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Trio Season 6 – Suite #3: A Confidence Game

Trio: Season Six, Suite #3: A Confidence Game
Unengaged, Tangling, Wonder

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

Unengaged
It wasn’t the lack of confidence in doing that thing, but the lack of confidence that came in the wake of that – like, “Oh god, what have I gotten myself into?” … It’s also about [lack of] confidence in performing it: I wrote that melody almost just as an exercise in getting it up into falsetto over and over again. I didn’t ever think I was going to perform it that way. … If it’s your song, and you wrote it that way, then there must be a reason it’s in falsetto.

Tangling
It was the anchor of this set … Somebody moves out of your life for some period … and you think, “wow, we’re so connected.” And then they get back and you don’t feel that connection immediately. And you wonder – was that connection so tenuous that it dissipated with the distance? … People change over a period of time, and you have to take some time to retune that connection.

Wonder
I think anyone can identify with that walking down the street – or, in the case of this song, in a train station – and you see somebody, and in your mind you have a whole fantasy about them in a split second … and then they get on the train. Or, maybe that’s just me?


Trio – the original singer-songwriter web session – returns for its sixth season featuring my original music, recorded live and DIY in my bedroom. You can download this Trio, or listen to a previous Trio:

 

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.

Watch as six pounds of Roma Plastilina clay (hopefully) becomes a 1/2″ scale set for Prometheus Bound, neatly bound up in the form of an irregular polyhedron.

before
during

after

Either that, or i’ll wind up doing a Gumby and Pokey skit in Production class tomorrow…

Some Things (or: Change Happens).

I have never ever ripped the knee of a pair of pants before last night, when during one of the kneel-skid-kneel routines in my dance audition i caught the worn khaki fabric of my pants on a seam of the stage. I didn’t notice until we got home and i went to poke at the huge purplish bruise on my knee only to find my finger poking clear through the leg of my pants.

Callbacks, for all you who so kindly inquired, went decently. I was convinced that we’d have to sing a bit more tonight, so i don’t think i had any dairy all day and am now making up for it with the most massive bowl of ice cream i’ve ever had. It’s obvious that i don’t have the voice or presence to play any of the cast roles, so i was basically just being used as filler in the scenes we read. Which, honestly, i don’t mind. I just want to sing. The Cast List will be up tomorrow at 1pm.

Lindsay says she can hear everything that goes on in my room, and i suppose she must be able to; i can hear everything that’s said in hers and, though i can’t usually hear her move, my floor is her ceiling. So, i’ve been trying to be very still, and not as stompy when i wake up in the morning.

I had breakfast again today. Somehow, my days have been better every time i’ve had breakfast in the last week, but if i were to be scientific about i think i’d find that the relationship between the two isn’t causal in nature. I really don’t try to dissect better, or happy, or any other good thing too much — lest it disintegrate and flow from my hands like grains of sand. It’s irony, really: you want to have something to hold on to, but have to keep your hands off. Proverbially, that is. Or not. Blah, time for bed.

I have become totally domesticated in my living with the gals. It’s not as though it bothers me, but i just feel like they’re intruding upon my messy bachelor years, or something. For example, yesterday i actually called home from work to see what they would prefer my nighttime culinary endeavor to be. So, not only did i premeditate my potential meal (based upon leftover supplies from the dinner i made on Tuesday!), but i decided that i needed to clear it with the roomies before i made the decision on my own. Sadly, I didn’t catch either of them, and seeing as i had the sneaking suspicion that one of them was highly alarmed by eggplant i refrained from shopping for the supplies i had in mind until i got a verbal “okay” from them. After a few hours of lounging on the couch when i should’ve really been doing the Business final i’m taking a break from now i was greeted by Erika, who came bearing groceries of her own! I started helping her with dinner until we realized that we were out of eggs, and so off i went (in my pajamas) to the grocery store — without a second thought.

It seems likes common courtesy or just being thoughtful roommates, but i really feel as though i’ve gone from being one of those cats that the neighbors leave food out on their porch for to being a house cat that occasionally struts around the lawn just to affirm his outdoorsyness. It’s not that it bothers me or anything, i just think it’s incredible what a difference a year makes; this time last year i was spending $60 a week on takeout food and eating a box or two of granola bars every weekend. Now i’m spending $60 a week on making dinner for the three of us, and eating leftovers all weekend.

