so fuzzy around the edges as their traits osmose into me. I pick up other people’s handwriting as if I am made of silly putty, the curves and splines of my letters easily influenced. My manner and style of speech is just is easily swayed.

I like blogging because it is a way of taking back me. I’ve always been the most comfortable with the written word, and keeping a written archive of my experiences and feelings allows me to re-experience – re-absorb – the aspects of me that matter the most. It makes it easier to get back in character because it represents the most crystalline, most consistent version of me.

I might not ever have a defense against the barrage of media and opinions that greets me each day as I set foot on my front step, but I now also have something much more indelible at my center. And that’s a good feeling.

Trio: Season Five, Suite #1!

Trio: Season Five, Suite #1:
Songs on the Topic of Identity:
Hyperbole, Apart, Seams

Trio – the original singer-songwriter web session – returns for its fifth season featuring my own DIY music. This season each trio of songs will have a loose topic to connect them, which will often correspond to a recent post.

A sample of what I had to say in this Trio…

Re: Trio
It started out with me in my bedroom with a shitty guitar and this tiny little pinprick of a microphone on the top of my computer monitor. … It’s still very do-it-yourself … it’s no science. The sounds that come out are the sounds that come out.

Hyperbole
What you can’t know from just hearing it is that song was written with and always performed with my often-times co-writer Gina Martinelli. It’s a song that holds a lot of meaning for me, and for a while I had given up doing it by myself. … I discovered in the same way that I can cover a song by The Supremes, I can do a song that’s a me-and-gina song and just own it, and fill in those spaces (or not fill in those spaces) with something that’s uniquely me.

Apart
It illustrates … that sometimes I just can’t help but let in the opinions of other people, and for a long time I didn’t really know what to do about that.

Seams
It’s very different from my other songs, and I feel like it really actually says something about me.

You can download the entire Trio , or download the single of “Seams.”

Bleary-but-Wide Eyed

It is in the general vicinity of freezing outside, and the incursion of said temperature into our house is the only thing keeping me awake and alert at the moment. And, in my least wakeful state the only two things i can really manage are playing guitar and blogging, and it’s way too cold to play guitar.

Elise went off to have breakfast at Ikea and shopping in other heated buildings, leaving me to suffer alone from my refusal to turn on the heat before Thanksgiving. Because, underneath this 25-yr-old wrapper i am clearly a stingy old lady living from pension check to pension check.

I want to start winging my way around the NaBloPoMo sites in order to try to catch a little of every writer, but Eden over at Fussy is not done updating the big list of urls (at least, i don’t think she is, because i’m not on it yet, which is OKAY), and the OCD Godzilla inside me says that’d if i start surfing now i’d just have to start over later when the rest of the participants were added. I’ll do whatever you say, OCD Godzilla, just please don’t step on my cold little house or make me talk in overdubbed English.

In the meantime, NaBloPoMoer Lane has created a NaBloPoMo randomizer that will satisfy your endless curiosity about what people would write about every day anyhow.

When i first followed that link i thought, hmm, Lane, that couldn’t be the Lane who i used to read on Trianide, who i loved because she had a webcam but wasn’t a whore, who took amazing photos, and who loved Fiona Apple, could it? This Lane is living in a completely different hemisphere. Surely not the same Lane. Well, from a quick glance at Trianide it turns out it that it is the same Lane! NaBloPoMo: Bringing people together.

Does it count as using the heat if i go downstairs and turn on the oven to cook something but then huddle in front of it to absorb its warmth? It seems like a suitably in-character thing to do if i’m going to keep acting like a batty, frugal, old lady with OCD. And possibly dementia.

Live From the Icebox

I’ve convinced my inner OCD Godzilla that there’s no harm in randomly surfing through some NaBloPoMo blogs as long as I track them meticulously via a spreadsheet. He, in turn, will not consume my soul with the power of his Atomic Breath.

I’m realizing that Fussy, much like the Dooce, almighty queen of the internet, is a blogger with a small child. The difference would seem to be that Dooce was already in-progress on queendom when she had her baby (the adorable Leta), wheras Fussy began with precocious Jackson already in place.

In any event, young married women with adorable children (Alpha Moms? I’m not clear on what that means, exactly) seem to be Fussy’s primary demographic, so i have no doubt i’ll be encountering lots of cute little babies in my web surfing, which is fine, because i completely understand that while babies are cute they also scream indiscriminantly when you are recording a new song, and i am still way too self-involved to want to be responsible any sort of creature that involves my having to record more takes of anything. This also extends to birds and yappy dogs.

