digging for my Bliss

I've been running jangly for the last few weeks. I can't get a grip on anything. I destroyed my 4-month-old iPod Nano/birthday gift last week. What should have been a smooth, 'Pick up item/put item in pocket' maneuver turned into 'pick up item/try to get better grip on item/launch item across the room and under the dresser'. Last night, I lost all motor skills and got waxed in a game of Madden 2005. I became so irate, I had to stand on the fire escape in 30 degree (F) temperatures and 20 m.p.h. winds to calm myself. That took a good 15 minutes to get over a computer game.

Defeatism is in full bloom and the stench would fell a Pollyanna. I can stand outside myself and observe the irrational behavior, yet still be utterly unable to control it. My focus goes off in brilliant, red and blue fireworks as thoughts shimmer and crackle with insipiration then instantly dissolve into blackness. Mania is swinging the pendulum wide and for the first time ever, I've actually entertained the notion that, perhaps, I might need some form of medication... now, all I need is health insurance.

Of course, the City has done little to improve my mood, either. I've noticed that many of my friends have been feeling the same, anxious irritation. New York City is feeling unaffordable even for the full-timers. Many people have glanced up after a few years of earnest, nose-to-the-grindstone effort and can't figure out why they chose to move here in the first place... or why they should stay. Rents have continued to skyrocket, even in the few years I've lived here. Moving to New York has felt like drilling a well. As I start digging deeper and deeper, I fret about whether I chose the right spot and whether I should try another place. A little deeper, I start to think that if I did stop, then I'd be wasting all the time/money I've put into it. So, I throw myself into it all-the-harder, thinking that I'm just being a chicken-shit and losing my nerve. Nowadays, I'm starting to wonder whether I've just dug myself a really expensive hole to Nowhere.

For our honeymoon, Kat and I are going to roadtrip America. We've wanted to do it for years, just as an adventure. Now, it's starting to look like chance to find if there's somewhere in this country where an artist might find a way to both live and work on his art. My parents are so desperate to get us out of the City, they've eagerly offered to lend us a car and help pay for the trip. We're planning on visiting friends and relatives in Nebraska and South Dakota, then check out Colorado, Washington, California, the Southwest and who knows where else before returning the car. Kat and I were both born in Colorado so there's a part of us that thinks Colorado might be the place we'll end up, but who knows? Maybe we'll stay a bit longer and finally strike water in NYC so we can start building.

But the hole keeps getting deeper.

a New paint job

It's the end of the year and the habits are performing their familiar, high-arching return. Lately, the act of Living has felt like a perpetual battle to break free from the rip-tides of habit. As the road signs of my twenties slowly dissolve into the horizon of my rearview mirror, I am struggling to keep my eyes on the Road. Manic depression has begun to swing me further and further onto the gravely shoulders of the road. The Fear grows that one bad winter could send me into the ditch or wrapped around cement-anchored, telephone pole in the median. It's apparent that preemptive action Must be taken.

Last week, a new gym membership was secured with plastic promises to my debtors. The next step is the purchase of another Thing to add to my collection - a laptop. The dream of a quiet office space will have to be saved for the next Move, either from the Big City or to another tier of wealth alien to my existence. It is time to recognize that my cave is no kind of place to write and the only Hope lies in cafes and bars of Manhattan.

So, after scouring the pages of lenovo.com, toshiba.com, fujitsu.com, dell.com, mobilityguru.com, apple.com, notebookreview.com, laptoplogic.com and numerous forums, I've come the the conclusion that everything is Too Expensive and Utterly Baffling. Whoever is in charge of the numbering scheme for Intel laptop processors should be shot. Years ago, a laptop purchase was made from Dell by yours truly and from that Incident I have learned the two things that I MUST have in this new machine: 1) A decently-sized keyboard, 2) a weight that will NOT render the idea of Portability to a joking quip.

It appears that a Lenovo Thinkpad will be the way to go. A Z60T or T42, perhaps. It certainly isn't the cheapest model on the market today, but it looks like a workhorse. I'm praying that there are some New Year deals to be had in the next week so I don't have to make too many more promises I can't keep.

Then, let the Magic begin...

fixing a hole

I feel that I have lost track of an old friend. I have gone nowhere, yet I've become lost in the sea of my Twitch. Such are the lands I travel when winter approaches and I feel the tightening grip of shorter days around my neck. I have a half-dozen projects at my fingertips- none of them close to completion.

