The Plan

Well, not really ‘live’, but you know what I mean.

THE DOPLER EFFECT

More to come….

Photo by Zach Behrens

The LAist has been covering 365 plays/365 days in Los Angeles from the beginning. I don’t know if they’re the only ones covering it, but they’re certainly doing the best job. The photo above comes from their article covering the Black Dahlia’s performance on 1/20/07.

Of the eight pieces, two were directed by Obi Ndefo, the guy who directed Week 5 for the Alliance. He is The Real Deal. The LAist’s article lays out the scene at the Dahlia pretty cleanly. I hadn’t intended to be in a 365 since experimental theatre isn’t really my thing, but this was quick and dirty and a whole bunch of fun. Bonus: Susan-Lori Parks came. I said ‘thank you for doing this.’

That’s me with the pretty pretty wings.

Why I Hate My Job

This is an actual conversation I had, more or less:

JANUARY 12, 2007

PSYCHO CO-WORKER: Hey, we should have them throw us a little anniversary party; I started a year ago, and you started a year ago tomorrow.

ME: Actually, last September marked a year for me.

PCW: No, I remember you came in in your suit and you had your briefcase -

ME: I don’t have a briefcase.

PCW: Well, you had SOMETHING!

ME: I don’t know what to tell you.

I mean, it’s not like this shit isn’t written down.

—___—___—___—

So, yeah, my license was suspended. I think it actually says ‘because you’re a douchebag’ on the notice. It’s been a fairly trying period, but we keep trying, don’t we? Thanks to Robert and Adam for keeping me close enough to a life to keep a grip.

—___—___—___—

There have been some cool things recently that I won’t mention just yet. Well, besides this. Actually, it’s probably best if I just delete this part. But I’m not going to.

—___—___—___—

Oh, yeah:

BAM!

The Dopler Effect is coming

Carla’s also working on a website for Don’t Gag Me! There’s a placeholder page up, but I won’t link to it yet because she yells at me when I do things like that.

One of my Christmas goodies this year was a secondhand Blackberry courtesy of Erica, and it’s insanely useful. In fact, I’m posting this from it. It does, however, limit the amount of text I can enter, so expect more smaller posts as I learn it. Still and all, I get to plug in a little bit. I even found a Google Talk client for it, so hit me up if you have gmail. And, you know, know me.

It was Thai.

* The tire thing ended, shall we say, explosively. It was inevitable, and I have to give huge thanks to Tanya (with an assist to Brendan) for pulling my ass out of that particular fire.

 * I’ve been auditioning for shorts n’ student films, which I had initially resisted. I was persuaded that it’s a good way to make connections and looks good on a resume. Besides which, I need a reel, so why not get as much good stuff as I can?

 * Carla posted some pics from Don’t Gag Me! on her myspace page: www.myspace.com/carlasabah

* I’m so close I can taste it.

I write this knowing that Megan is currently in much more dire car trouble than I am. Always be aware of perspective.

—___—___—___—

I am the all-time undisputed King of Flat Tires. I’ve mentioned it before, and there isn’t much more I can say about it. Not only have I gone through approximately 30,000 tires over the last few years, but I’ve lost them in every way imaginable: blowouts, nails, slow leaks, you name it. Last night’s offender was a nail.

I had noticed the nail a while ago, but had elected to let it be on the ‘it’s-worse-if-you-take-the-knife-out-of-his-chest’ theory. It was actually successful for quite a while, but over the last week the tire had developed a slow leak, which turned into a plain ol’ leak sometime yesterday.

I complained about the tire to Adam during the rather strained but ultimately rewarding final tech/dress rehearsal for 365 (more about that later.) He had a spare can of Fix-a-Flat or some related product which he lent me to shore up the leaky bastard. I popped that sucker on there, filled the tire, and went on my merry way.

This is probably a good time to mention that I have never had a can of Fix-a-Flat do what I wanted, or even what it was supposed to.

I got a few exits down the 134 West when I heard the familiar sound of an unhappy tire. This one had the standard ‘whump-whump-whump,’ plus an element of banshee-like wail which I hadn’t heard before. I took the Woodman exit, which placed me in an area I am completely unfamiliar with (although everything in LA is near something familiar.) The tire was flat and covered in fixit juice.

The first thing I did was call Mr. Adam Legg. I wasn’t really expecting him to do anything, I just wanted to make sure somebody knew what was up, and I’d already been whining to him about the tire. He suggested I call Robert or Royana and see if they were still at the theatre. I was reluctant to do that since, even though it was past midnight on a Sunday, I really hoped to find a solution that would get me over the hill.

I carry an air compressor with me; I’m required to as King of Flat Tires. I hooked it up and quickly found the hole. It turned out that I had simply lost the nail - there was no sidewall tear or other major damage, just one small hole. I could cover it with my thumb and enjoy the illusion of a tire that was sound.

Then the ridiculous idea came to me. A while back, I had picked up a little DS accessory pack to get the thumb stylus (which I have since lost.) it came with three additional stylus….es. I wondered if I couldn’t jam one of those in the hole and essentially just replace the nail. I know it was stupid, but I really wanted to get back to my turf.

I shoved the stylus into the hole and tamped it down with my foot. It stayed. I fired up the compressor and filled the tire to something less than the optimum pressure. The stylus failed to shoot out of the tire. I called Adam again so that someone could explain what had happened to the coroner. And I drove.

On Adam’s advice, I planned to take Ventura to Sepulveda. I got maybe half a mile before I heard the whump-whump-whump of failure. I checked the tire and saw that the stylus had been shoved inside by the pressure of the road (the head on these things is slightly offset, so that it’s flush with one side of the shaft.) I sighed.

