Church

Not everyone is confident enough in their masculinity to admit to certain things. Which, as it turns out, is a good thing, considering that if women became confident enough in their masculinity it would just mess up the entire social setting to which I have grown accustomed and to some degree have learned to survive in. But, that being said, not all men are confident in their masculinity to admit to the facts of life that might be considered all together not nearly masculine enough. In order to ensure all of my readers that I am, indeed, very masculine and have no conflictions about such thing, allow me to do a little pig speak and make some rather manly guttural sounds.

Grunt! Grunt! Snort! Grunt! Arrr!

Okay, the last one is worthy of being debated as to whether or not it truly is a manly guttural sound, as both the arr sound is not all that guttural and the arr is also used by both female and male pirates alike. Oh well, I'm hoping that you, the reader, are appeased and will not doubt my manhood after I make a rather unsuprising admission. But I'm not going to let you into the show.

I watched Pride and Prejudice last night. The long one. By myself. And I liked it. I really have no qualms about admitting this, because the truth is that anyone and everyone ought to enjoy it, or at least anyone who enjoys the display of human follies. Either way, it was a romp, and I had a good time.

And now, on to the actual blog!

There are many things in life that are repeated so often as to become almost unconsciously familiar. Or as in we're so familiar with them we're almost unconscious. The problem is, in some of those situations, being truly unconscious is a very, very bad thing. Even being unconscious of the situation, a common and understandable enough occurrence, can lead to some rather sticky situations, speaking both metaphorically and literally. When it comes to being in church, unconsciousness to both the situation and unconsciousness in general is a sure fire way of having some very good people having the time to make their own little jokes, and even finding a little humor in an otherwise common setting.

Take for example, the man who sits in front of the congregation. Or woman, for that matter, though I have observed that for the most part it is a man who is more likely to forget the situation, being so very familiar with it, and begin to do some very odd things indeed. Said man, in front of the congregation, would be thought to be uncomfortable enough, with one hundred eyes watching with differing degrees of interest, to actually pick his nose. I have noted, however, that some, especially if they be of the younger variety, have not seemed to uncomfortable with displaying the insides of their nostrils to the entire congregation. Worse is when they then ingest said nostrily entrails. Which sounds nasty, even to me. I have seen it happen, though. So take care, it could happen to you.

Another is when people find the speaker addressing the congregation to be of such a familiar tone as to be almost as bad as early morning classical jazz radio show hosts, those who are hired if and only if they have the capacity of making a hummingbird fall dead asleep in mid flight. Then if happens that those people slowly, ever so slowly, succumb to the sultry sounds of sleep. This is bad for two reasons. One, it's very possible that people who give in and sleep peacefully will begin to snore. If you don't think this happens, just look around next time you're in church. Someone is bound to have their head down, and is also just as likely to jerk upright suddenly, elbowed by either a concerned parent or by an embarrassed wife.

But snoring isn't the worst of it. Oh no, the worst is when drool begins to escape. It's silent, and therefore twice as deadly. Once someone has drooled, the damage is done, and no amount of elbowing will fix it. There will be forever, or for the next ten minutes, a wet spot at the top of the collar or tie (I'm assuming it's a man. I'm not sure, would it be a west spot on the necklace or neckline of a woman?) of said slow spitter (that's what drooling is, right? Slow spitting?). This will invariable lead to some interesting second glances and, of course, the knowing smile and repressed snicker. Which has nothing to do with candy bars.

There are other general no nos and human foibles that come to play at the churchy time. Parents actually admitting they're addicted to graham crackers or gummy worms (or cheerios. That's a famous one too.). The tabu talk surrounding a reported single person sitting awfully close to another single person (believe it or not, I heard someone pronounced to be thinking of marriage, based solely on the closeness of their sitting position to the girl they were sitting by). And I'm sure there are many others that I can't think of.

I think I'm going to go have some graham crackers now.

Crazy Man

I admit without any sort of embarrassment that the title refers solely to me! Hey, this blog is about me after all, and so it should come as no surprise that I actually reference myself continually and with no effort to conceal the fact that I am, indeed, the star of my own blog. If I can't shine anywhere else, at least I'll shine to myself. I also admit that this blog was written way too late at night and under the influence of an overexposure to Strong Bad emails.

It turns out that I am insane. Oh yes, my friends, I'm a stark raving lunatic. Okay, I'm not stark naked and I'm not really raving, either, because I'm not foaming at the mouth and it's been a good long while since I said "nevermore." Okay, that was bad, but hey, it was an illustration albeit in words and not pictures of what I'm saying. I've gone crazy.

I think it was a gradual thing. I began to notice it this summer, when school had been out of session for a good month or so and the natural regression into a state of survival only had begun once again to take its reign. That's when I noticed that I was starting to forget what I was doing or what I had said. Now, it wouldn't be too bad if I forgot what I was doing, say, last week. I could even excuse if I was going downstairs to do something and on the way I forgot what I was doing. But no, it is much worse than that. I began to forget what I was doing and saying in the middle of doing or saying it. Imagine my regret when I was halfway through the swing of a hammer, and suddenly my mind caught hold of the idea of a painted pony, running across the skies, reds and oranges dancing across his face. The streaming cape of velvet clouds he wore was a royal mix of purples, oranges, and beautiful pink, only to disappear the moment the hammer made contact with my left hand. And then there followed a string of inexcusable words that definitely did not describe the painted pony running cross't the sky.

