Category Archives: personal

horoscope

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Went for a slice of pizza at lunch today, and randomly read a Willamette Week. As I flipped through it I came up to the Free Will Astrology, which I always enjoy. Today’s entry was:

“TAURUS: The year is almost half over, Taurus. Shall we sum up the first part of 2011 and speculate about the adventures that may lie ahead of you in the next six months? The way I see it, you’ve been going through a boisterous process of purification since last January. Some of it has rattled your soul’s bones, while some of it has freed you from your mind-forged manacles. In a few short months, you have overseen more climaxes and shed more emotional baggage than you had in the past three years combined. Now you’re all clean and clear and fresh, and ready for a less exhausting, more cheerful kind of fun.”

Astrology, you son of a bitch, how do you know exactly what is going on in my life? Granted, I think when he says “last January,” he means January 2011, but I took it to mean January of 2010, which, if so, is exactly when I started going through a “purifcation,” if you will, and February is when I started therapy, and I don’t know, this horoscope just works perfectly for me right now. I’ve been in Portland for three years, and in the past year and a half I’ve had more ups and downs than I can count. And while I don’t really feel “clear and fresh,” I do feel ready for a less exhausting, more cheerful kind of fun.

Anyway. Just wanted to post this for posterity.

cats, briefly

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Look, domesticated cats have been around for thousands of years. You can trace them back to the Egyptians. So I’m just going to blame the Egyptians for giving us cats. Because without cats, I would get a decent night’s sleep.

This morning, my girlfriend discovered why she was having such difficulty sleeping. “I think it’s the dogs across the street,” she said. “They’re always barking, and since we have the window open, I can hear them and they wake me up.”

I would say the same thing, but I’m too busy being woken up by my damn cat every two hours. She jumps beside me on the bed and meows me awake, and if I don’t respond to her, she walks on my chest and stands there like she own the goddamn place.

See, she’s kind of spoiled. She likes to sleep under the covers. Typically, when Kait and I sleep, she goes under, starts pawing the fitted bedsheet like she’s making a nest, and then flops onto her side or even her back, waiting for us to pet her and tell her she’s cute. She knows this. She KNOWS. And then we pet her and go to sleep. This is when she escapes from under the covers and starts running around, chasing things, and generally fucking around. Why she chooses this time, I have no idea. But eventually she wears herself out and she comes back up to sleep. Now, she sleeps OVER the covers. Don’t ask me why.
She also likes to sleep nestled between either my girlfriend or my legs. Like, if I’m laying on my back and my legs are parted, even a little bit, she nestles up in between them, probably because it’s warm and comforting. But for me it means I cannot change my position in the bed. Ever, unless she moves or I move her, and if I move her I feel like a dick.

Then, before it’s even light outside, she jumps on the bed and meows in my face. How do I placate you, Jowers? What do I do? Do you want food? Attention? What magical incantation shouldst I speak to allow thee the peace thou requirest?

Animal behaviorists say you can’t give the animals the attention they seek in situations like this because then they’ll always seek it. But how can you not give attention to a cat that is meowing in your face? Ignore it? What if I ignore it and one morning she meows and I don’t hear because I’ve ignored it so much that I sleep through it, only this time she’s meowing because the goddamn house is on fire, and she’s warning me but nothing will wake me from my sweet reverie, and I die in a house fire?!

I guess I’ll just be sleepy all day, then. :\

the battle with snacks

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My necessity to snack on food is really kind of a big bad deal. I’m sitting at work, trying not to think about how I have almonds and Clif bars and a couple bits of licorice in my desk, food I brought at first to eat after my first break, something to fill my belly between breakfast and lunch. It’s not an unhealthy thing to do at all. But the problem is that I don’t just eat that. I end up going to the convenience store down the street, or to the Greek deli, and I buy a bunch of shit food and munch on it quickly, until I’m full and sick. Then lunch rolls around and I inevitably eat lunch, which is usually pretty filling.

I eat a lot, is what I’m trying to say. And I must thank some kind of throttle in my body that’s keeping me from ballooning to obesity. I’m gaining weight, sure, but not too fast. I’ve gained about sixty pounds in three years. Not terrible, but I feel the effects of it. Increased lethargy, apathy, apparently I snore a lot when I sleep now. These are all things that I want to fix. I want my energy back. I want to feel happy and content and relaxed. I understand my job doesn’t help this, but I know that I control the things that go into my body, and so I want to take steps to fix what I’ve been breaking for years now.