What’s a little disconcerting is that a lot of these people are totally my peers, except they spend their money on diapers and care about other people while i’m still spending money on concert tickets and am completely self-involved. It sortof freaks me out. I mean, i can withstand, like, ten whole minutes of pictures of cute babies, but the lack of self-involvement is a little disturbing. At least Fussy and Dooce are both still obsessed with themseves. And, they both still enjoy a strong cocktail.

Oh, right, websites. The first NaBloPoMo blog i happened upon is called Rudderless, and Loving It. Here i thought the title was just punny and figurative but – NAY – it is about a family who lives on a boat in the Florida keys (to which my response was OMG, they have internet on boats!!!). They link to quite possibly the cutest halloween picture of all time.

When i was younger my mom seemed to primarily date men who owned boats, and even though i could never fit my entire comic book collection onto one i really liked going for a ride because boats just make so much more sense than cars, and because i liked parking it in open water and then going underneath to take a nap. Also, the first time i rode on a boat it was with a funny older lady who had a cat and an inexaustible supply of oreo cookies, whereas the first memory i have of a car involves my mother locking a tiny, toddler-sized me in our golden Nova at a gas station.

And people wonder why i don’t have my driver’s license. Oh, right, topic. Back to the topic.

Pam Rentz blogs at You’re Doing It Wrong; anyone who ends a technical blog-related lament with the sentence “No doubt a bottle of red wine will be involved” is awesome. Also, apparently Lucy Lawless remade herself into some sort of blues-belting rock animal via a television show called Celebrity Duets? I never really watched Xena, but there is definitely something inherently awesome about Lucy that just got awesomer now that i know she’s an aspiring blues singer trapped inside the body of a Glamazon.

I just wandered downstairs and i think it is literally warmer in the refridgerator than in the rest of the kitchen. Gingerbread Latte often refers to herself in third-person plural and uses [redacted] in her blog, which i love. Gimme Sanity is stunningly gorgeous, lives in NYC, has an adorable baby, is a serious knitter and student, and runs marathons. She has pretty much won life.

Okay, i’ve been sitting on this post for an hour now, i need to just let it go. And maybe build a small fire out in the hallway.

Pot Roast, Political Wine, Meta Moms, et cetera

Mit_moi posts the best business parable of all time. And she tells it at length with the flair and panache with which I tell my favorite joke. I’m going to print it and hang it in my cube. Mit_moi is a super-engaging blogger who totally gets me; i’ll be following her throughout the month.

Also, a blogger who works in the wine biz directed me to the charming quaffability who drew my attention to a CA winery owner who uses his profits to sponsor bills that limit abortion rights and oppose stem cell research.

I don’t want to get too deep into my politics (yet), but if anything bothers me more than people who want to limit a woman’s right to manage their own body its people who want to impose their religion on science. With so many wines in the world, i think i’ll hardly notice the different as i boycott all of his.

I am now getting a little weary of blogs about small children, which is total hypocrisy, because if i had a small child i would be broadcasting their life to a blog 24/7. It’s the modern equivalent of my mom taking constant pictures of me and then making storybooks like “Peter Goes to the Zoo,” which she would later use to teach me to read. (Except, i am far from sick of Whoopee, who likes my favorite John Lennon song and named her baby Esme).

It’s also hyprocrisy because not everyone feels the need to turn NaBloPoMo into some sort of blog rebooting jihad against free time.

Kid Sis In Hollywood sounds as if she’s about to get a star and/or composer attached to her script – awesome! She also links to an amazing video compiling eight years worth of daily self-pics into a time-lapse aging process. I’ve always wanted to do this! Maybe if i get a digital camera for Christmas i’ll start (except, OCD Godzilla will demand that i find a way to have the camera positioned exactly the same distance from my face every day … what if one of my arms gets shorter?).

Rebirthing Me is taking the reboot idea a step further by working on reinventing herself. Her stories are riveting. Snippy is single and refreshingly snarky. Another blog i’ll be revisiting. Also, Moose in the Kitchen, who is simply funny and charming. Teacher Education is fascinating, and i think Rabi might enjoy it.

And, finally, Doogie is gay. A self-proclaimed Gay Pagan from Erie, PA offers his take.

Out of Sleeping In

It is Sunday at 2pm and for all intents and purposes i have just now truly become awake.

If this is not your first visit you may have noticed that i’ve put a logo of sorts at the top of the page. I typically eschew such fancy graphic affairs, but i’m rationalizing it because there are honest to goodness strangers arriving here for the first time and i need some sort of branding to greet them. The wonderfully messy font is called chic decay, and it is free. I had to do some major kerning and minor undecaying in photoshop to get it to my liking.

If this is your first visit: hello. I made a logo just for you!

In less than seven hours I am due to make my monthly appearance at The Sidecar Bar for their monthly open mic night, hosted by the Sidecar All-Stars, an affable jazz trio that plays between sets.

