"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and we're hopefully discovering as we speak that the website program of events is way out-of-date .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.

WHO'S WITH ME?

A Guy I used to know (and I don't mean Jesus by my all-caps action; his name was actually "Guy [pronounced like 'dye,' not 'dee']" had this character he would pull out on occasion, named Philo [pronounced "Fie-low"][sp?]. Philo was famous for boisterously proclaiming inanities and absurdities, usually of the fairly offensive variety, and then seeking consensus from the room. Usually the room was full of strangers, and usually Philo received little-to-no seconds of his motions. I.e.:

"I say, cute as they may be, baby seals were put on this earth for our carnal pleasure, and, ultimately, for us to club to death. WHO'S WITH ME?!"

That was the format. "I say,

[

insert shocking statement here

]

. WHO'S WITH ME?!" But don't get the wrong impression about Philo. I rather loathe discomfort humor (Ali G. et al, shock-jokes, etc.) but found Philo hysterical, mostly because he was so impotent. There was no fear of him fulfilling any of his plans, or investing in diabolical real estate (

Evil Mastermind Headquarters

, for example) unless someone--just once--would back him up. He just made these shocking proclamations and stood there, expectantly looking around him for raised hands.

Well, I have since adopted the jokes for those moments in my life that need levity. It breaks tension well. Just recently, however, I have discovered that more and more I might be just a little Philo. I might be suffering from a mild form of Philo-itis. Hence the subject of today's entry, kiddies:

I sure wish I could stop checking out the ass of every woman I notice.

WHO'S WITH ME?!

...

Oh. Okay. Fair enough. But my point is: I want to stop. This is exactly the kind of behaviour I dislike in "men." When I catch my dad at such antics (or, really, anything that indicates he still has blood flow from the navel down) I think, "Don't be that guy, dude. Don't be that guy." It's gotten astonishingly automatic, though. I am beginning to wonder if ending this behaviour is actually an option for me. And not just because I feel helpless against my primal urges (though I rather do and am), but because those urges have been so neatly integrated into my supposedly more sublime aspirations.

Witness this morning. After more video editing (thank God for removable hard drives) and on my way in to work, coffee in hand, I did me espy a woman crossing Park Avenue with a child who was presumably her own. She was not too terribly New York; active and vibrant, but not dressed to the nines, made-up prettily, but not beyond a comfortable degree. Maybe mid-thirties (alright: "

thirtysomething

"), and there was something about her smile, her interaction with the child and traffic that made me think to myself, "I'll bet she's making someone very happy."

WHEREUPON I PROMPTLY CHECKED OUT HER ASS.

(

It was nice enough. The jeans obscured detailed observation, but seemed well supported by a reasonably firm, round infrastructure.

)

WHAT the HELL? Am I doomed to emulate the fourteen-year-olds I'm presently teaching? Shall I revert to finding something entertaining just because it's crudely put? Will I forever be a hunter-gatherer of the

junk

to be found in

trunks

? And can Batman and Robin possibly escape the umbrella factory alive?

The answer to all of the above is probably: Yes. It's useless to fight primal urges, expending energy that would be better used to focus those appetites toward valuable ambitions, like learning how to

decoupage

. Which is to say, the primal urges fuel all our endeavors, even those that end up approaching the sublime (though I can't quite bring myself to categorize decoupage as sublime--such artistic snobbery on my part). I say we just accept it, all we guileless guys who have a conscience about this sort of thing, and just try to be as subtle as possible about it.

WHO'S WITH ME?!

A Year (or Three) in Review

Returning from my holiday journeys just in time for New Years, I find the city the same as it ever was. I suppose it's only natural to feel inclined to review one's year in the face of a new one. I have to admit that 2006 was not a year that I will be dreadfully sorry to see go. It was comprised of amazing highs and lows, both; my hope for the new year is for it to be a little more moderate in its exchanges. I feel a bit guilty expressing that desire, what with professing a renewed conviction in

The Third Life

(tm), but who's to say TTL(tm) can't at times have a nice, steady rhythm to it, rather than a course akin to a

wooden roller-coaster

at every turn?

While I was visiting NoVa, a dear friend of mine who has lived in San Diego for years now was home, too, and threw a modest reunion for certain circle of us from high school. I saw her and several other people I had often wondered about since graduating. It wasn't the typical reunion. Everyone there was really interested in one another and speaking intelligently about their lives--none of that dreadful one-ups-man-ship that seems to be the major export of the Uniting Reunions of America. In spite of how lovely it all was, what I'm carrying away with me, and keep revisiting in my mind, is an unanswered observation an old friend of mine had to say. In response to my description of my life since college, all the touring, traveling, month-long shows, etc., she said, "That sounds like it would be so lonely."