We are zeroing in on the infamous Turkey Day, and i am just barely sure of what i am not thankful for, let alone what i am. Erika and Jack are both trekking towards New England with people they really care about, and Lindsay has Kate here for the weekend to keep her company. And i am grudgingly going home, just as much to mooch groceries from my mother and do laundry for free as i am because it’s Thanksgiving. So, chalk one more up to crass commercialism and living through the eighties, because i forgot what the thanks was all about.

Most of you have a significant portion of the eighties as part of your palette of experiences … what’s your primary Thanksgiving memory? I turned nine in 1990, so most of those precious formative years were already moving farther and farther behind me. My memory of Thanksgiving is all about my Beta Machine… countless pre-Christmas holiday special recorded on those pint-sized tapes while we were in the dining room merrily chowing down our Italian feast. The meaning of Thanksgiving to me is tied up in that silly B.C. cartoon special that i’m sure i could never quite locate on purpose amongst my nearly hundreds of beta tapes in the 3rd floor closet at home. Thanksgiving is not consumer, and it is not corporate, and it should not be intricate; thanks giving is a simple thing. There shouldn’t have to be a festival, or a parade, or even a turkey. God knows i don’t do any of the above, that’s for sure.


Tonight it’s just me in me — stuffed up and alone in my flannel pajamas with only the echoes of laughter from elsewhere in the apartment to keep me company. I’m trying to pick out what in this mess that surrounds me i’m happy about. The thing is, it can happen any day of the year, and if you put it off until tomorrow you definitely don’t have enough time set aside between the Macy’s Parade, dinner, football games, and leftovers.

Think about it.

Under the cover of my sacred blue checkered blanket i was wishing for wind, with my face pressed up against my square back window. My bed had been migrating towards it for over a week now; it’s a curious obsession i have, staring into my neighbor’s windows. I think i am jealous of him because i want to watch him but he does not want to watch me. Tonight my bed moved altogether, so that he could see as much of me as i can of him. I was looking to trade lives: my nights for his.


I tempt him. I play guitar in front of the window as soon as the roommates leave in the morning, half-naked, thrashing and strumming loud enough for him to hear. I flicker my string of lights on and off at night while feigning sleep to see if he looks my way. I sit, postured, on my wooden stool, glaring at my broken webpage.

At first he would slip me into sleep with his idle routine and the way he lazily cuddled with his dog, but lately he has been keeping me awake. Tonight i was lying there wishing for wind and rain because i wanted to hear the sound of it pressing in on my room, unable to enter, and i didn’t care if it would make my spying any harder. It was just past four when i got what i said i wanted, with a tiny tinkling of drops on the pane. I found myself unthinkingly focusing past them to see his yellow light and blue walls.


At five he turned over and looked right at me; i had thought he had fallen asleep with his lights on. I self-consciously flicked the lights on and stood up, suddenly naked and vulnerable in the harsh florescence of my bedroom. Maybe i don’t like the tables turned as much as i thought i would. Up out of my bed, i slid on a tee-shirt and stalked over to my kitchen stool to check my email, and he turned back over.

I’m starting to realize that no one wants you to put on a show; they just want to see what you would do if they weren’t there.

My room whooshes something awful, like an incoming thunderstorm bantering about up against the clouds. It’s the fault of the heater; our heat lives housed in Lindsay’s closet, and one of its ugly grated maws lies not a yard from the head of my bed. The mighty bellows of heat’s tin home are our shared burden here on the backside of the apartment, and each gust of preserving wind is accompanied without fail by a similar rushing and clattering of air on metal on metal on air.

It is not quite the same as the way my room breathes through the back window, that’s for certain. This is like life on a ventilator… same stale air brushing in to inflate and out to deflate, leaving me lukewarm and half alive in the meantime. That’s about right, though, because today i have only used up half of a life, as if i am carefully rationing the discarded halves and thirds into my empty bottom dresser drawer so that one day i can be larger than life itself. Half a life like clams on a half shell, and i greedily suck it down and toss it away.