It's worse, or at least I feel more crazy and stupid (but more the latter, I'm afraid) when in the midst of a sentence, I trail off and often wander off. I can't imagine but that my friends and family are becoming worried about me. "Yeah, so I was at work, you see," I might say to my mom. "I was thinking that maybe we should do something about. . ." I say while mindlessly wandering off in the direction of downstairs, the vague idea forming in my mind that my sock drawer is out of alignment and must be rectified. Right in the middle of the sentence. I seriously need to work things out.

My favorite moments of craziness, though, are moments when I actually enjoy them, and can find humor out of them. It seems like the voice inside of my head doesn't really have an off switch that I have access to. It just so happens that sometimes that voice in my head gets out of my head, and begins to use my mouth to provide everyone around me with a random display of my brain.

It normally goes like this. I'm in an elevator. I'm alone. I begin to talk to myself. Saying such things as "Oh I don't know, Mr Smith, I don't think Bond would appreciate it." "Oh, I know he would." I answer myself, now assuming the character of Mr Smith, Bond's nearly equal sidekick who kicks every body's butt but is never heard of, ever. This conversation continues on, silently, as people get on the elevator. The elevator in my office is slow, though, and one can only hold so much drama as my personal conversation inside the mind for so long. To be as inconspicuous as possible, I begin to mutter under my breath. You might here such treats as "wapow! Fwish!" or even a "frankly my dear, I don't darn, ever. I hate socks." Yes, I enjoy my personal conversations to the degree that I even forget that others are around, and speak full bore sometimes. Or is it full boar? Anyway, my point is that I have become certifiable.

Just think, though. Now I can become a famous writer so easily. I was so worried that I would never have any sort of personal or mental issue strong enough to be considered a truly great writer, but now that I'm insane, I won't have any problems at all!

Mwa ha ha ha ha!

As a disclaimer, I'm not really certified, not yet at least, and hope never to become so. My sympathy is to all people who actually suffer from diseases that might actually make them have more than one personality, or personality problems, or whatever. I feel that I've been very blessed in this category, and hope to help anyway I can for those who may not be quite so blessed.

Black Cats

People aren't the only ones with personalities. Well, maybe personalities, but not animalities. I admit that I heard something that made me think of that (horsality) so I cannot claim any sort of cleverness or creativity for saying it that way, but animals most definately have their own unique way of dealing with situations that make them oh so lovable some days and oh so ready to be beaten the next.

I have a pet. Her name (at least she used to be a female. The fact that I feel conflicted calling my pet an it proves that I'm a little bit trepeditious about the whole idea of surguries to make people into the gender of their preference that is different from the one they were born into, but that's a philosophical or religious discussion for another day. I have neither the time nor the patience to debate it now. Unless someone were to call me and tell me something provocative. At which point I would probably debate) (reminder, I just said Her name) is Tuxedo, or Tux for short. She's black, excepting on her belly and paws which are white. Hence the name.

Like all cats, in the dark Tux's eyes reflect any light in a rather creepy fashion. I get the chills everytime I see the narrow slits reflected in the light like golden slashes of fear, blazing through the night. Which is odd because normally when I see the eyes she's looking up at me, and the only time she actually looks in my eyes is when she wants me to pet her, ergo she is in a compassionate mood.

Anyone who knows my cat, though, will also know that she's a demon. I'm writing this blog for the sole purpose of describing a scene that is altogether too common. Or was. Tux has gotten older of late and is not nearly as psychopathic as she once was. That being said, let me describe the scene.

It's late. Dark out. Curtains drawn, all lights inside have been turned off. I find myself downstairs, the house still, silent except for the occasional sounds of an older house settling. Thirst tickles my throat, taunting me, tempting me out of bed, upstairs to find cool relief at the hands of a loving water tap.

In near delirium, I stumble from my bed and head upstairs. I get to the top, thinking of the long and nervous road before me. My mouth's already dry, but if it could it would be dryer, as my pulse quickens. Heart beating furiously in my chest, I listen. Listen to silence. With shallow breaths I take one step. . .two. I relax, all remains still. I take two more steps when suddenly a noise! The sound of little feet! But, there's nothing to be seen, nothing except a swift shadow. Oh no, not agai. . . AAAAAUUUUGH! Gaaaa, tux attacked my feet in the dark AGAIN! I'm bleeding! Oh, the pain!

So, it actually never hurt that bad, but it always did make my pulse go like none other. You can't see a black cat very well when there's no light, and hearing the noise of impending pain, even if it won't be that bad, is always frightening. If I ever have a heart attack, let Tux run at me when I'm not looking, and my heart will jolt back into submission.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Some Dead Guy

I really don't have much to say for this blog. If considered with my other blogs, this is very odd.