Must get back into the thick of things... human contact so I can get it Out.

touching my Inner Pretzel

Last Saturday, I showed up for my third yoga class... ever. In the distant wilds of Upper Manhattan, there is a yoga center nestled amongst the caves, old trees and baseball fields choked with Dominicans. I don't know how or why such a center came to be in the Land of Inwood, but I'm not gonna ask- it might disappear. Until a month ago, I'd never considered taking yoga. Sure, the pursuit is dominated by thin, flexible women and this is a Very Good incentive for a heterosexual male, but I'm Taken and besides, I'm serious about my fitness. The idea of stretching and chanting mantras to a religion I didn't practice has always felt like just the sort of New Age, hippie fad that I loved to hate. I am a rock n' roll/heavy weights kinda guy that prefers to See his accursed enemy - 300 pounds on an olympic, bench-press bar, for instance. You Mount the weight bench, growl at it menacingly, burst forth a few puffs of breath to pump myself up then 'Wham!'.

On the other hand, I can't afford $50-70 a month for the honor of standing on a treadmill or lifting weights. The center offers 6 classes (1 per week) for $65 bucks and I'd be setting myself up for an activity I can perform back in the cave. Plus, if I don't start doing some sort of regular exercise, my mental state is going to be veddy, veddy bad, veddy, veddy soon. I don't handle the winter months very well (or the other months, actually).

So... 3 weeks and, I think I like it. Really. No, really. Never have I sweated so much and moved so little. Who knew that shifting your hips an inch could immediately induce your thigh to say, "I don't think so."? The day after my first session, I'd soaked through my T-shirt, flannel pajamas (I don't have workout clothes) and was only capable of about a third of my normal movement. Last week was better and this week, I'm starting to feel better! Of course, I still tip over with any yoga move that requires balance. I also have this amazing ability to vibrate. Leave me in that 'Warrior 2' position for too long, and you'll soon have a Bouncing Deckard toy on your hands. Breathing can be a bit of a chore, also. That yoga instructor breathes a helluva lot slower than my body's willing to do. Apparently, I also have some tension in my shoulders- steel girder grade.

And hell, I'm starting to kinda dig the chanting too!

looking for the Cure

The last few weeks have felt like a year. That happens when you're going through a growth spurt and things are really Happening. On Saturday, the Study Abroad on the Bowery program wrapped up our three week workshop with a final performance and 'graduation ceremony'. Names were called out while workshop students whistled a heinous rendition of "Pomp and Circumstance". I met some really cool people over the last few weeks and was sad to see them go, but I'm ready for a break. By a break, I mean that I have to start applying all the shit I've been absorbing over the last few weeks. It's like I've spent too much time in a good art museum. After a while, I overload on the visual stimulation and just start mindlessly looking at blotches of color mounted on walls.

I've been obsessed with Spalding Gray over the last few weeks. Actually, I have been a huge fan of Spalding Gray for years. I have always been a huge fan of The Killing Fields and when I heard that a performance artist had done a monologue of his experiences in making the film, I immediately went out and rented Swimming to Cambodia. The movie was incredible. Here was a guy who sat at a desk with a glass of water and a microphone and delivered a stunning, storytelling display that effortlessly blew away 90 percent of the acting I'd seen. I immediately went out and rented Monster in a Box and Gray's Anatomy which proved to be equally-fulfilling. When he committed suicide early last year, I was crushed. His style of performance was referred to as a 'talking cure' and his neuroses, insecurities, and discoveries often seemed to mirror my own. Spalding felt like a passive-aggressive member of my unspoken club where We all struggled to Keep It Together through our art. I had never met the man nor had an opportunity to see one of his live performances, but I felt a kinship. It's hard not to when the work you love is of such a personal nature.

After I'd graduated with my MFA in playwriting, one of my professors told me that my writing style was similar to Spalding's work. He suggested that I rent out a theater and put on a one-man show. Of course, I was flattered to have my writing compared to Spalding's, but the idea of memorizing and performing anything over 10 minutes was laughable and the suggestion that I do it solo was a double-decker sandwich of Laughable and Horrifying. After 3 weeks of performance poetry though... I've been watching my copy of Swimming to Cambodia and thinking that, maybe, the sandwich has become more of a Snort and Grimace affair... and not so ludicrous an idea.