So my first logical and pragmatic step is to stop snacking at work. That is why I’m writing this blog post, because I’m trying to focus my mind on something else. Of course, writing about snacking doesn’t really help, but it’s better than thinking about snacking.

It’s a weird psychological dependency that I have brought upon myself. Years of sitting in front of a computer screen, eating Doritos or Cheetos or whatever the hell was fattening and delicious. I honestly wish I could get rid of this desire like I got rid of my desire for soda. But, comfort food is comfort food, and I feel good binging on junk food. I’m trying to change my mindset about that, but it takes time, and I keep falling back.

It’s a weird feeling. I’m not even that hungry, but I want to eat. I guess this is what alcoholics feel like, huh?

Wait until lunch, wait until lunch, wait until lunch…

why it sucks to ride bikes sometimes

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So I’m riding my bike down the sidestreets of my neighborhood shortly before I arrive home. As I take a left turn onto a particularly crappy street, I see a family before me: a husband up ahead, walking the dog, and a woman on the right with a stroller, and a kid, probably four or five, holding one of those Chuck It ball throwers. They’re walking in the street, mind you. I have no issues with this; people walk down empty streets all the time. But the kid is on the left and she’s on the right, so I have no choice but to ride in between them. Please note at this point that the woman has made eye contact with me once already. I made the left turn, saw them, her Spideysense picked up and she turned back and noticed me. She has seen me. Repeat: she has seen me.

Slowly, I ride in between the woman and her kid, and as I do, she looks at me and says, chock full of Portland passive-aggressiveness: “Maybe you want to say ‘On your left’ or ‘right’ when you pass?”

To which I laugh and say, “Sorry.”

And as I’m riding away, she continues, “Maybe next time?”

Here is my rebuttal, which, of course, I thought of much too late: Hey lady, when you see a bike riding down the street towards you and your child, maybe, instead of making me guess whether to ride to the left, the right, or the middle of your precious family, you MOVE YOUR FUCKING KID OUT OF THE WAY. Who knows how fast I might’ve hit that turn? Who knows where I would’ve gone? Should you expect every cyclist to say “LEFT” when they pass you? Cause you shouldn’t. I certainly would’ve said “On your left” if I could’ve PASSED LEFT. I would’ve said “On your right,” too, but guess what? YOUR FAMILY WAS IN THE ENTIRE STREET. What do you want me to do, hop up onto the sidewalk and then back onto the street, wasting my time and energy, and potentially damaging my bike, so you and your loved ones can enjoy the entire shitty street to yourself? What would’ve happened if a fucking motorcycle flew by? Would you sarcastically insist that the biker put on their turn signal when they passed by? Would you chide them for being in your golden walkway known as Oregon St?

I didn’t give you notice, by the way, because YOU SAW ME RIGHT BEHIND YOU. YOU SAW ME RIGHT BEHIND YOU! YOU SAW ME! MOVE YOUR KID OUT OF THE WAY! Don’t use him as a test for bicyclists! “Will this man say the correct words, or will my child become roadkill? Find out tonight, on When Parents Don’t Care What Happens to Their Children.”

I slowed down, I waited to see if you would ask your child to move out of the way, or you move, or you acknowledge my existence, and when you didn’t, and he didn’t seem like he was going anywhere, I slowly rode in between the two of you. Look, I don’t know if your kid is a saint or the next Ted Bundy, but a first impression led me to believe that he was pretty Chill, and wasn’t going to jump into my path or throw the Chuck It at me or jump on my face like a zombie, so I wasn’t worried about hurting him. I’ll admit, okay, I will admit, I probably should’ve said, “Comin’ through!” or “Riding down the middle!” or “Maybe you should move your kid out of the way, you idiot!” but instead I slid by silently. I’ll give you that. But, also, maybe, um, maybe IT’S A FUCKING STREET. Maybe when people with wheels come a rolling you should get out of the way, because you have no idea the condition of my bicycle, and you have no idea of the condition of a person’s automobile, yeah? I know, pedestrians have the right of way, but I’m pretty sure that doesn’t include walking in the middle of the street.