After my meant-to-be-one-but-turned-out-to-be-two year hiatus from playing original music, an outing to the Sidebar open mic over the summer was the first time i played in front of anyone but a captive audience of friends. Much to my shock, the crowd wound up liking me a bit. Subsequently, i’ve been trying to attend every month.

Seven hours doesn’t feel like enough time between barely awake me and rocking the mic me, especially since I am completely unclear on what i’ll be playing. That’s what i get for sleeping in.

My Secret Rock Star Life

I suppose that last post bears some explanation of my secret rock star identity.

It is so secret that hardly anyone is aware of it. Hopefully that will soon change.

I started writing original music in high school as a hobby – not something I defined myself by. In college i was a part of a group of extremely talented actors, singers, and musicians. But, though i could rightfully identify myself in all three categories, i never felt as though what i was bringing to the stage was as valid as what other people did. After every audition or performance I was my own harshest critic, and as a result I slowly disappeared from performances, relegating myself to a off-stage role.

However, there was still one thing at which I was better – maybe best – than everyone I knew: writing songs.

It wasn’t a matter of pride or self-confidence – it was just something i knew. My best five or ten or twenty songs stood up against the songs of my friends, and even the songs on albums I bought every week. I could remain a performer as long as I had my songs, so I labeled myself a singer-songwriter. I played at parties. I recorded songs for my webpage. I walked from my apartment to campus, playing guitar and singing the whole way. As long as i had a song to stand behind i was fearless.

As college wore on, some of the more multi-talented friends in our extended group gained an amount of local notoriety as singer-songwriters fronting bands. I finally had people – peers – to compare myself to, and it was immediately clear that I didn’t sing as well, or play guitar as well, or record as well, or work the stage as well.

This was especially demoralizing because my songs were still great – it was just me that wasn’t good enough. I let it get to me – right down to the very core of me, and as a resultI graduated having not played an original front of people for over a year (with one exception – poorly received), and I had even stopped recording – frustrated that my voice never came out how I heard it in my head.

I decided that for my first year of professional life i was leaving my creative side behind – i had to focus on working hard, and on being a good boyfriend to Elise, because that’s what was important. Creativity, music especially, was a lark I could afford to ignore.

My resolve was strong, and even after the year was over and I starred in a successful bit of post-collegiate theatre i was still holding out on music. I still hadn’t performed anywhere, and even my once-prolific writing had ground to a halt.

I can pinpoint the exact moment when everything changed.

Last December I made my yearly appearance at the Shubin Theatre Holiday Revue. I appear not because of any great talent, but because I am friends of the Shubin family, which includes Gina, my sometimes co-writer. In 2005 I was performing on relatively short notice, and so instead of my typical cover or collaboration I decided to play an original – Seams – a song all about my imperfection, my lack of confidence, my reticence to perform anywhere outside of my own bedroom.

In that tiny theatre with forty or fifty people watching I rediscovered me as a musician. I was singing words I had written, words I still very much meant, and as they left my mouth I could feel – even see – them connecting with members of the audience. At the after party people asked where they could see or hear me perform and, slightly embarrassed, I told them that they couldn’t.

As I said it I realized the ridiculousness of it. I had these great songs – catchy songs, witty songs, meaningful songs – and here I was refusing to play them because I didn’t deem myself to be good enough. It seemed rational to me for years, but that night I realized how unfair it was to the songs.

I am no longer a part of that disproportionately talented college friends – I’m a part of the world at large. And, in that world I am unique in my ability to sing and play at all, let alone with some amount of skill, and I am unique in my ability and willingness to document my life through song.

In this much wider world I am done with hiding my songs in my bedroom, and with that newfound confidence i find that my singing, playing, and performing are suddenly not so bad as i thought they were. I can play in front of friends or strangers knowing i deserve their attention as much as anyone else, and sometimes i even win it.

Today, and tonight at The Sidecar Bar, I am a singer-songwriter. And, it’s not a secret anymore.

A Picture Share!

Amanda accompanies me, physically and vocally, at my monthly appearance at the Sidecar.

This Life, Also Starring…

Up to this point my NaBloPoMo personal blog reboot posts have been mostly about me – after all, I am the main character in this life.

For week two of NaBloPoMo I’m going to expand my focus to sketching the other important characters in my life, many of whom I’ve already mentioned in passing. The impact of some of these people on my life has been so profound that they warrant their own trio of original songs!

In case you missed it, the first Trio of NaBloPoMo was all about me. And, in case you don’t understand why I’m posting all this music, skip down two posts.

She Said “If”

Elise and I have been dating since Valentine’s Day, 2002 with no interruption. We are so evenly matched in every aspect from pastimes to taste in movies to scholastic aptitude – that it’s hard to believe that we were meant to wind up with anyone but each other.