NPR did a very good retrospective on Spalding and his work.

three-drink minimum Before performing

I have had exactly One positive performance experience in my life. I was drunk and I had three hot, extroverted actresses who were eager to be my backup singers. I did a late-night karaoke performance of "Love Shack" (I didn't pick it). My success that night hinged upon a complete disintegration of restraint and an ability to channel blinding terror into one of the loudest, gayest Fred Schneider impersonations ever witnessed by humankind. It was a once-in-a-lifetime performance that I remember fondly. I am certain that such a feat couldn't be repeated for all the vodka in Russia.

This has been a week of perpetual anxiety as I acclimate myself to the reality of reading poems onstage. My presentation is lacking (nonexistent), but I'm feeling much better about the quality my poetry. For the last few years, the act of writing has been like watching a distant plane fly through a blue sky - impossible to to see how it's going without a backdrop to compare it. My poems have been sitting in notebooks and on computers for years and I never felt particularly good about them. My poetry is far more distilled that I'd previously thought. They have an uneasy relationship with performance because they aren't nimble on their feet (much like myself). It's an interesting challenge.

My first impression of performance poetry is that it's more theatrical than literary. That's not to say that poetry readings aren't poetic, but expressionistic theater productions of the mid-to-late 20th century are very similar in their structure and execution.

Why am I going on and on with this intellectual analysis? It's a good hiding place.

shakin' it at the Bowery Poetry Club

The only shot I've got of getting blog entries out over the next three weeks is to do it fast-and-dirty, so hang with me.

In a moment of madness, I signed up for a three-week, Applied Poetics workshop with the Bowery Poetry Club. Aside from the fact that I can't afford the class and am working part-time, I am also terrified of performing onstage.

I am Terrified of Performing Onstage. You can cut-and-paste this title and put it at the head of my dossier.

On the other hand, I have 4 years of poetry under my belt and no one has read it except my girlfriend and a couple of literary journals that found it so compelling, they eagerly rushed the rejection letters back to me, as quickly as possible. If I am going to get the guts to get this stuff read (or heard), I know that I'm going to have to do it myself.

I have read my poems out-loud, but they've been hushed whispers to my notebook or the cats - never in front of others and Never with the aid of amplification. Until last night.

I firmly believe that it's important to do things out of your comfort zone. That's when you grow. Well, I was hell-and-gone out of my comfort zone last night... and I think it was a success. By success, I mean that I didn't trip on the steps or lose my place in the poem or vibrate off the stage.

One class down, 3-weeks-minus-one-day to go.

two sun strokes to Go, please

On Sunday, I woke up sticky-hot against the bed sheets to a commotion beside me. Kat had flung the covers off the bed and was purring with excitement. The clouds had lifted in her world, and summer was here! She had been working on her winter depression since the end of the previous summer where the first sign of Fall began a long mope of anticipation of what was to come. Our trip to Thailand in November only served to heighten her loathing of New York winters. My listless attempts to put a positive spin on cooler temperatures and white, fluffy snow had only earned me slit-eyed looks and the faint sound of a hiss. The promise of near-90 degree temperatures had whipped her into a disturbing bout of pep - too early in the morning from such a slow riser as this.

Kat tucked her knees up against her chest and hugged her legs in that 'gonna-get-up-now' stretch for her lower back and rolled into a sitting position. She snatched Sam, one of our white/tabby cats, and enthusiastically rubbed him in ways that no half-asleep cat would ever want to be rubbed. I had been performing my all-night, rotisserie chicken routine, rolling from one position to another whenever my aching back would jostle me awake. Our mattress had been in need of a replacement for the last 4 years and last weekend, in a fit of fiscal irresponsibility, we had trudged down to Macy's and bought ourselves a Stearns & Foster mattress in the hopes of abating the pain until we could reach a more-suitable age. Only 3 more days until our mattress arrives (thank Fucking christ).