But I still had more sty….les.

For attempt #2, I used the sidewalk and a lighter to grind and melt the head into a flattened roundish shape. I was attempting to model it into a plasticky nail, hoping that the new broad head would hold the thing against the tire without getting sucked in. I filled the tire again. I drove again.

And it fucking worked.

This is clearly a temporary solution, and I can just barely afford to get a $30 used tire, but I’d like to see if I can’t get to Friday without friction taking away my little toy. I have my doubts.

But I also have a few more styli.

I’ve once again been wrestling with cigarettes, cloves this time. It’s the loneliness that does it. They’re like little friends.

Unfortunately, all this really does is once again throw into relief the fact that these things, these crutches, don’t fix the problem, they mask it. I do not want to be a smoker again.

—___—___—___—___—

I need to start making some money. I’m not yet through with the experiment; I won’t be until I’m on a journey of my choosing. Well, I guess I already am, but one with leather seats would be nice. The debts worry me, but only so much. After all, if I can’t pay, I can’t pay. But it wears.

—___—___—___—___—

This weekend we shot Don’t Gag Me!, and I can’t WAIT to see how it came out. It felt good; Carla brought together a hell of a crew, wrote a fun script and gave a great performance. It’s inspiring to work with someone like that, someone who makes things happen, through sheer force of will if necessary. Today I shot another episode of The Dopler Effect, which I really feel is going to be a cut above most of what’s floating around the net these days.

I have another audition for a short tomorrow, and a few other things which could - should they come to pass - help ease some of my other troubles. Which is, of course, the fucking goal.

That, and an oscar.

—___—___—___—___—

There are now ten more performances of Westward Expansion through next Saturday. Starting Monday, it will run in conjunction with the Alliance’s week of Susan-Lori Parks’ 365. This should be fun.

—___—___—___—___—

Hmmm, this is kind of a downer post. Oh well, at least nobody died in this one.

First up, the Backstage West review of the show. I can’t really take issue with it; it says a ton of good things and adds a few criticisms that I think are sort of par for the course when a show tries to pack so much into such a short time. Still sounds like she had fun:

Westward Expansion
November 29, 2006
By Jennie Webb

Okay, who doesn’t like trains? And I’m not talking the metro rail or subway. No. Real trains that travel from coast to coast. Trains are fabulous things, whether it’s our personal memories or imaginary musings or just the idea of ’em: traveling across the country, inevitably reaching their destinations at a speed that allows for oh-so-many possibilities, undeniably mechanical yet somehow magical, grounded yet capable of taking us on wonderful flights of fantasy. But in this day and age, in America, as a reasonable means of cross-country transportation, they’re pretty much dinosaurs. Writer-director Cecil Castellucci gets this and then some. Her new play is a love letter to all things Amtrak, and it has a definite charm and is well-mounted, with skill and affection. Unfortunately, it’s so stylistically schizophrenic that after it’s over we haven’t arrived anywhere it seems we’re supposed to.

On a simple set, Castellucci puts two pairs of sweet young things traveling in opposite directions. Going west in 1881 we meet a stylish man seeking his fortune (Ransom Boynton) and a woman (Darcy Martin) heading toward a teaching job and possible rancher husband. The 2006 eastbound couple is made up of a woman (Royana Black) on her way to meet her Internet pal, hoping it’ll be a romance, and a quirky philosopher (Jeremy Sean) looking for answers. Rashelle Stocker plays the conductor, interacting with the couples in both centuries and guiding the audience through the history of trains, among other things. The actors relate to the audience as well as to each other, and they narrate from correspondence and diaries, relate itineraries, divulge secrets, enact fantasies and scenes from Alfred Hitchcock movies (complete with video), sing and dance, and so on.

Although the talented actors seem to have a grasp on the all-over-the-map pieces of often-fun material—the playwright’s honest and humorous dialogue works particularly well in the hands of the vulnerable Black and Sean, who couldn’t be more adorably dysfunctional—and Castellucci makes use of her admirable chops as a director, at this point Westward Expansion has a ways to go before it becomes a journey audiences will get much out of.

$10! Come see it….

—___—___—___—

“I don’t recognize myself anymore” is a bit of a cliche, but I find myself thinking it more and more often these days. It starts with the physical changes, mainly due to exercise and weight loss. I found a couple of little ridges on my eye sockets that I’m fairly sure I’ve never seen before. I look in the mirror, and not only do I not recognize the face, I’m not entirely sure what to do with it. Then I start to feel like I don’t recognize my facial expressions anymore, and then my thoughts. I don’t know if any of that makes any sense, but it freaks me out a little bit.

—___—___—___— It’s been really cold the last few nights, and when you live in a car, cold is COLD. I can’t help but think how much worse it is for those who don’t even have that. Every night in Santa Monica, near the Promenade, you can see people sleeping in the parking lots of closed businesses. They use the little cement blockers as pillows, and roll themselves up in blankets and sleeping bags like stinky little Blunts. That must suck.
 

Some things I’ve realized over the last few days:

• I’ve gotten to the point where my belt and pants are all loose, and it occurs to me that it would be a lot cheaper to just fatten up again than to buy new clothes. It may be time to start beating people up and taking their clothes, like a smaller but more charming Terminator.
• This creeps me out.
• This even more so. Thanks, Jasmine.
• It hit me over the holiday that there are people rooting for me to succeed out here. I don’t know why I didn’t see that before; probably mind-numbing egotism.
• Apparently, I don’t type very fast when I’m fiddling with 8 IE windows. See, the library has a one hour limit, then they boot you offffasdfawerg4y