Our relationship has been full of many stories, but today’s is actually about an earlier encounter. Our first, actually.

Half a year before we started dating, on Elise’s first or second day of college, the theatre produced two brief shows to introduce the program to incoming freshman. Elise, having performed and produced theatre in high school, attended with her roommate Kat.

I was in both shows, starring – however improbably – as the romantic lead in each. They were my last time acting onstage in college.

In one show I was moody and dark, but in the other show (a farce) my character was essentially me – effervescent, flamboyant, and terrible with women. Elise might have first seen me on stage, but the character she saw was me.

At some point in the evening – maybe during the show, or maybe after, I’ve never gotten it right when i tell this story – Elise leaned over to a friend and whispered, “If he’s not gay, I’ll marry him.”

A lot has ensued in the five years since that sentence but, so far as I know, it’s still true.

(For the record, I believe my first comment may have been, “I don’t know who’s cuter, her or her roommate,” which leads to other, even more amusing stories.)

It’s hard to believe that our relationship has now stretched to envelop the entirety of Elise’s collegiate career, and my entire professional life, and has followed us into our first (rented) house as adults, but that’s how time works.

Trio: Season Five, Suite #2!

Trio: Season Five, Suite #2:
Songs on the Topic of Elise:
Little Love, Wilted, A Little Bit, (and a secret cover!)

Trio – the original singer-songwriter web session – returns for its fifth season featuring my own DIY music. This season each trio of songs will have a loose topic to connect them, which will often correspond to a recent post.

A sample of what I had to say in this Trio…

Little Love
There’s a point of some dispute because one line in the song is about somebody else, and the whole rest of the song is about Elise. … The whole conceit of it (if I can say that about one of my songs) is that it’s about the purest form of butterflies in stomach. It’s about having a crush on somebody just like third grade … more than anything you just want to be near them, and share time with them, and share your experiences with them.

Wilted
Being in a very successful relationship … you have to be careful how you pull from it because that song is going to continue to exist, and so is your relationship. And you have to be careful what you’re disclosing to the other person – and what you’re disclosing to the listener – because it might not be any of their business.

A Little Bit
Elise was having a laugh at my expense earlier, because I kept saying all of these songs were the quintessential Elise song, and I finally arrived at this one and she was surprised … What this song came out of is that I was in the last two weeks of college, I was under the gun for everything, and I was up all night … packing to move out of my college apartment and into my first apartment with Elise. I was so frazzled, and everything was difficult, and I had all this school work to do, and I just couldn’t handle it.

So – in the middle of all the craziness – I just stopped and I wrote a song, because that’s how things happen in my life. It’s fun.

You can download the entire Trio , or download the single of “A Little Bit..” Or, start from Suite #1.

No More Wire Hangers

What to say about my mother that is suitable to print in a public forum?

She and my father got married when she was the same age as I am. When she became pregnant just a few months later she decided that she had to learn everything about creating the best environment for a baby. And, I mean everything.

Think about it. It is nineteen eighty one. We are talking about a woman who David Bowie could have had arrested for stalking on more than one occasion. A woman who changed into a white pantsuit at her wedding reciption so she could fly across the ceiling of the club on a trapeeze. She and my father were both professional, fulltime bartenders. She was the only-child of lower-middle class parents, one of whom didn’t even finish grade school. She herself had barely found the interest to get through high school.

All of that just makes my mother’s baby initiative – and really my whole childhood – all the more amazing.

She did not take any aspect of her young motherhood for granted – she questioned everything. And, my mother discovered very quickly that just because something was socially accepted, or scholastically average, or even medically recommended, didn’t mean it was beneficial for a baby Peter.

Example #1 – I was not allowed to eat hotdogs or drink soda, and my father’s side of the family was determined to give me both. One one occasion I was convinced to eat half of a hot dog and – predictably – became sick. I have never seen my mother come so close as to devouring someone’s very soul as I did that night. SHE was the mother, and SHE said NO hotdogs, so THERE WOULD BE NO HOTDOGS.

To this day I don’t drink soda.

Example #2 – In first grade one of my classmates got placed into a mentally gifted program because he was smart. My mother pointed out that I was also smart, but got fed some sort of B.S. in reply about how I didn’t carry my numbers when I did addition in long columns. So, she had me tested in a controlled environment. When they checked my test they informed her that I hadn’t answered a tough word problem correctly. She pointed out that I had, but that I had just skipped showing my work because I used multiplication to solve the problem.

Example #3 – When I started visiting orthodontists to consult over my impending braces, one offhandedly told her he would have to pull out several teeth to make things work. I think she physically picked me up out of his chair to leave the office. I wound up without a single tooth pulled and a perfect smile.