Kat leapt out of the bed to begin her daily routine. Her first order of business was to make her list. Although she's no Nazi about it, Kat is the Benevolent Queen Sheba of Lists. She is a fantastic procrastinator (having learned from the Best), so she has developed innovative ways to actually get things Done. She makes extensive To Do lists and checks them off. Her tasks range from the extensive (clean and organize art desk) to the minute (check e-mail). The act of completing each item gives her a sense of accomplishment and pulls her through a productive day. I have tried to build these lists, but have a tendency to skip the simple tasks and go straight for the jugular (write play about childhood, edit and send out all of my poetry, organize desk). The first task on my list should be 'Lose List' because that is the one thing I will consistently accomplish, although I wouldn't get the personal satisfaction of checking it off. Fortunately, Kat's lists nearly always include tasks to remind me about past promises, like 'ask Deckard when he was planning on finishing that wood carving he started on the cat's climbing structure from 3 months ago' or 'remind Deckard that he promised he'd clean the mildew off the shower curtain a week and a half ago'. Today, I only had one task on the list - escort Kat to the park for an afternoon of sun.

Last summer, Kat had a freak out about her whiteness. I had been able to deflect scrutiny regarding the pallor of my skin with jokes about blending into snowdrifts, but Kat had been earnestly suffering from the realization that nothing in her closet went with 'pasty'. It became a Tug-O-War between a depressed Deckard who eschewed the light and a sun junkie who felt too vulnerable in a bikini to go lay out by herself in the Park. Towards the end of last summer, she succeeded in coaxing me into the open with a camping trip to the Catskills and a couple one-day getaways to the beach. Most beaches around NYC are choked with people and the refuse of too many beer barbecues, but we had discovered Fire Island - a Mecca of beach beauty preserved from Joe Six-Pack by the Fear of seeing naked, gay men frolicking in the surf. I was secure enough in my sexuality to have a few nice days in the sun while Kat tinted a couple of shades darker. Despite these outings, Kat felt that she didn't have enough tan-momentum to carry her through the winter months and was determined to not endure a repeat-performance.

My head-to-hammer depression has significantly abated since leaving my dead-end job at Lincoln Center. My recovery was arduous, but I have finally found the incentive to leave the cave for excursions that didn't involve PJ Liquor Warehouse or the 'Quest for Food Deliveryman Cash'. I wasn't terribly eager to tan, however. I didn't need that steroid-infested-Bodybuilder tan to accentuate my abs (one would need abs for that). Also, I never particularly enjoyed the punishment of baking under the sun. I had tried, once, to tan. I fell asleep in the sun and took 5 years to exfoliate away the line of demarcation where my chest burn ended and my back began. I agreed to Kat's sun-fest because New York has taught me (among other things) to appreciate any opportunity to 1) walk on something other than pavement and 2) sit in (relative) silence.

The whole morning was devoted to Kat's fulfillment of The List and my wanderings around the apartment. My obsessive, creative project hadn't hit me for a few months, so I have expended most of my calories by getting ready to start something, but really waiting for the one Event in my day that had been pre-set, like lunch or an Outing. Pens, notebooks, woodcarving tools, novels, and DVD's were scattered about the apartment, all Just About Ready to be put to use. Soon, my nervous energy had migrated to Kat until even the beckoning promise of a Checked list couldn't keep her on-task. Finally, Kat announced that we could go. I furiously loaded my backpack with all the Tools necessary to having a Productive afternoon in the park. Blog entry notebook. Poetry notebook. Journal. Ballpoint pen. Felt tipped pen. Pencils. Gum eraser. Drawing pad. Book to read. Fingernail clippers in case I get a hangnail. I scurried from one end of the apartment to the other in an attempt to cover every plausible need I might have for the next 4 to 6 hours. Kat tried to assemble the makings for a snacky lunch, which she did admirably, but insisted on bringing enough water to cross the Sahara.

To the Park!

Ft. Tryon Park is the kinder, mellower park of Upper Manhattan. It sits directly south of Inwood Hill Park and is home to the Cloisters, a flower-choked, volunteer garden, and some of the best views of the Hudson River (and West End Drive). Although not as untouched and pristine as the land around my cave in Inwood Hill Park, it's sunbathing-friendly with grassy spaces, a clientele of 20-to-50-something folks who generally keep the noise to a dull roar and a steady stream of European tourists looking to view medieval art in the Cloisters (all of which came, strangely-enough, from Europe). Inwood Hill Park, meanwhile, is predominantly a large, U-shaped hill blanketed by the remains of Manhattan's pre-colonial forest. The grassy spaces are almost solely-reserved for a summer-long fest of intense, league baseball/softball games, rimmed by a mass of disposable, beer coolers, and teenagers on mini, tricked-out bikes. It is an ideal environment for the 74% Dominican population who's not particularly interested in a culture of laid-back sunbathing.