Nights have all been the same lately… sick with two different kinds of pressure welling up behind my jaw and in my stomach, and then curled tight around a sheaf of pages, and then restlessly nudging my head over the top of my mattress so i can see out of my window as i fall asleep — nothing as romantic as stars or any of that, but to spy on my across that back neighbor. I would think he could catch on by now, my prying eyes digesting his slim back and swirling tattoo like prime-time teevee, but he would appear to be none the wiser; still sleeping with the light on despite shades being drawn. I can see through to his slim circumstance as long as there’s some light to guide me. Anyhow, his dog has got me made … he knows the game. I stare at the owner as he sits and listens to whatever it is whose echoes i can hear across the alley, and in exchange i sit framed by my half-sized back window in just my underwear and thrash like mad as those beady canine eyes follow the supple muscle of my right arm up down up down. We have traded… my posed voyeurism in measured doses for glances into his owner’s life, undisguised … and unrealized, as of now.

I’m not sure exactly what i’m looking for, or at; the lithe nude that hides inside those baggy pants and shabby blinds is seemly to-be-sure, but not worth the effort i put forth to capture it backwards and upside-down inside the workings of my squinting eyes. I suspect that i am looking for something other than what i have: a life on the half-shell, waiting to slither down another gaping maw. And, it does, night after night — all the life i left unused mingles with the sweaty breathing of the heater just a few scant feet from my head to leave my room a sort of dewy warm in the morning when my alarm first rings at 5:27. Heat and life, to wake me. Of course, it isn’t really 5:27 because time is my false illusion — a special effect that is all too real. But, i have disguised it, and it gets me to and from my nest of decades old blankets that obscure the sheets on my bed at least three times before i’m up and about on any given morning. Four this morning past. I don’t mind it really, because i’m up in time to pick up a piece or two of my decrepit morning routine, and the once-every-fifty-minutes blare of my alarm slices my dreams into acidic little orangey wedges that i can devour one by one, only to leave behind dreamy sucked-out citrus smiles in my wake.

I dream the same old thing every night, and i don’t know why i bother to savour it anymore. I suppose it’s just part of that latherrinserepeat of my daily half-life, my waiting to see how long it takes whatever’s at my core to degrade down to just a phosphorescent echo of the radiant glow it once put out. Lather in the day, rinse out anything i was beginning to care about in the evening, and at night sleep and repeat.


It is time, my friends, to sleep and repeat.

Today was a cranky day, and yes, that is the sound of me spending an entire 48 hours only departing the apartment once, to take out the trash. We are all a bit cranky tonight, and i decided after intermittently coloring in a coloring book and blankly staring at the teevee for a fourth hour to say “goodnight” and get the hell out of the living room. The thing about living in a threesome of people is that it’s always two on one, and yesterday it was me and Lindsay versus Erika so today was them versus me. Erika and i hardly ever team up against Lindsay so much as we just hang out by ourselves. It actually doesn’t bother me in the least, but the intelligent thing to do was to extract myself before it did bother me. So, i came up here and recorded a suck-ass Trio.


Meanwhile, my cold has kept me substance free all weekend, and don’t think that has anything to do with being in the house, either. The ladies put a sizeable dent into a few bottles in the wet-bar, and i consumed three cartons of orange juice and one of ice cream. Such is a sleepy weekend, solely composed of naps, guitars, musical Buffy episodes that left me gasping and in shock, and blowout Eagles games. Makes me feel real, at least…

You know, i’ve gotten really far away from posting about the simple nuances of my daily life. For example, my room is an utter mess. By now i think you should’ve figured out that everything in my life is always a mess, so it’s not as though this is a huge surprise. However, for once i’ve managed to contain my mess to my room and areas directly adjacent to it, so i can escape my room and pretend that my life is in any kind of order. But, really, it’s not. It’s a wonder i pay my bills and pass my classes. Hmm… what else about me is boring that i used to talk about… time to hit the archives…

I am so scattered right now, but i’m trying to reel some of it in through writing it down, so bare with me.

Today when i finally opened my eyes my sloping ceiling was hanging right above me and everything was so fuzzy that it seemed like endless white feathers strung to make a giant boa suspended as a giant web — I was trapped like a fly in fuzz.