Also, my mother never once patronized me just because I was a child – as soon as I was old enough to carry a conversation was expected to do so in all circumstances, and to make change for myself when we played Monopoly. And, so I did. I used to eschew naptime in kindergarten in favor of chatting about current events with the teachers. I watched the nightly news and Johnny Carson almost every night of my childhood.

In my anecdotes my mother is usually painted as comic relief, sometimes as a foil, and often as as a too-patronizing voice of reason. However, She will still devour your soul if you fuck with her, me, or her cat. She still has frighteningly good taste in music (David Bowie included).

And, much to my continual exasperation, she still questions just about everything.

NaBloPoMo Round-Up #1: #s and As

We are now one week into NaBloPoMo, and the attrition has begun. I’ve only been through the #s and the As, and already many bloggers have given up, or have resorted to posting about how they have nothing to post.

With some people dying on the vine, it makes it all the more enjoyable to find good reads via the alphabetical participants list, as well as through Lane’s now-infamous Randomizer. Continue reading ›

The Descent

I used to delight in being mean.

The focus of my anger didn’t really matter – a bag boy at the supermarket, a friend in conversation, a bus driver – as long as I vented my spleen at just the right moment. It was infamous and much-lamentedtrait of mine for many years; even Gina would roll her eyes when she saw that i was headed for a blowout.

Over the past few years my capacity for nastiness has been on a steady decline. Even when I summon up a decent fit of rage I usually swallow it, or at least soften the blow. And, not just for the benefit of my friends.

Over the summer I went to see The Descent, and in the fairly packed theatre I sat next to a friendly, cow-eyed middle-aged woman and her companion. She seemed like a decent enough neighbor, though during the previews she occasionally talked back to the screen. But, so do I.

As the movie progressed the talking-back morphed into a non-stop commentary track punctuated with pleas to her companion, like “I don’t know why you brought me to see this,” and “oh my god, you can’t leave me alone to go to the bathroom, I can’t take it. I just can’t take it.” I threw a few sideways glances her way, but she was oblivious in rapt, babbling horror.

Finally, during the first truly grisly scene in the movie her babbling transformed into incoherent gibbering screams, either at the characters on screen or just for her own benefit. Either way, she was significantly louder than the theatre’s surround sound, and I was not missing part of the movie just to get an usher.

Calm and collected, i turned to face the incoherent beast.

“Could you be quieter than the fucking characters in the movie?”

I immediately regreted venting at this creature of an obviously lower personal fortitude than my own. She turned to face me with her horrified, watery cow-eyes, mouth working open and closed like a guppy. She had no verbal reaction, just the “blurp, blurp, blurp” of her jowls working.

Over time my peers have developed an immunity to my scathing remarks, but clearly I had destroyed this creature’s will to live. I had to do something to bring her back from the brink.

“I’m sorry, you’re just really loud.”

She kept guppying at me, accompanying the guppying with her watery wide-eyed stare. I tried to go back to watching the (excellent) movie, but her stare kept nudging me in the side of the head.

I had become more horrifically transfixing than the golum-monsters on screen. I had ruined her movie experience with my meanness. She just wanted to go out to the movies and yammer like a mental patient because she has no coping mechanism to deal with horror but would be the oldest kid in the theatre for The Ant Bully. Who was I to impose society’s artificial standards about being quiet at the movies on her
As the on-screen violence continued I calmly, sweetly, turned back to my (still-staring) neighbor. One of my professors was a fan of a communications theory where other people would agree with you more strongly if you aligned your bodily reactions (like rates of breathing and blinking) with theirs. It was time for a field test.

I carefully matched her cow-stare and her guppy-breathing until I felt that we had reached a state of true simpatico. Gulping down some air and willing my eyes into giant, mooning saucers, I whispered, “I know, it’s really scary.”

Borderline cow-woman bit her lip and nodded at me. I bit my own lip and nodded along. I had established a connection. Slowly, still maintaining eye contact, still in-character as a cow/guppy with borderline personality disorder, I turned back towards the screen.

As if by magic, or a complex system of gears and pulleys, she also turned back towards the screen. I completed my turn in slow motion, finally breaking eye contact when it felt as if my pupil was going to slide back into my head.

She didn’t make another noise or even remotely glance at me for the remainder of the movie, or afterwards when we filed out. Yet, it was a pyrrhic victory, because I felt the need to temper a successful flare-up at a stranger who was screaming incoherently at a movie screen with an apology. You know, so her feelings wouldn’t be too hurt.

Old-school me would have pressed my attack until she ran sobbing from the theatre.

Of course, I wouldn’t have accumulated any good karma that way.

I like to think that present-day me strives to at least break even on karma, which means i only get to be unapolgetically nasty to someone who really deserves it. And, much to my chagrin, talkers at the movies, along with litterers and people who smoke next to you at the bus stop, are just innocent bystanders minding their own lives.