Kat and I eagerly scoped out a beautiful spot that overlooked the river and planted our asses to grass (in our enthusiasm, we had forgotten our blanket). The ground was still damp from the previous night's rain, but we were on a mission and wet, butt marks and the threat of curious ants on our pale, sweaty legs would be endured. I donned my glasses so that I wouldn't be blinded by the white pages of my many reading/writing materials. The sunglasses also provided a crucial, secondary purpose by allowing me to... glance (ah, yes! Good choice, Deckard) upon fellow sunbathers without having Kat pepper me with devious, trick questions like, "What are you staring at?"

It is important to note that, although both Kat and myself have lived in far-warmer environments and do, in fact, enjoy a good, hot day, we might have been somewhat ill-prepared for Direct Exposure after living an indoor existence that only Goths could appreciate. I have always been self-conscious about my weight, but the shirt was off within five minutes. Kat quickly commandeered it as a mini-blanket for her upper body and sweated it through. Fifteen minutes in, the nearby plants were wilting from the tsunami wave of salt water. Forty minutes in, the food was snarfed, a cold pack was applied to Kat's neck to stave off heat stroke and we were packing it in.

Ahh, summer. I welcome ye.

(almost) springing from the Cave

Winter has finally begun to break in New York. I emerged from my cave a few days ago and discovered that the storage pounds that I packed on for the winter months had not melted away during my hibernation. Unlike my bear bretheren, I continued to eat General Tso's chicken and suck down vodka tonics in a frantic attempt to hold off the inevital depression that hits during a season of short days. Something had to be done.

On Saturday, with torch in hand, I rummaged through the mounds of dead leaves until I found the 15-speed bike my parents had given me for my birthday. I had ridden it every day for the first month, then I went to Thailand, then winter arrived then - the point is that I had a renewed energy and the determination to change my lifestyle and become FIT again! I ambled to the crack at the back of my cave and, with some difficulty, scouted out my biking uniform:

• non-hip biking helmet- to allow me the illusion of personal safety despite the two-dozen gypsy cabs that regularly prowl my steet
• padded biking gloves- to save my palms from personal irritation and look cool in that cut-off, punky-biking-gloves kinda way
• 7-year-old running shoes- to let my feet know that I once again intend on losing 20 pounds and getting those rock-hard abs (they have been known to snicker)
• neon yellow windbreaker- so idiot drivers from 3 blocks away can get a bead on me from long-distanc
  
• water bottle- to provide water in case I get stuck in the desert with a flat tire during my usual, 30-minute ride along the river
• accessory bag- to hold hex wrenches (for repairs), a Metro card (when the repairs don't work) and a quarter (when I discover my Metrocard has expired and I have to call my girlfriend)

With this euphoric inspiration to Do Something, I set out for my first workout. I stepped into the early-morning air, secured my helmet, then stepped on the bike. The front tire was flat... and the tiny, new tire valve didn't fit my bike pump. Stupid new-fangled bikes.

Well, Spring has sprung. It's only a matter of time...

New York, New York what a ... town

New York City is a strange, little village. People come here from all over the world in search of the 'American Dream' or at least a piece of the pie. I moved here because, if one wants to be a writer, painter, or any other sort of artist, this is the place to be... well, that's the theory. Chicago, Los Angeles, Seattle, Miami - these places all have loads of artists but most of the publishing industry is based in New York City. The proximity between the bottom and top is never so close as here. It is also the most aggravating place I've ever lived.

Yesterday, I had a doctor's appointment in Chelsea. Unfortunately, I wasn't gay or insured enough to be seen at this subsidized clinic so, after schlepping myself clear down there to be told I can't be helped, I needed a walk. So, I spent the next couple hours winding my way back and forth across the width of Manhattan Island and from 16th to 59th Street before descending into the Columbus Circle subway and retreating to my cave in the barren northlands of Inwood. It never ceases to amaze me at how big this city is. The diversity of humanity and ascention of buildings leave me over-stimmulated, turning in every direction and finding something new. I am always left either inspired or frustrated at the end of these walks and this one left me with both.