Okay, I think I’m done ranting. I’ll be sure to shout “GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY” next time I’m riding my bicycle.

 

let’s do it

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Look, I won’t begin this blog by saying I’m sorry for not updating my blog as much as I should. There is no set time for blog posts; rather, there is a set time for human concentration, when people will hang around before they realize nothing’s going on, and then leave. I write posts for people, and if there are no people, then what is the point of writing?

This past couple of years have been eye opening in a lot of ways. I’m surprised, first and foremost, at how easy it is to go from having 12 to 14 hour days of rehearsal, study, and exercise, to 8 hours of work and then nothing. Well, nothing is not exactly true. I do things. And lately I have finally been doing things to better my situation — I am going to graduate school at Portland State University this fall. Yes. Graduate school. Finally. Two years attempting to secure a Masters of Science in Theatre Arts. “Science?” you ask. “What about a Master of Arts?” Well, according to PSU, an MA is more for literary people, while an MS is more for actors and performers. I’m going that route. My ultimate goal is to get an MFA in Theatre somewhere else, after I get the MS. I just need a boost. I feel like everything I’ve learned at BSU is sloughing off of me like dead skin. The cores are there, but I’m not strong, I’ve lost my slim physique, I can’t concentrate like I used to. I don’t know if that’s from working like a Normal Person or what.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my sedentary lifestyle, my lack of serious goals or ambitions. The past two years have been spent trying desperately to enjoy something that I enjoyed doing already. Music has waned to almost nonexistence. Those stories are dead. I don’t write nearly as much as I used to. Twitter has sapped me of my expanded ideas — everything must be put within 140 characters or else no one will read it. This is a truth that has yet to really sink in on the world, but it’s true.

The things that I want to do — podcasting, acting, general performance-related things — are excited in my brain, but numb in my actions. Aside from pursuing grad school and being in the ensemble of an upcoming Romeo & Juliet set at Milepost 5 (which just so happens to be a few blocks from my house), I haven’t done shit. Ideas flick by me but never settle, probably because they understand that I’m not in a place to actually utilize these ideas. I grab bits and pieces but my body and my mind know that this is not a good time to focus on that sort of thing. I have other, bigger things to focus on, like health and happiness, things that will beget ideas and creativity. Taking care of yourself is rewarded, I promise.

Well, okay, that’s not entirely true. Pursuit of passion, I suppose, will be rewarded. Ernest Hemingway wasn’t very happy but he wrote some (arguably) good books1. Beethoven apparently was a huge curmudgeon but he wrote some amazing music. It seems that people generally aren’t happy when they’re doing their best work. Or they’re on drugs. Maybe I should just get some drugs. I’d live a shorter life but I’d have some good material, yeah?

It’s May, it’s less than a week till my birthday, I’m going to be twenty-eight, and I am going to use this summer. I am going to take vacations and use my time to create things. Fall and winter can be so devastating in this stupid town. It’s really more than just the constant gray. In Idaho, we have weeks of inversion, where the cloud cover dipped down into the valley, making the cities thick with fog and a gross smell of industry. I remember these inversions clearly (so to speak), and never did I feel as depressed as I have during the months of rain and gray of Portland.

I have guaranteed myself two more years of living here2, and then I’m off to an MFA program or something. Who the hell knows. I’d like to write a book. I’d love to finish the Quake Saga. I love acting, I want to continue doing that. I also like recording and making podcasts. There’s all kinds of avenues and I’m just sitting here twiddling my thumbs, expecting things to happen to me or for me. That’s just got to stop. It’s time to stop worrying about the overcast Portland sky, and to start Getting Shit Done.

I say this a lot, but I realize now that it should be more of a mantra than a one time thing. Keep saying it. Get Shit Done. Get Shit Done. Get Shit Done. Then maybe it actually will get done.

  1. I say arguably because I hate them, though to be fair I haven’t really read them, though I haven’t read them because I can’t stand his repetitive staccato style of prose. ↩
  2. Unless the graduate program here sucks, in which case, GOODBYE PORTLAND, HELLO LOS ANGELES. ↩