Extra-Special Birthday Edition!!!

No, no, no. It's not my birthday. Not yet, anyway. It is, rather, that time of year around which all of my friends have selfishly decided to arrange their birth dates. Let's get organized here, people! Couldn't we spread them out just a little more, and maybe make them a little less immediately-after-Christmas? I swear, it's like the holidays begin for me a marathon of gift-giving every year. And I forget more birthdays than I remember! Totally; totally. I'm awful. You have to be known by me for, like, at least ten years before I start saying to you: "Wait. Wait. Isn't your birthday some time this month?"

Case in point: My adopted brother (adopted by me, that is), "Anonymous," just had his thirtieth last Friday, and I failed to plan for it. Granted, I didn't hear about the party until about a week beforehand, but I should have been better prepared all the same. I should have realized the significance of this year and--when

A Lie of the Mind

schedule conflicts were being arranged--included March 23rd as a no-go date for rehearsal. Alas, I did not, and so missed the digging of the shin.

I can be short-sighted like that, but it's also possible that I'm in denial. Anonymous' birthday kicks off the birthday schedule for my troika of oldest friends, affectionately dubbed by my mother as "

The Three Musketeers

." Anonymous is in March, I in June and Mark chimes in in August (It

is

August, right, buddy? [Man. Do I suck.]). This year, we are thirty. Ye Gods, the wonder of a round number.

It may not be wonderful, or even wondrous, yet the turning over of another decade of this life makes for some serious reflection. Even eschewing the coincidental little deadlines I set for myself at a very sage 21 years of age (see

2/5/07

), Year Thirty holds some significance for me. It holds significance in the universal subconscious as well. Jesus is widely believed to have begun his ministry in earnest 'round about that year of his life. Hamlet is often interpreted to be just thirty when he begins contemplating his readiness. And, of course, there was that

hit television extravaganza

that took the airwaves by storm for about a season and a half. My hope had been to celebrate my thirtieth year since kicking and screaming into this world in Italia, busking in

Piazza Navona

, Roma. As time inexorably jogs forward, however, the prospect of that trip grows slimmer and slimmer. Nigh anorexic. Leaving me with the question: What, then, can I do to celebrate whatever it is I am and do on that very special day?

I put it out to the universe. But it is not for this reason I 'blog at you today. Nor is it to point up the bizarre nature of an actor's schedule as it relates to his ever-patient friends (i.e., "Sure, I'll be in your wedding. That is, if I don't get a gig. Even if I get a gig, I'll try to get off, of course. Of course, if it's tech week or a performance there's nothing I can do. But count me in! Maybe..."). No, I am compelled to write today because of other people's birthdays, and the potential artistry in honoring them.

Consider all the people you've known in the course of your life. Consider not even everyone, but just those people you've held a conversation with more than once. There are probably a whole lot more than 365 at this point (not to presume too much upon the age of my [5] readers or anything). So there is the potential that every day of the year, someone you've known is celebrating his or her self; indeed, on some days, more than one is. How many people do you not speak to anymore, who are turning a year over at this moment? How many have you forgotten entirely who might be remembering you attending their sixth birthday, right now? And just what the hell is my point?

Well, I find it humbling to contemplate this. It reminds me that every day we make a choice to honor the people we've loved and who've loved us with our actions, or to not. UU's believe in the interconnectedness of all living things, and when it comes to other people, we're supposed to respect that particular interconnectedness even more. Similar to a bunch of actors on stage at a given moment, we all have to depend on each other for things to turn out right. It's frightening. It's awesome. We have to take it for granted somewhat just to get by, not panic or become mad with power. But every once in a while, it's good to be reminded how things really are.

You say it's your birthday? Well it's my birthday too; yeah. Happy birthday to you . . .

Oh crap oh crap oh crap oh crap . . .

Hello loyal (3-4) readers. I'm sad to report that I have had a tragedy in my life. It seems the pressures and tribulations of working for my boss have forced her full-time assistant (not me--I'm a "paralegal") into the hospital. Yes. I'm being literal. More significantly (to me, anyway), said assistant also quit on Friday.

For those of you in the know, the rest of this entry may be unnecessary, but I cling to the hope that there are people out there who are A) not fully acquainted with the details of my life; and B) reading this 'blog. I cling and I cling, and Rose tells me, "Don't let go, Jack! Never let go!", and I reply "My name's not Jack," as my icy grip perilously weakens moment by moment.