A Picture Share!

Nothing like wearing your Oscar shirt to a fancy Mexican restaurant.

Goddess on the Bench

As you may have noticed, it’s impossible for me to talk about any aspect of my life without mentioning my brilliantly talented and completely hilarious best friend and occasional co-songwriter Gina. We met at age twelve and have known each for just over twelve years (half our lives!). Appropriately, here are twelve of my favorite memories of Gina.

(Since Gina might not remember them the same way I do (if at all!) her rebuttal will be forthcoming)

  1. In my new school in seventh grade I ate lunch with two other oversmart semi-outcast boys. Gina and her friends – all oversmart overtalented girls – sat at the table behind us. We met when the boys decided it would be funny to throw snack food (was it peanuts?) down the blouse of one of the girls. Soon thereafter our tables merged to spend lunch laughing and singing terrible pop music, at one point during which we were dubbed “Spockchild and the Lunchroom Cadets,” due to my bowl-cut and Vulcan-sized ears.
  2. Gina was already a stage veteran at the time of my first audition, and I was appropriately intimidated by the idea of performing a monologue in front of my peers and teachers. To this day I have a perfect mental snapshot of Gina walking up the stage-right stairs wearing her distinctive purple velvet shirt, her long hair flowing all around a perfectly serene face. I remember thinking, “this theatre thing can’t be so hard.”
  3. Gina has always been skeptical of people who pick up a guitar and want to be taught how to play, probably because no one follows through. Very early in my guitar playing she wrote the music to my lyrics “Falling Down,” and played it for me before a theatre rehearsal. Later that night I left a message on her answering machine of me slowly-but-surely picking out the same pattern on my guitar. Ever since she has taken my guitar playing a lot more seriously.
  4. Both living in the same residence hall at Drexel I became the unofficial male roommate of her entire floor due to my frequent visits, always with guitar in hand. One day that winter I played Gina my brand new “Under My Skin,” and she started playing along. When we were done she said, “I like that one; let’s play it again.”
  5. In line for Weezer at the TLA the summer after freshman year we ate our Chinese Food with makeshift spoons fashioned from fortune cookies because I forgot to get forks.
  6. Stopping by my cluttered first apartment to keep me awake during the 24-hour Blogathon I heard one of Gina’s original songs for the first time – “Real End“. Also, we played everyone’s favorite U2 song, and barked like dogs while covering “Fido, Your Leash Is Too Long.” After my long wakeful night, she showed up with the sun the next morning, bearing decaffeinated coffee and cookies.
  7. Stuck for Halloween costumes at the last minute, we had a twenty-minute shopping spree in K-Mart. Emerging with glitter and giant fairy wings, we hardly had costumes, but by raiding our vintage closets we emerged as the godparents of punk rock and disco, respectively. I kept yelling “Where’s James?!” and giggling.
  8. After experiencing a rough few months in the middle of college we declared a personal day, and spent it shopping in Chinatown and drinking bottled smoothies, laughing all the while about the little insecurities we left behind in high school and all of the larger ones looming in their place. We realized that day that we had never once been in a fight, and resolved never to have one.
  9. Gina’s mother, an amazing actor, operatic singer, and dancer, has always been slow to warm to Gina’s friends, and over the years I always had a difficult time discerning if she liked me at all. I took it as a great compliment when I was invited to cook and dine along with her family for Thanksgiving in 2003. Ever since then Gina’s mother has treated me like family.
  10. Through a series of coincidental events, Gina moved into my awesome upperclassmen apartment, where our bedrooms faced each other across a vast, stuffy, attic living room we dubbed “The Grotto.” We decorated it with hanging lights and lanterns so that it would glow 24/7, hanging our fairy wings outside our respective doors. The first time we went out drinking together after she moved in we wound up crawling up all that last flight of stairs together, one step at a time.
  11. I have always partied through the Fall Back time every October, except for one year, when Gina gave me a complex lesson in applications chemistry and I explained the finer points of copy protection. I don’t think we realized how long we had chatted until the next morning when we remembered to turn the clocks back.
  12. In my first show after college, Happy Birthday, Wanda June, each night we made our final exit together, both having suffered an emotional breakdown in the preceding scene. One night we had both worked ourselves up into sobbing messes during the scene, and in our in-character emotional rush to exit the room we literally threw ourselves out of the stage door and tumbled down the backstage stairs.

    We wound up at the foot of the stairs in a heap, our sobbing resolving to barely contained giggling while the final scene played out above our heads.

That’s me and Gina, to a tee.