Two little girls just ran through the quiet lounge reading from tiny business cards that were really invitations, and they decided that they couldn’t attend because the date was this past Thursday. They looked like they could’ve only been five or six but they read out loud like nine or ten year olds would, so my perspective is wholly confused. We just had an informal reading of our newly picked Winter play, and i am torn between wanting to play the angsty 15-year-old who curses and whines in every line, or the Steve Buscemi-like spinster who’s into conspiracy theories and masturbation. Last of the Formicans reads like Cocoon siphoned through one of the zany episodes of X-Files and plunked down into an adjacent suburb of Roseanne. The funny thing is, i don’t know which of the two characters i want to be, let alone who i identify with. The 15-year-old hates everyone and everything he’s been shoved into but hasn’t got any reason for it, but the older man has constructed his own web of feathery explanation that greets him every morning when he wakes up.

Of course, i burned a ton of theatrical bridges this term, but throughout it all i maintained that i’m in it not for the acting but for the characters. I’ve never wanted to be in a play… usually i just sortof blunder into a fun role. This time, i think i’ll be crushed if i don’t get what i want, and i don’t know if i can do anything about it…

Trio: Season 2, #3

My tiny square of a back window is thrust wholly open, and my room has settled into an easy calm of breathe-in breathe-out. My room really does breathe… the drop ceiling slightly expands and contracts with the tidal pull of air in and out of my window.

The roomies are going to the Halloween party this Friday as mythical things, and when i said i might be some sort of woodland faerie L said “Peter, you either can complain about what people say about you, or you can be a fairy for the party. Your choice.” It was funny for a moment and then, well, whatever. Initially we were all going as Greek gods as a injoke about none of us being involved with the production of Lysistrata, but that devolved into anything vaguely fey and now we’ve got an Artemis, a winged nymph, and me. Seeing as the rest of the week shapes up as a hodgepodge of class, work, and concerts i’m not entire sure where i was planning to construct a (manly) costume. Apparently whenever i pick up my guitar from South Street and actually rescue my dry cleaning from across the street. And do laundry. Ha.


I was hoping to do a Trio tonight but first i fell into the deadly Tori-induced clutches of a nap and then i wore my voice out screaming at Monday Night Football (… I’m still undecided on what i liked better… the touchdown pass where the receiver’s knee gouged a giant rut in the endzone dirt and yet the Giants still claimed he was out of bounds or the way the ball slid out from the quarterback’s hands and into those of the Eagles in the last two minutes to ensure the win. But, i digress…). So, despite a lack of official music from me this week, feel free to listen to the practice take from Sunday night. We all know that i do one Madonna cover per Demo cd, so having finally arranged that one it’s suddenly a big contender. As for the last song… just pretend i know what all the chords are and it suddenly becomes much more coherent. I personally find the whole affair to be a painful listen, which is why i’m not posting it as a trio, but you might actually enjoy some of the unrehearsed and unselfconscious bits and pieces of it.


I suppose that’s all i have to say. For a while there i was just aimlessly lying on my bed avoiding my philosophy homework, but when the room started breathing heavy and i thought i should tell you about it. Goodnight.

Everyone has learned how to respect me during our time at Drexel insofar as everyone makes an assumption about my sexual preferences and gender identity and then gets themselves proven wrong (by their closeminded standards) by my flirting with girls and watching football. But, i keep them confused, much to my partial delight and eternal chagrin. I give lap-dances to boys at parties, or i mention that there are cute freshmen of both sexes to be had in the play.


People are so quick to assign labels that they often forget exactly how people really work. My friends have learned in the past two years that i generally don’t label easily and so they just leave me be, but when everyone’s sitting around drunk and loose-lipped people say things. And they hurt. A lot. Last night we were playing “I Never” and i was the only person in mixed company who had never kissed a boy — and i haven’t, ever. It’s not to say that i never would, but i am generally not attracted to men and haven’t had any reason to lay lips on another boy in anything other than a friendly manner.