Anyway. My heart

will

go on. Just ignore it.

Outside "the know"? Then know this: No new 'blog entries for a while, probably. I will be pulling double duty (which, for Mona, pretty much means quadruple duty) until we can find and train a new assistant for her. This, added to the rapidly accelerating rehearsal process for

A Lie of the Mind

, equals no time for extra craft work.

I can only hope that Literature can withstand my absence for however long it takes to find a new sucker, er . . . SKILLED OFFICE ADMINISTRATOR.

The Food of Love

Still buzzing from my musical experiences this weekend past. I listen to music so much, I take it for granted. Silence becomes deafening, like a presence rather than an absence. Yet listening to my iPod any time I'm in travel, or alone . . . or breathing . . . has rather blunted my musical appreciation. Seeing live shows this weekend reawoke that sensibility in me a good bit. Obviously music is more emotionally affective when it's performed live (assuming it's performed competently [remind me to tell you about my one and only experience seeing

Smashing Pumpkins

perform]) but somehow I lose more and more sight of that connection the longer I spend not attending a live show. Which is ridiculous, because the exact same thing occurs in the theatre, so you'd think little ol' me could keep the notion in his little ol' brain long enough to remember to get out and see more live music. {I and Me are going to have to have a talk to figure out exactly what My glitch is.} It's cheaper than a movie, and there's all that wonderful subculture begging to be coolly appreciated.

Back when I was still in school, at

Virginia Commonwealth University

(V.C.U. ... unt V. haf vays of meking U. tok!), I realized one day that I hadn't thought very hard about why I was doing what I was doing with my life. Which was funny, because I'm generally a pretty thoughtful kind of guy, and moreso back when I didn't have a head crammed with bills, taxes, health issues and pressing social concerns. Specifically, I recognized that a lot of what I was getting out of my practice of acting was therapeutic satisfaction and, while that's all fine and good and all, I didn't judge that to be a very good basis for a (potentially) life-long pursuit. So I thought about it a bit, which led me to question what good theatre itself specifically accomplished. I mean, what is its particular value? I thought that if I could figure that out to my satisfaction, I could judge if it was worth doing. Because I didn't want to be doing something for my whole life that was only for me. If all I was accomplishing was a little much-needed venting and personal exploration, I may as well have hung up my aspirations and become an accountant who occasionally performs in community theatre productions. {A noble occupation, of course. Dad. If you're reading this.}

So I thought about it, backstage, in my dorm, in English classes, etc. And what I came up with has carried me through a lot of questioning times in my career. And I was reminded of it last night, when I was out

way

too late for a school night, listening to friends play music in a downtown basement.

My perspective of contemporary, western society is that we are all becoming dehumanized by little bits. Pixels. Zeroes and ones. Tiny squares. Great, big flat squares. All of them windows, all look, no touch. I don't hold myself above this, nor do I rail against the mediums. (I mean, I'm writing you from a weblog here, and it's not like I'm turning down

Spielberg

when he calls. Yes:

When

.) Rather, I see my stage work as restoring some of that sense of humanity, of actual connection. If you get coaxed to see a play, regardless of its artistic merit or content you are connecting in actual space with that pair of round windows most of us have attached to the fronts of our faces. And it matters. Moreover, theatre allows us the experience of being lifted into this experience rather than forcing it upon us. You go to be entertained, to ostensibly receive similar entertainment to movies and television, in that a fictional performance with some emphasis on verisimilitude is going to occur. A story will be told. In this way, we relax into a familiar arrangement. But theatre, and only theatre, takes this journey

through

its window. Anything can happen, in real time with real people, and if it succeeds a play leaves us feeling

more

human,

more

connected. Awakened instead of subdued.

I have a lot of short-term gigs coming up (including one in film), so it was good to be reminded of the personal value of this work from an unexpected source. Go out and support the lively arts, folks. I acknowledge that it can be expensive and risky. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Play on.