NaBloPoMo Round-Up #2: Me, Bs, and Cs

Today began with singing “In My Life” for the entire staff of my frou frou hair salon. How they convinced me to do so at 10am on a Saturday morning while ever-so-slightly hung over i cannot fathom.

My hair wound up mostly within the bounds of my hairline instead of being an insane indy-rock mullet, though it’s still long enough to toss around while i sing, which i discovered while rehearsing with Gina for her mother’s Holiday Revue.

I love the irony of our infrequent rehearsals – we spend more time acting as human jukeboxes than rehearsing, and what we do rehearse usually sounds fine after only a few tries. Our ease in making music always leaves me wondering how much rock we could deliver if we rehearsed weekly instead of bi-annually.

In other news, I have finally made it through the NaBoPoMo Bs and Cs – 226 blogs in total. Near the start of the Cs my OCD Godzilla went into overdrive, forcing me to keep track of minute details about each blog. Continue reading ›

Scary Monsters, Super Creeps
(or, ReBoot Phase 2: Booting Blogger)

In the midst of my rebooting myself and surfing the many blogs of NaBloPoMo i have had brought into very sharp contrast some things i have been long hoping to change about my darling blog. So, in a feat of either bravery or stupidity and after an uncharacteristically short 24-hours of research i will be attempting to – as the saying goes – change horses mid-race.

Either it will work wonderfully and I’ll be back tonight with a completely different website and a new post, or i will destroy all 2,885 posts of Crushing Krisis and update by hand for the rest of the event. Because missing a day is not an option.

Please note that if you are reading this post via a RSS Feed or LiveJournal Syndication you may wish to pop over to the actual domain on Monday to see if it still exists.

Wish me luck.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

After twenty-four hours of frantic work I am happy to welcome my new WordPress overlords!

I had a bit of a scare involving the complete disappearance of my domain when i tried to move my WP install over from stage to the main CK directory, so we’re going to camp out on stage for a few days so as to not risk another myocardial infarction. Sort of like the rest of my life.

Sorry, bad pun.

It is entirely possible that some things are broken, although anything broken is definitely the least broken in Firefox. Currently the background photos are too heavy, and will load slowly. Images inline in posts may not appear. Also, i didn’t have a chance to put everyone’s links back in place – link love will return tonight!

Please leave me a comment to let me know what looks strange.

Success to the Successful Thistle Sifter!

In the theatre program at Drexel we had one particularly favorite vocal warmup, which we did before every show i ever acted or teched. It went like this:

Theophilus thistle, the successful thistle sifter,
While sifting a sieve full of unsifted thistles,
Thrust three thousand thistles through the thick of his thumb.

Now, if Theophilus thistle, the successful thistle sifter,
While sifting a sieve full of unsifted thistles,
Thrust three thousand thistles through the thick of his thumb,
See that thou, while sifting a sieve full of unsifted thistles
Thrust not three thousand thistles through the thick of thy thumb.

Success to the successful thistle sifter!

Much like Homer Simpson’s classic “I am so smart! S-M-R-T” (which i hear least once a week in my corporate office), the Theophilus jingle has stuck with many of us theatre kids, none more so than Elise and i. Whenever we overcome a major household obstacle we are known to proclaim loudly, “SUCCESS! To the successful thistle sifter.”

The charm of the phrase comes, i think, from the fact that sifting thistles by hand is a sortof thankless excercise to take joy in.

Well, as of this post WordPress is (somewhat) unbugged and live on ck.com. And that was not a thankless endeavor. I’m going to write a whole Blogger-to-WordPress walkthrough soon (yeah, and that Bonarroo walkthrough, too), but the thing that really sticks out is that there was an actual, tangible, workable answer to every single question i had through the installation process – right down to the last issue that was keeping me from going live. Most of those answers came directly from the WordPress Support wiki.

Thank you for your patience with me as I spent a few days to complete the changeover. I’m like a kid-on-Christmas with all of these new features to play with – especially categories. Please continue to comment whenever you find something broken, especially if it’s broken in a well-rendered browser like Firefox.

Leahla and the Longest Minute

This whole conversion thing has totally thrown me off my agenda of NaBloPoMo talking points. Here’s a story.

I’ve always had crushes. My second earliest memory involves some tiny glimmer of my pre-school, and my sneakily telling my mother i had a crush on a classmate. (My earliest memory being the time my mom locked me and her keys in the car when i was two, which is another story entirely.)

In grade school my life was defined by my crush on Leahla. Pretty, smart, funny, artistic, blonde – who else could my 2nd grade heart have possibly desired? My grade school classes were small, so we interacted every day, and whenever i could engineer it i sat next to her, or did group work with her. We became fast friends, and friends was enough. I didn’t want to be turned into the schoolyard spectacle that a pair of young kissers at my school had become.