The most inspiring stop was at the Chelsea Hotel http://www.hotelchelsea.com/. I had walked past this building a number of times and had even harbored the vague desire to stay a night or two just to absorb a little ambience, but it's always been out of my price range. Old New Yorkers tell me that the two things that always used to be cheap in this city were hotel rooms and food. Now, it couldn't be further from the truth. It's incredible to think of all the great writers and musicians who lived in the Chelsea Hotel- Bob Dylan, Dylan Thomas, Arthur Miller, William Burroughs, Sid Vicious, etc. It's frigging ridiculous. I skirted the edges of Times Square and passed magnificent stage theaters, including the stage-to-screen adaptation of the Ziegfield Theatre. Despite the indignity of hosting a Keanu Reeves movie at the time, it's still a pretty cool place.

At the other end of the inspiration perspective, I walked up 6th Avenue and couldn't believe the number of high-end, apartment skyscrapers going up. Every block has at least two or three of these beheamoths with floor-to-ceiling windows that take up more square feet than my entire apartment. Who are these people, paying thousands of dollars a month in rent, or 7-figures to buy. I've never felt much envy for ostentatious displays of wealth, but Manhattan vividly illustrates the disparity between the haves and have-nots like no other. At least in L.A. they hide up in the Hollywood Hills.

When I crossed 42nd Street, the changes in the last year were huge. Almost the entire block between 6th and 7th Avenue has been bought up and levelled. Now, there's this tremendous view of Town Hall, but that'll be short-lived. One year and hundred stories later, Bryant Park won't be getting any sunlight. Most New Yorkers I know avoid Times Square like the plague. Any mention of going down there illicits that sucking, grit-teeth display of pain and sympathy. The density of oggling tourists and scammers gives the air that copper-scented tinge of danger. Every shouting match or near-fight that I've had in this city has come in, or near, Times Square. Some hustler inevitably mistakes me for a tourist and tries to fuck with me. My midwestern accent and loping gait must give off the scent of a sucker.

There's something invigorating about walking the streets, though. All that visual stimulation is like washing your entire body with Lava soap. It's abrasive, but it'll wake up parts of you that you'd forgotten were there. This loathsome city has lost more than a little of its romance and she's not shy about giving a good fisting, but somehow you still end up wanting to cuddle with her and join the club that had her and lived to tell the tale.

a little Credit in the straight world

This is the last week of my unemployment. I don't have a job but I have finally succumbed to the grey, listless world of Temping. The day that I left my old job, I vowed that I would never return to the cubicle-and-fluorescent habitat of Administrative Assisted Hell... well, at least not in a non-arts business. I've really had it with temping. I have done it far to long. That 8 A.M. phone call from the agency, followed by the shuffling search for the street then office then supervisor then lackey-who-needs-help which takes you to the dirty looks as you check your e-mail in between mind-numbing re-ordering of files or answering telephones and talking to angry people because you're not the one they wanted to talk you then the awkward begging for lunch then more of the same then the mousy knock on the supervisor's door to get your timesheet signed so you can dial '9', pound the agency's number in the keypad and send off an official notice of where you wasted your existence for the last 8 hours. The aching in my right hand has risen to a slow growl... Damned that numeric keypad!

New York City is a unique world for the job-searcher. It seems as if every interesting job suffers from one of three ailments - nepotism, unionization or favoritism. Businesses can, and often do, suffer from all three ailments but at least one is present. Multiple family members work ticketing offices in the City. Nobody, not even the snob-arts up at Lincoln Center can avoid it. I know the value of unions. They're critical when you are dealing with corrupt and/or impersonal corporate interests. There are some places and some positions that have been saved from unions. New York, however, has taken many unions and turned them into art forms. Look, when some art grad grabs a job at Pearl Paint, the largest art supply store in the city, he/she isn't expecting to earn a fortune, but when the pay is $8/hour AND you have to plug in union dues, then somebody's earning something and it sure-as-shit ain't the clerks. Favoritism is an old acquaintance of mine. We go way back. I've stood on the outside looking in and I've even gotten a few gigs in L.A. based on the same criteria. For the entertainment industry, it's a way for a film/TV crew to get help that isn't gonna bitch and moan when they're pulling 16 hour workdays or getting screamed at by a spoiled producer. In New York City, it is often a way for semi-competent people to rise through the ranks of various professions without ever really getting any better at what they do. When you get into upper management, this is one of the best way to move around, especially if you can piece together good severance packages along the way.