I have, of late, been almost excessively committed in time and effort to the creation of art. I say art because there's enough of me in it, or enough of personality, that it can be considered such. There is enough creation of both the beautiful and the rough together that it becomes, by nature, a thing of art.

I have been involved in a play. I continue to be involved, actually, with the opening night being not too far off. Most everyone who reads this blog is already aware of this fact, but I figured that I would not be being fair to the other actors of the play, and that I would not be giving an accurate dipiction of either my life or my mind set (which seems to be set utterly on random. Does anyone know how to stop a random generator that's going on in one's brain?) unless I made mention of the play here.

It's a musical. About a dead guy. Or a mostly dead guy. Who wants to go on vacation. If dead guys can go on vacation. It's called Lucky Stiff.

I'm sure that if the authors of the show ever read how I just described it they would make sure that I was a very UNlucky stiff. It's a lot more complex than that, and turns more into a show about how to live by taking chances and doing new things, and has an odd twist at the end about how we should be forgiving and loving and, ahhh, isn't it so nice?

If you don't think it's going to be funny, I can tell you it most definately is. The script is hilarious, if not exactly how I would have done it. The acting has been spectacular and I'm excited to see the final product come together two nights before we open August 1st. Oh, how I love the last minutedness of community theater.

Showing at the Terrace Plaza Playhouse, it's sure to be a delight. So come. And say Hi to me when you do. Because then I'll feel validated. And I like feeling validated.

Pig Talk

In my normal manner of starting in a way that is completely unrelated to anything else in the blog, I hereby state that I have been on an impromptu sabbatical. I understand that all great writers of any era have always needed a time when they get away from their work (which is understandable, most people switch careers at least five times in their life) and my current lack of greatness rating means that I'm entitled to even longer periods of rest. The world seems to think it's backwards, though, and gives much more licence to truly great writers for rest taking and sabbaticals, which makes no sense to me, because if they are so great you'd think their tolerance level would be much higher than one who was not so spectacular.

Anyway, I'm done now and plan to actually blog with more than a random effort, but concerted and controlled I will go forth and blog many a blog, type many an ill fonted letter, and generally make a fool out of myself.

I also take this opportunity to announce to one and all that my brother, Tolkien Boy, and I have started up a blog of poetry. Mostly because we both enjoy writing it, and the easiest way for it to share it with each other is through blog. If ever you should feel the desire to read some amateur poetry that is almost qualifying of the grand (but not quite great) rating, then feel free to peruse. The blog's title is Ebulliency. As of right now I don't actually know what that means, but I like it, and I'm sure it's something wonderful.

So, this week I began a new workout routine, benefitting from my friend's mother's interest in having a beach body. The workout, referred to as P90X is supposed to give you the body you want (within limits, of course) within 90 days. I do not know as of yet whether the program will give the results I'm looking for. That might be because I continue eating, and if anything am eating even more than before, and it might also be because the results I'm looking for are impossible. I want to look like the instructor, and heaven knows, as well as anyone who has met me, that I don't have black hair or dark eyes. Sigh, I will never be tall dark and handsome. However, having one and a half of two of those will suffice. (I'm only half tall. It's a little like being half naked only better).

And so I began this exercise program. I have seen things in a new light since then. New work, new vision, new life, new energy, and a new understanding of pigs. Yes, the swirling feeling that I get as I lay, hyperventilating, after each and every workout that I do (which is basically every day excepting Sundays) watching the ceiling reel to and fro like a drunken man (or woman, we're equal opportunity here), has brought on new revelations, as has my experience following these close to drugged experiences.

Basically, the soreness has not left me since Monday. It's beautiful, but it's death at the same time (beautiful death, sounds like an abstract poem or funny movie). Every time I move the muscles in some part or t'other of my body files for a divorce. You can imagine what my poor brain has been through, with all the legal issues of keeping my body together, and every once and awhile (which translates to every time I move) my brain has to stop worrying about somethings when I move.

For instance, the pride control gets short circuited. I no longer care much what I look like when I move. Mostly I just want to move in the least painful way possible. If that involves crawling on the floor till I get near enough to a couch to kind of slidle up into a sitting position and then get up on the couch, I'll do it. Even if I look like nothing more than an ambitious worm.

But that's not the worse. Oh no, the sound monitor shuts down as well, and all sorts of things start coming from my mouth. Near obscenities aren't all that uncommon, but by far the most frequent thing that comes from me that you will not hear when I'm not sore is pig speech. That's right, I've learned a new language. I can talk Pig. No no, not pig latin, I can talk pure Pig. Yes, I suddenly understand why it is that every time they move (and sometimes even when they don't) you here guttural grunts coming from some unpopular animals.

Oh well, I guess that one can only process so much. After all, looking and sounding like an idiot is not nearly as important as not being divorced of your right thigh. But let's face it, my new found language is not going to help me any with my dating tactics.