Believe it or not, I had never looked at it that way before. And I

love

to look at things darkly. I mean, I am

dark

. (Do you read the last page of a new book first, just in case you die before you finish reading it?

Because I do.

) Somehow, however, this obsidian nugget of darkness had eluded me. I mean, no wonder I've been the great serial monogamist all these years, and no wonder the pursuit of an acting career can be so soul-evaporating.

It is fucking lonely.

Now I cast back to a Christmas party my friends Todd and Kate had before we all scattered to our respective homelands for Christmahannukwanzica. At this party, nothing was said to shatter my earth. My earth remained intact as I bid adieu, but it was certainly rocked. Three of the guests at the party were a family--young parents and an unbelievably verbal sub-toddler. And get this: The parents were in theatre.

I KNOW! The wife/mother performed in musical theatre, touring occasionally with her son along. The husband had switched to directing after being an actor for several years and was having what seems to have been a very good time of it. Now, it's not that I don't know that such people exist. They must, else we'd never have these celebrities with stories about how they learned everything from their quaint, performed-on-Broadway-for-forty-years parents. Right? Right. Somehow, however, coming face-to-face with such folks was a very difficult experience for me that night. There was a lot of envy going on there, and I don't generally get too envious over career stuff. You landed a movie? Congratulations. Your agent says he's going to get you on every CSI they make? Fantastic.

You maintain a career that supports you and have the security and emotional wherewithal to start a healthy family? Come here. A little closer. I NEED TO GO ALL

TALENTED MR. RIPLEY

ON YOUR LIFE!

The thing is, it's not as though I haven't had opportunities to be in a family way. In point of fact, I keep choosing the ol' career over marriage, family, etc. This year has been, in its way, a huge exemplification of that choice. Now, I could argue that the problem has always been that (for one reason or another) somehow the choice always comes up. It's never a matter of someone wanting to be married to

me

, but to the

me I'll be when I get over this acting phase

. I could make that argument.

But I don't, because the question is far more interesting if I don't have that somewhat convenient circumstance to fall back on. So why do I keep making the choice, knowing that it will keep leading me back to questions about my path and insecurities about the ticking clock?

This year I ran around like mad. I moved back to Brooklyn from Queens. I had absolutely

horrible

health (the short list includes something in the area of two bad sprains, teeth problems, four feverish throat infections, and what I thought was a hernia but turned out to be a

chemical epididymitis

instead) but also wrapped the year with enough Equity weeks worked to qualify for six months of free health insurance, starting today. I was in and out of Pennsylvania, and traveled and worked in New Hampshire/Vermont, Virginia, Maryland and Italy. I performed in a satire, a tragedy, two comedies, one work-in-progress and one original debut. I developed a solo clown piece. I danced and sang, fought and kissed, and even got a little writing done.

What is this worth? Where is this getting me, I often ask myself. I view my career in a fashion similar to my spiritual beliefs, which is to say: If I don't question them (or myself) regularly, then I'm not really living them. Questions are not dangerous, unless they go unasked. In fact, I'd say that the darkest times in my life were when I was too certain of an answer to keep asking the questions. So. What is it worth?

The difficult answer (and for God's sake, question even this) is that it's worth itself. And that's all. I have to be satisfied with myself insofar as I need to be to be happy and think clearly. TTL isn't better than the more conventional life, but it certainly isn't worse. Some feel a need to insulate themselves from its danger by observing it and judging. "Doesn't the constant running from show to show seem like an addiction?" "You're not making enough money to make car payments?" Even the classic: "How do you memorize all those lines?" (Folken: What we really hear you saying is, "What on God's green earth possessed you to commit yourself to something so archaic and bizarre?") It is similar to every other priority we might claim without risking such judgment. Doesn't the constant pursuit of more money seem like a compulsion? You mean you just stay at home, all day, in the same home? And how do you forget all those childhood dreams?

We can neither of us judge the other, and I sally forth [insert comic strip pun/allusion here] into the new year eager to continue the wrestling match that is I. Me. I? Anyway. We're all here trying to make sense of ourselves. It's good to be accepting of our different paths; or if that's too much, than at least of our own path. I'm reminded of a conversation I had at the start of college, with my dear friend who organized the reunion and another incoming freshman. That Other asked us why we did theatre,

really

. I said some pretentious, theoretical crap (which I really believed and probably still do) and the guy said something along similar lines, but dear Sarah said,

"I just enjoy it. It's one of the few things in my life that I can point to and definitely [sic] say 'That makes me happy.'"

Well said, my friend. Happy new year, everyone.