First someone was incredulous… was i sure i hadn’t? Next i was told “that you lie alot anyhow.” And then a third person chimed in that it was ironic considering… “Considering what?” …. “Well, considering that you…”


Of course he didn’t say it, because no one wants to be outrightly awful to me even when their lips are loosened with liquor, but we all heard what he was saying; it was ironic because i was the gay one. The theme repeats. I mentioned that i never had sex with Selina and they all asked why not; i truthfully replied that it was because i didn’t want to be entangled with anyone on that level at that point in time, regardless of whether it was a consideration of our relationship or not. And they laughed. Of course, they said, i wouldn’t have sex with a girl… of course, they pointed out, i would have a good reason not to.

I’m getting tired of these arbitrary social boxes. Yes, my manner of speaking and gesturing has a primary association with “gay” stereotypes. Did it ever occur to anyone to ask me if i enjoy talking like i do? After talking like this for twenty years, and learning all of my tonal and indicative qualities from a group primarily composed of women, can i really change overnight? Did they ever think to ask if i would if i could? For all the haircuts i get and tight shirts that i wear, i still get boxed up neatly — even if no one normally says it it becomes quickly apparent when everyone checks their appropriateness and grabs a beer.


I am so sick of it, and so sick of myself. Everyone else is allowed to flirt with who they want to flirt with regardless of motive. Our masculine male friends get to make out with other guys as a lark at parties and never hear two words about anyone doubting their sexuality. But not me. I have struck such a precarious balance with everyone i know that all i have to do is remark that a boy is attractive and suddenly my box is tightly packed again. I have no option of flirting with people just for fun, regardless of my reasons. I could never kiss a boy, no matter what circumstantial contrivance it involved. I’m too fucking busy trying to get everyone to just judge me for who i am to begin with to do anything else.

I had had a pretty insular week after returning from my whirlwind boston excursion, so last night Aim and i decided to head down to South Street and see the Beta Band on extremely short notice just to get out of our respective houses. It was great to see Amy again; her presence has been super-lacking in my life since she started her new job and i got back to classes. But, anyway, that’s not the point.


The point is that i returned from Beta Band to find that the roomies were entertaining at the apartment. At first it was superfun… we had a bunch of people around who i don’t always get to chat with, and i was enjoying myself. I even had a beer.


When it comes to parties i am a floater… i very rarely have a strong connection to any person or conversation so i just mingle around until i get miserable and leave. That’s my modus operandi, and it’s inevitable; eventually i’m so frustrated with my inability to be connected to anyone else at all that i wander home and go to sleep. In my own home i figured it would be different… i wouldn’t be on the outskirts of the conversations because i would be in charge… i would be the host.

I was wrong. It turns out, as soon as you amass a big enough group i immediately turn off socially (even if i’m friends with them all individually). Even before everyone started wandering away to their own cliques in different rooms i had reduced myself to tiny inserted comments and laughing along with the crowd. I endured the typical jokes which i do not enjoy, and i mingled from room to room unable to connect to anything that was happening even though i owned the lamps and cushions people were clustered around. Eventually i just locked my door, stripped off my clothes, and went to sleep to Death Cab turned down so low that all i could hear were the upper registers of Ben Gibbard’s voice intoning “highway” over and over on the second track.


It’s not fair. I refuse to have my own home be a gathering place just so i can be trapped there without anywhere to escape to. I don’t know what our social future will turn out to be, but i’m starting to think that it’s out of my hands: i don’t have any say in it, but i’m not taking any responsibility for it either.

I am back in Philadelphia, complete with my newly mellowed red hair and my newly mellowed personality that i have yet to assign a color to and this newly hollow ache for the tiny slice of else i had this weekend. Normalcy and a different city and walking around and being happy — things that i can’t really necessarily apply to Drexel and Philadelphia, but i try. Today i walked into the Admissions Office and everyone fawned over my hair for a solid hour before i got to do any work. Last night i got 100% on my first test of the quarter. Baby steps on a long walk.


There is a door in the frame of my room and it feels so very different to shut it and be insulated from the rest of the apartment except for the hi frequency bleed-through from Lindsay’s room downstairs. I am cocooned in my warm-lit green and white and brick, slowly working through my stack of Boston music and making a point of looking forward to tomorrow and the next day. Because, even though i might not see a point in either of them, somewhere past there there is a day that i want to be on and i’ve got to live the inbetween to get there. That’s how getting places works; you have to endure the inbetweens.