I find it interesting how American culture treats the arts in such a dismissive manner, yet there is no shortage of people desperate to work in it. Finding any job in the arts requires extensive experience In The Field, significant salary sacrifices (which are exponentially-worsened in NYC) and a time-immersive availability that only an twenty-something, trust-fund single could ever hope to meet. Otherwise, how could a person really be fluent in Mandarin and Spanish, have at least 7 years of gallery experience and afford a $12-15 an hour job in Manhattan (don't forget that you need to be available nights and weekends :)). I've seen people working gallery jobs in SOHO and the Meatpacking District. They're not THAT skilled. All you have to do is sit in front of an iMac, look pretty and ignore anybody who doesn't look money enough to afford anything in the shop. My three years of film production experience, combined with my summer theater management experience, along with my 3 years of marketing analysis, and my playwriting skills pretty much add up to Jack-over-Shit. I guess that being a Renaissance Man only worked during the Renaissance... and only when there was affordable housing.

Bitch bitch bitch

Moan moan moan

...have I covered everything?... oh yeah-

Whine whine whine

As my girlfriend said, so effortlessly destroying the extended rationale of my last post, "Maybe you'll feel better about others when you feel like you are accomplishing something in your life."

but i wanted to watch oprah

Maintaining a blog is much like starting an exercise routine. Motivation arises from an intense discontent. My first entry was energizing and euporic. I had never written or posted to the net and within a few minutes, I had a blog and web design posted to the World Wide Web. I tried out the weight machines of pre-fab templates, text coloring and boldface, then I even tested the free weights of html coding on the fly to fix a formatting problem. Holy shit! There I was, doing it. The thrill of having actually 'done it' more than made up for any exhaustion of effort.

The next few entries were encouraging. I worked to fit a disciplined routine into my manic life. The intense discontent fed my writing as I earnestly attempted to communicate thoughtful ideas in a well-formed manner. A total stranger posted a comment on one of my posts and I regained that initial thrill of posting, like the day you walk by the mirror after a shower and discover that you can see a little more definition in your shoulder than you had before. Progress was being made! People were hearing me! After years of quiet brooding on the subway or within the depths of my cave, my voice had carried beyond my self.

After about a week or so, it became that the Impulse was fading. I had been heard. I had done it. I had exercised my brain and diatribed. Now, blogging was going to start taking a little more effort. My belief in the blog was going to soon be expected to prompt me to continue... well, that and the guilt that I was thinking of quitting something that felt so imperative only weeks before. The routine became forced and uncomfortable. As I began to learn the skills to write concisely, it became evident that there was a little craft to be learned here and that I won't be picking the whole thing up overnight. Every topic felt like the whinings of a spoiled child who should know better. Then came that first day where I got sloppy. I wrote the first thing that came to my mind and ran out of the gym. The feeling of accomplishment had been sabotaged and all I could think was, 'It's out there.' People are reading that lazy piece of crap and clicking away before reading that really cool post I did about fallen cathedrals. Or worse, they're clicking away, deleting their browser history and vowing to themselves to never return to my blog.

First thing the next morning, I went online and deleted the offending entry. Then, I tried to explain myself in a follow up entry, like those friends that keep explaining to you why that exercise routine they were going to do didn't work out because they have this-and-that taking up their lives and the gym is just not very accomodating in it's hours and besides the only time that they can work out is the busiest time of day and all the exercise bikes are being used at that time anyway.

So here I am, taking the big breath to chill myself the fuck out and regain a little focus. Well, at least I didn't have to buy the 1 year membership to join the gym.

my Aerated head

Last night, I shaved my beard. This morning, I got my hair cut. My girlfriend did the honors. My shoulder-length locks are now resting on the top of the kitchen garbage. Looking at my mass of hair, clustered like the leavings of some springtime shedding, it feels as if I have been born anew. The leavings are so substantial, I feel like I should do something with it. If it was spring, I'd take it over to the park and leave it for the birds to make nests. I'm sure there's a chemo patient somewhere who'd kill for it, but then I'd have to put some effort into this lazy train of thought. I am now sporting a tapered, spiky sort of haircut that allows me to pull off both pseudo-mohawks and conservative looks with just a little gel. I've never been particularly attached to hairstyles... or at least that's what I tell myself. Mania allows me to follow an impulse and easily rationalize the moment.