My mother aided and abetted my crush as much as possible in her legendarily unsubtle way. When she was a chaperone my mother always made sure Leahla was my hand-holding buddy. And, somehow she once contrived to have me stay at Leahla’s house for the day.

This contrivance was a big deal, as i rarely had a playdate with classmates outside of school. I was breathless in anticipation of seeing the inside of Leahla’s house. Crush notwithstanding, her mother was some sort of artist, and i think i was under the impression that the inside of an artist’s house would look like the crazy masquerade ball at the end of Labyrinth, complete with David Bowie mincing around in too-tight pants. What wonders did her home hold in store? Would the artsy mom leave us alone? Would i see Leahla’s bedroom? Would i see Leahla without her shirt on?

I can only laugh at the bundle of nervous energy and embarrassed reticence i must have been on my big day. What could i have done for hours with this… this girl? I remember in my hyper-precocious nine-year-old mind i imagined that we would spend most of it furiously making out, possibly breaking to discuss our future together and when we hoped to get married. In reality i think we probably just talked and played a gender-neutral board game.

Despite my highest hopes (and, apparently, my mother’s most ardent desires), our romance remained unkindled. My longing continued, unrequited but for field-trip hand-holding, until finally a do-or-die moment arrived: with middle-school imminent my classmates would be scattered to the wind, and i had no assurance that Leahla and i would be seeing each other every day, if ever again.

When I expressed my impending emotional desolation to my mother she, in her boundless and notably infinite wisdom, recommended that i confess my feelings to Leahla. Because, girls like boys who are in-touch with their feelings.

Being a naive momma’s boy who wouldn’t go on to kiss anyone until i was twice that age, i took her advice. I called Leahla to chat and through our smalltalk began bracing myself for the announcement. I chose the kitchen for this endeavor, as it was far removed from my mother and had a phone with a long, twisty cord, so i could pace off my nervous energy.

I paced and working up my nerve until finally i had an opening, a brief conversational stutter and, in suavest most in-touch form i blurted out, “You know, Leahla, i really like you.”

“Peter, i like you to. You’re one of my best friends,” she answered casually. If i knew then what i know now i would have seen that my chances already looked grim.

“No, Leahla, i mean, i really like you.”

Silence. My words hung suspended in the air by miles of telephone wires. I stood frozen, mid-pace in front of the microwave, watching the colon between the hours and the minutes count off the seconds until her reply. One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand.

I jabbed at the open button on the microwave, rendering the clock blank. I watched the door sketch a leisurely arc to my right before it bounded backwards. My entire life flashed before my eyes. I was bearded and eighty years old, crouched beneath the kitchen table, holding the receiver to my ear with a palsied hand.

“I… i don’t feel that way about you, Peter.”

The microwave door lost its momentum and slowly swung back to the right. The cart must have been on a slant.

“Oh. Okay.”

Leahla’s arc ended at the moment – I have no recollection of her past that point in time. I’m not sure if it was over a long, hot summer after school was already out of session, or if my heart was first shattered on some unsuspecting weeknight, and i just blocked out any further interactions.

I held it against mom ever since – that was the last time she heard a peep out of me about a crush – but i never did learn my lesson; i kept on blurting out unwelcome, unreciprocated feelings for years to come.

Twist & Shout

Early in college i had an ongoing argument with my at-the-time only male friend, whose name i will decline to share because i’m still hoping for an appointment when he becomes president, or interplanetary tyrant, or whatever he’s going to turn into in a decade or two.

The argument was about which was a better, more valuable life experience: having great sex or a attending a great concert.

Obviously a lot of work goes into both events, and their quality can vary wildly.

My friend would argue that sex is a participatory, tactile experience; part of amazing sex is under your control. Amazing sex was uniquely personal played upon the dynamic between two people, possibly lovers or friends, but maybe just strangers.

He completely acknowledged that concerts could be amazing – better, even, than some sex – but that the best concert would never hold up against the best sex.

I would argue that a concert involves a connection not only between the performer and the audience member, but amongst all of the members of the audience to the music. I acknowledged that not all concerts were good, and that the concert-going experience is largely out of the control of the listener.

However, an amazing concert was much greater in scope than a single sexual experience – it was an alignment of thousands of details into a perfectly realized artistic expression that could be could be recalled (and recorded) by many – sometimes thousands – of other spectators.

With a few years of retrospect i see that our creation of a concerts/sex dichotomy was an artificial one. It’s rare to have to choose between the two, and over the course of a life they both have to compete with other sorts of memories to be counted as a “best ever” life experience.

However, i still think i won the argument by default because amazing life experiences beg to be shared, retold, and and transformed into personal mythology, and most concerts filll that role better than most sex.

Also, bands are much more open to reading praise for their performance on the internet than former lovers.