Yesterday i was whining to the theatre peeps about my yet-to-be finished upstairs bathroom, which mostly owes it’s unfinished state to the fact that inside of the stall shower there is belly-button height bar along the three walls that isn’t entirely secured to the wall. It isn’t that i need some sort of safety catch in case i slip while reaching for soap or shampoo, but at any point where it isn’t firmly connected to the wall there is a gaping hold in the water-proofing and i’m afraid i’ll make the inside of my wall rot if i take a shower before it’s finished.

So, anyhow, i was lamenting that i want my shower fixed, not only so i can take quick morning showers, but because the handle-bar seems ideal for two-person maneuvering inside of a stall shower. This brought a hearty chuckle from the sexually frustrated theatre crowd, and then the conversation kept moving.

So, today the repair guy came by to see what was still left to be fixed in the house, and when i remarked to him about the broken shower bar he replied: “Well, you know what that’s from, don’t you?” [insert blank stare from yours truly] “Sex in the shower.”


I rest my case.

Which would you rather do? : Blithely inform your mother that you want to see a psychiatrist about potential clinical depression or Blithely ignore your mother as she examines your roommates pipe and asks what she uses it to smoke.


Well, i’m a lucky little fuck, cause i got to do both today.

My room is an utter mess. Lindsay and Erika keep telling me this as if i’m supposed to be surprised. While i appreciate that at their old house every room was a place to chill and at parties they all hosted their own tiny conversations, i really can’t deal with that. I have something like $3000+ in various guitars in here, plus my computer and cd collection, plus the fact that i’m an utter mess. Oh, and, yeah, there’s that thing where i never had friends or family in my bedroom for more than a minute or two ever until senior year of highschool (and that was mostly just Gina). So… i don’t know. L&E were up here the other night so we could use IMDB and they kept talking about how they could never live in a room this messy and how could i live like this and i was like… blah. Lindsay’s room is gorgeous and wonderful and i could never live in it because there is no sign of life. I like my room to be lived in… it proves to me that i’m still here.

Hi. Apparently my lap-dance was written off as random drunkeness (though i’ve heard it was quite good despite a lack of quality nudity), and i wound up sleeping all night last night while two of my favourite people to talk to were hanging out with Erika downstairs so that i could get up at 8am this morning and do laundry for three hours. Oh yeah, baby.


In other news, much graciousness to ShadowClear and Andy Dehnart for linking to me for no apparent reason other than that they find me interesting, and to Jean’s blog for continuously linking me even though i need Izabelle to translate for me half of the time.. And, also, i appreciate Rabi‘s adding my link to her new layout; rest assured that when i figure out who exactly i’m reading Rabi will still be very much on the list. I mean, you know my surfing habits are running on tilt when i couldn’t tell you what’s happening on in the lives of Benjy, Tom, Mollie, KevRock, Martha, Brendan, Eve, Lizzie, ErnDawg, Nancy, and all the rest.

Somehow yesterday got juggled so that it ended with Ariel on my couch watching the premier of ER and then Lindsay and I mixing a drink from my neverending supply of Everclear, and Erika and i unselfconsciously babbling about acting and theatre for over an hour before we finally decided to go to sleep. So, here i am on Friday morning with red eyes and alcohol on my breath writing short stories and reading selections from the collectioned works of Borges.

College finally feels like college.

Everything i write nowadays is toolong and verywordy. I can’t seem to help myself; i’m just not as omnipresently connected as i used to be and the things i have been wanting to say just build and build until they are no longer simple phrases or paragraphs. Do you remember when this used to be snap reactions to hardwood floors, or fuzzy butterflies swirling in my stomach and the awkwardness that always ensues as a result? Hardwood floors have turned into brick walls and sloped ceilings, but that special breed of butterfly does emerge from a cocoon every so often to do a loop-to-loop just beneath my esophagus. I’m just left wondering if it’s my intent, my writing, or my editing that changed along the way. Obviously it would have to be a little bit of all three… but, what don’t i talk about now that you used to expect to hear from me? I’d really like to know.