It's tremendously liberating to shed one look and don another. I hope that this doesn't become the last time that I'll shed the hippie look. Admittedly, I am getting older and one never knows how many rounds of hair growth are left. It's never easy to go through that muddled stage wherein the hair is perpetually disheveled and the bangs are just long enough to get in the way yet too short for a ponytail. Then, there's the aging thing. My genetic history is a little sketchy with the whole balding gene. I have blood relatives on both sides who sport balding and furry scalps. In a sense, it's sad that balding is given negative stature. From the standpoint of evolutionary development, I'd think that it'd be desirable to have less hair. It makes a man that much further removed from primate origins who were entirely covered in hair. If I should one day discover that my genetics have vetoed my future hairstyle plans, then I doubt that I'll be terribly upset.

As for today, I could not be more happy with my lack of cranial foliage. I don't know what it is about haircuts that are so liberating for me. I'm like Jekyll and Hyde when it comes to hair. With short hair, I feel confident, jazzy and open to the onslaught of life's adventures. I also look about 5 years younger with short hair. I usually have short haircuts when I'm fed up with my life and want to make some changes. The last couple of times I cut my hair, I lost 65 lbs. and got a job supervising a summer theater. Long hair arises whenever I start getting into mythology, Tolkien, or hippie culture. I feel older, mature, expressionistic, laid back and comforted by longer hair. It gives me separation from the false, hipster sorts who troll concert venues and bars to be seen rather than to simply be. Sometimes, it's nice to feel older and, hopefully, a little wiser than the budding sort we worship in American culture. When I have a job, I start growing out my hair when I am fed up and feeling like a sell out. Unfortunately, long hair is a fantastic world to live behind when depression pays a visit. That veil of hair falls over the face and I am set apart from the world around me. I can sit in my private space and fondle my internal musings until they are polished from use.

Well, the veil has been clipped away and I'm looking out on the world, younger-looking, hipster-esqe, and no longer a viable rubbing post for our kittens. I've got a concert at the Bowery Ballroom tonight, my copy of Final Draft has been dusted off and fired up, and the wine is staying in the bottle. Baby steps to the desk...

a visual reference

on the road to Ithaca

Since I moved to New York City three years ago, I have become increasingly agitated with life. Now, the City is good at breeding a certain amount of guilt and compulsiveness as the have nots rub shoulders with the have-a-lots. There has been a particular itch that has been festering in my mind for a long time and now it has grown to tumor-size- ageism. I first beheld the warning signs of this impending storm many years ago. When I reached 26, I realized that I was now the exact age of Orson Welles, but I unlike him, I was not going to be directing my Citizen Kane that year. In addition, I was never going to be an NBA point guard or the next 'young phenom' of Hollywood - Steven Spielberg. As the years passed, I found myself measuring my progress through life relative to others. Having nothing in common with these people except my age, I decided to use that as the yardstick. In addition, this was a very natural progression because L.A., where I was living at the time, is perhaps the most age-ist city on the planet. My parents had me when they were in their mid-to-late 20s. George Lucas directed Star Wars at the 'ancient' age of 32. Now, the the only perceivable reference points I have in my future appear to be Robert Altman (M*A*S*H at age 44) and Grandma Moses (began painting at age 75).

Of course, there's always the dream of being a creater of "outsider art" which, according to CBS Sunday Morning, is all the rage in the art world. I could be one of those people with no training, no concept of the exploitation being performed by gallery owners at their expense, and (for street cred) a history of mental illness. I watched this show and I cannot communicate how depressing it is to feel that the $25,000 I currently owe in student loans, for the SOLE purpose of learning craft, has no value in the New York art world. Hey, I'm not wholly-ignorant about how the arts work in America, but DAMN... I didn't need to see that.

Unfortunately, I have to admit that it isn't age or the lack of a propogative drive or the nauseating trends in film, television and art that's really led to this depressed wreck of a man - it's my goal-oriented, guilt mentality. I have ceased to enjoy my journey and now the goal is the "thing" and all my actions are hot-wired into them. I am always focused on reaching Ithaca - a distant land where I hope all my happiness will lie. I have ceased to enjoy the journey. I have become a person fixated upon some abstract idea of success and any enjoyment along the way is considered to be a distraction from the goal. My measurement relative to others has become absolutely poisonous to me. There's something very American about how I have to compare myself to winners and never consider myself to be one until I've clearly won.