We've come for the Festival

This weekend is full of the kind of plans I never could have imagined myself having during my first year in New York. Nothing fancy, just particular to my life and the people who I've ended up on the same path with. (That was awful; "people with whom the same path I have ended upon"? No. Gimme a minute...) In a matter of minutes I'm off to Port Authority (Ah, Grand ol' P.A., how I love thy grandeur!) to catch the Martz bus out to Scranton, PA. There will dear John Beck pick me up, feed me lunch, then we'll catch my friend Billy Rogan's concert at The Northeast Theatre, after which will come dinner and the main event,

Almost, Maine

, with a cast of people with whom I've worked with on different shows. (Grammar lobe broken is. Resist must I joke of Yoda.) Afterwards, there will probably be much rejoicing, I'll spend the night at John's, then after a leisurely breakfast with said John, catch the bus back here in time to rehearse for a reading that night at

The Knitting Factory

.

Now, let's see how the events described above surprise us...

_________________________________________

Man. Let me just say, the genius of my friends astounds and humbles me. It was a very musical weekend. Billy Rogan is a genius of technique. GET his album, if for nothing else than to get on the cultural ground floor of a guy who is on his way to gifted reinvention of guitar music. Honestly, his current effort is a bit beyond my capacity for complete appreciation. He's so freaking

good

at his self-proclaimed "two-hand" approach that I can't quite keep up with its versatility, but nevertheless, he is good and good. Give a listen:

Billy

G.D.

Rogan, Ya'll

.

So I attended his debut concert, and it was wonderful. Part of what's great about Billy (name-dropping, I assure you, because this guy's going places) and his craft is that the practice of it is so lofty, yet his personal demeanor is so unassuming. He almost apologized for performing his unique and demanding art, yet revelled in it and shared his joy for it with all of us mere mortals. The music sounds like a whole rock band at times, replete with lead guitar, bass, and drum set, yet all performed on Billy's lone acoustic guitar. When he just relaxes a bit, and performs for individual connection more than virtuosity, he will take every audience by storm. And that's not a critique of his concert; just a perspective on where this impressive and unlimited young artist will be headed. The concert was still beautiful and surprisingly magnificent. (Hi Guillermo. This is your shamelessly unabashed plug.)

Reeling from that, I caught

The Northeast Theatre

's production of

Almost, Maine

, by

John Cariani

. I must admit here that I am horribly biased about this production, having worked with all of the four-member cast in one capacity or another. Nevertheless, I must say that I believe this production was leagues beyond the accomplishment of the New York debut, which I took in about a year or more ago. When I saw that production, I thought it was enjoyable, but largely ineffective. I don't know what to attribute it to specifically, but that show left me a little cold. Technically proficient, but a little "below" the actors in some respect.

TNT's show

, however, made me care about the characters so much I didn't want to leave them. Brilliant.

Heather Stuart

,

Duane Noch

,

Conor McGuigan

and

Amber Irvin

, my hat's off to you. It might have been simple romantic entertainment, but you guys made it more. Significant. True. Lovely.

Following that, festivities ensued at John Beck's house, and they were lovely. Beer, wine, snack food...what more could we ask? I stayed up too late, and when 8:00 AM rolled around, I wanted to stay in bed in John's guest room (replete with a walnut-veneer work desk) for a few hours more. I left, however, treading boot prints in the shallow snowfall on my way to the

Martz Bus

station.

Upon arriving back in The Big Apple, it was off to perform in Nat Cassidy's reading at The Knitting Factory. It was my first time at TKF, and it was great fun. Three floors of entertainment, that place is. Oddly enough, though I didn't catch them, one of the few local bands I know,

Nakatomi Plaza

(Ya'll get the reference, right?

Die Hard

? If you don't get that--get out.), was playing there that night as well. The reading went well, and was even well-attended. Nat hopes to succeed in submitting the play to the

NYC Fringe Festival

. We'll see how that turns out, but the reading itself got nothing but positive reactions. Afterward, there was much brew-ha-ha, and bands. Nat's girlfriend,

Alexis

, performed, and I was duly impressed with her folky glory. Then

Nat (Cassidy and the Nines)

took stage, and was wonderful. I heard Nat's first NYC demo when we met, working in New Hampshire, and liked it, but had no idea how great his live show would be until I saw it tonight. It was like watching Dylan with a sense of humor.