Life is conspiring against me posting to blogger. First there was the problem of only having one working phone jack in the apartment, but i solved that by dangling off the roof with a fifty foot phone wire a few nights ago. Then, last night i arrived home with posts precomposed in my head only to find that at same point in walking up and down the steps with my computer monitor two of the pins in its plug had been bent and so it wouldn’t connect to my computer. This hurdle involved a one hour surgery performed with metal banjo picks and a nail clipper, but my computer was somehow rendered functional again afterwards. However, that got me absolutely nowhere seeing as our mysterious phone line was finally turned off, leaving me stranded in my apartment with no means of telecommunication whatsoever.

Sorry, just felt the need to vent.

And now, four hours of riding septa complete with soundtrack thanx to resourceful roommates who own better electronic devices than i do. Did i mention four hours of riding septa? Am i supposed to be excited? Blagh.

My life is an extended commercial break in the middle of a lazy Sunday night movie… i keep expecting the show to go on at the end of each content-less interval but all that appears is another insipid advertisement for what i should be doing with my life.

Every day this week I’ve left the main building at six – because i spend the latter hour of my day keeping up with my internet addiction after everyone else has left the office. When i exit the building i am always thinking “beautiful weather, no commitments, no computer to tie me down, only life ahead.” I walk the nearly two miles back to my apartment with my face towards the setting sun and when i arrive i routinely (i have a routine, already) walk to the fourth floor to drop my keys and shoes, back to the third floor to wash my hands and face, back up to the fourth floor to get changed, and back down to the third floor for a quick sip of orange juice. And then the night extends away from me in seemingly infinite repetitions of walking up and down the stairs and lying on my back staring up at the lantern lights strung across the sloped ceiling above my bed.

Last night i idly surfed through my oldest backup cd for projects i had left unfinished for a half hour before swallowing 50mg of Benadryl, ostensibly because the pollen count has been obscenely high but really because i would much rather be asleep then awake. The slumber came quick and easy and i woke up this morning with ample time to shower and get my large iced nonfat vanilla latté, and here i am back in work, waiting for the last clip in this endless commercial break so that i can get back to the show.

Last night i didn’t get back to the apartment until nearly ten, having gone for well over half a day without much of a moment’s rest at all. I wearily made it up the two flights of stairs to our parlor, took a few minutes to exchange pleasantries with the roommates, mounted the third (steepest) set of stairs to my bedroom and then rolled into my bed. I was nearly out like a light while from downstairs i was being asking if i wanted to walk down the block and get some sushi, and i have no recollection of anyone returning with a meal in hand.

It occurs to me as my first week living with Linsday and Erika (and, for the moment, Jack) wears on that sharing a house with me must be a terribly surprising. Before Jack and Linsday moved into Erika’s old apartment (the Player’s House) they had been there so often that they were roommates by extension long before they were ever roommates by virtue of having a key. They were known quantities. While they surely had funny quirks about the kitchen or the bathroom or keeping tidy, the experience of sharing space with them was not a revelation of any kind.

On the other hand, there is me… alternately extroverted and introverted at parties, sporadically but dedicatedly a participant in theatre, and a music enthusiast who refuses to concede his theoretical superiority of intelligence. With every tiny interaction i have with Erika in the kitchen or while knocking on Linsday’s bedroom door i realize that anything i could be doing would be a surprise to them, because i don’t know what they might be willing to expect based on what they’ve known of me so far. Tiny things like my willingness to attack the dishes if asked, or the controlled cyclone of my room, or my quick retreat to the seclusion of loud music and a game of Snood before bed… all of them seem strange enough to me but i can’t imagine trying to fit them into the strangely perceived context of me that they must already have.

The other side of this thought process is that any given set of roommates alters one’s behaviour in a different kind of way. Kenny kept me cheery and social, Victor left me territorial and bitchy, Matt trained me to apathetic and sedentary. Each of these influences weren’t exactly surprises, since my roommates were unflappable, disrespectful, and disinterested in that order. So, i’m wondering how my new housemates are seeing me (especially Linsday, who i’ve been around the most both in and out of the apartment) and how i’ll subtly change as the year goes on.

Isn’t it funny how i’m sitting here waiting to find out who i am? Maybe it just seems amusing from the inside…