That

able, and

that

entertaining. The crowd had a ball. That final act contained a member of the reading, and the band was

Stephanie Podunk and Ghost Town

. They were great too, with dual female vocals and rock sensibility, though they suffered a bit from classic sound-mixing issues in live performance.

It was surprising and musical weekend. I had many moments of lament for how little work I was actually doing (though the audience of "The Exiled" was very complimentary of my reading) but I can't help but grin at the abundancy of creation. It was inspiring.

And Patrick: Somehow I had pancakes both Saturday and Sunday. Miraculous pancakes...

"You've got to...get...that...dirt off your shoulder."

Trying to type Jay-Z lyrics, something is lost in the translation, and it comes out all Captain-Kirk-

esque

.

That was a haiku:

Trying to type Jay

Z lyrics, something is lost

in the translation . . .

Word,

Basho

. Word. It's funny, the similarities between feudal Japanese poetry and contemporary rap. Both arise from strong oral traditions, are observational and are generally more measured by rhythm than rhyme. The adoption of a

haigo

, common for haiku poets of the era, is not dissimilar from rap artists changing their name to something catchy, or expressive of what their music is about to them. And, they're all killing each other all the time. So there's that.

That Basho. He really got it, man:

toshi

kurenu

/

kasa

kite

waraji

/

hakingara

another year is gone / a traveller's shade on my head, / straw sandals at my feet [1685]

Snaps to him. Replete with

emo

-girl poetry slashes.

//day break, as in a break between days, such as occurs when the author spends a whole day in front of a computer, editing legal documents, has

hads

all he can stands and he cants stands no more//

I am in high prep-mode for another bit of travel myself, though this time the road and I will be together only for a day. Tomorrow I (and my good [and skilled and

beneficent

] friend Patrick) will drive a rental up to

New

Paltz

, New York

, for to teach a workshop enthusiastically entitled "

Commedia

dell'Acro

" at the

KC/ACT Festival

. All this in the hopes of raising awareness for

In

Bocca

al

Lupo

, the soon-to-be-annual trip to Italy that

Zuppa

del

Giorno

will be taking in May . . . assuming we goad enough adventure-seeking college students into it.

//mental break, as in the kind one has when one makes an unwitting discovery//

God bless technology, and, though I'm still reserving judgment, possibly God damn the good people at the

KCACTF

. In linking to the website, I just discovered we are not listed in the program. Ergo, no one will know we're there. Ergo, $70 for the car rental, $160 for the brochure printing (yes--that costs more than RENTING A CAR) and roughly 30 hours of preparation time =

priceless

. A few flurried calls to David

Zarko

and we're hopefully discovering as we speak that the website program of events is way out-of-date . . . because if not, I'll be feeling a little less Basho and a little more bash-heads for a week or so.

//oh good, Heather called, spoke to Debra Otte, mistress of all things awesome, we are on current festival schedule and I don't have to bash heads unless I really want to//

In about a week, on the 22

nd

, Heather and I will be conducting another workshop, this one in Philadelphia: "

Learn How to Fall and Fly

." We have until mid-February to secure enough students for the trip. Otherwise, it doesn't happen. Strange to have that kind of necessity hinging entirely upon one. Somehow, busting ass to get to Italy again doesn't stress me out nearly as much as, say, auditioning for one lousy show. I suppose it's something to do with the security of a long-term goal and the immediacy of a short-term one. For example, I will be very sad if Italy does not happen (of course), yet having days and days to do little things toward it make me feel better about what efforts I'm making. And if it doesn't happen, well, I've got weeks to deal and find new occupations. Whereas, with an audition, it all hangs on your two minutes with a stranger or two, and the job is yours or it isn't. There's no progress, no portfolio being built. Simply fly . . . or fall.

On Sunday I had a great conversation with friend Patrick, and he asked me how important it was to me that an aspect of

The Third Life

(

ign

') seemed to involve travel and transition. Patrick's good at questions like that. (And he reads the 'blog. And he's saving

Zuppa's

ass tomorrow. I owe Patrick big.) My answer, when I finally got through the hemming and hawing stages--with a brief sojourn into an apprehensive stuttering stage--was that for me, just now, life is a search, a quest. So it's pretty natural for me to have so much travel in my Third Life(

c

). Maybe it will always be that way. Maybe not.

For now I travel

six months of

ever'y

year.

Italy or bust.