Rosie Bits

If a Blog Falls In the Forrest...

2011-12-18T21:50:00.000-08:00

Oh yeah. I remember this. This used to be my blog. Once. Long ago. Days gone by, etc. Now I blog for a living. It's my job. And yet here I find you, neglected, but intact.

I've had other blogs in between the last time I wrote here. 50 Characters In 50 Weeks (http://50in50.wordpress.com) took over my life for a while, and it too has fallen into disrepair (I aims to finish it, though). And now I write for Gizmodo. For a living. Strange days. Strange, strange days.

Well, I'm sick and my NyQuil has clearly kicked in, but it's nice to see you again. I hope to return here, someday. Hope you'll remember me when I come back.

-BR 12.18.11 9.56pm

Trialthlon Man

2009-02-06T13:48:00.000-08:00

So. I've been talking about doing it for well over three years now. A triathlon. Thing is, when I started talking about it, I was in pretty decent shape for it (or I was swimming a lot, at any rate). Times have changed.

Last weekend I was at my gym (for the first time in three months or so), and I saw a sign for an upcoming indoor triathlon. Nice n' short. And like that, before I could change my mind, I paid the fifty bucks and signed up. The problem, however, is that it was three weeks from that day.

Images started coming to my mind of waking up in a hospital, one of America's (too many) twenty-something-year-old males to have had a heart attack. So I've started training. How much progress can I make in three weeks? It remains to be seen.

By triathlon standards, this one is a breeze. Time, not distance. 10 mins. swimming, 30 mins. biking, 20 mins. running. True triathletes would scoff. Personally, I'm really nervous about it. Forget about how far I go or where I place; my goal is to finsih it without stopping. That's it. If I don't stop, I win the gold medal, in my mind.

What else?

Yesterday, a friend asked for my advice. She was making an Evite for a baby shower that she was throwing, and under the "Will you attend?" box she wanted to have something funnier than "Yes", "No", and "Maybe". She asked what would be funny for a baby shower? I said:

"I'm coming through the front door, head first, and covered in placenta."

"I'll see-section if I can make it." And

"Sorry, I've gotta abort."

While she enjoyed them, she suspected that the mommy-to-be probably wouldn't. People are so touchy about the things that grow inside them. (Ten points to anybody who uses them for a baby shower in the future.)

Thirdly, I haven't been surfing in forever, and it's making me completely crazy. We're having one hell of a nasty winter in NY, and my motivation to go to the beach is staggeringly low. This time last year I was in Costa Rica, and I've become obsessed by thoughts of going there, or somewhere like it, and just surfing for a week. Can't go, though. Gotta work. No fun. In the meantime, I haunt surfing websites; prowling daily for new photos, videos, articles, anything. I'm not sure if it helps or makes it worse, in actuality, but I do know that nothing can replace the feel and taste of the ocean. Need to get back in, and quick.

Until I do, though, I'll use the swimming pool at my Y like a piece of nicotine gum, and think of this triathlon as training for some waves. Hope they're coming soon.

Cheers,

Brent

2.6.09 5.14pm

Backlogged... no, backBlogged

2009-01-27T08:25:00.001-08:00

Dear readers (are any of you still out there?),

It's been a long time. The longer the time grows in between entries, the harder it becomes to write. Pressure builds. I feel like I have to write more, to fill in everything, to cover all the things I've been thinking about, and so the task becomes so large in my mind, that I balk at attempting it.

I hereby shirk that task.

I'm not going to attempt to catch you up on everything. I'm just going to do my best to stay current with my current thoughts.

One of the reasons I've been a-blognacious (what?) is that I've been pouring my writing energy into something else, namely sketch comedy. Last year I was hit by a realization that it'd always been a dream of mine to work for SNL, so I started focusing my energies thataway, and have been writing sketch ever since. Some are good, some are bad. Will I ever make it to the show? Remains to be seen, but please do cross your fingers for me (as I just recently sent in my first submission).

Also, in the past months there have been a good number of blogs that I've started (some I've finished, but not proofread), and I will likely be releasing those in days to come.

Also also, I will no longer be updating my myspace blog. I hope everyone who reads me over there will come over to http://brentrose.blogspot.com

More soon (very soon).

-BR
1.27.09 12.08pm

Juice-Fasts, Girlfriends, and The Ever-Present Rumble

2008-09-11T21:11:00.000-07:00

Haven't done this in a while. Eyes closed, let's go.

Every time I think about blogging I find myself overwhelmed. Too much has happened, would take too long to write. So I put it off. As that time passes, more happens, and it becomes seemingly insurmountable. This is how I often feel about cleaning my room. Anyone who has seen my room knows that.

First off, I've got a headache, and I feel like I'm kind of buzzing. Why? Because I'm just coming to the end of Day One of a juice-fast. I'm not even sure if it can really be called a "fast", considering how much juice one takes in during it. "A juice cleanse" may be more accurate. Anyway, I've been intrigued by the idea of a cleanse for a long time, but I've never actually done one. I've fasted for a day at a time here and there (drinking only water), but nothing like this. I'm going for a full seven days. I've heard the first few days are the worst. We'll see. I've already got a headache and feel reeeeally weird, but I was also able to go on a pretty intense bike ride and then do some crunches and pull-ups when I got home. Those were the first pull-ups I've done since February, when I injured my shoulder (yet again)... then re-injured it in June. Hooray for recovery.

I'm a bit scattered. What was I talking about?

Juice-fast. Right.

Why am I doing it? I guess there are a few reasons. One is to see if I really do feel "detoxified" afterwards. Lord knows I've put a significant amount of crap into my body, and if this gets it out, then great. I also just got back to NY after several weeks in CA (and Burning Man), and I want a kind of fresh start. Maybe this cleanse will contribute to that feeling.

New York is a struggle, much of the time. It's fun, and there is so much great stuff going on here, but it's an incredibly expensive place to live, and I have seen, first hand, that the economy is in the shitter, which makes it even harder. So that's survival stuff, but man, when you factor in a career in the arts, you've got a recipe for madness and heartbreak... OR just more hard work, and a constant need for creative life-living. Example: I've been temping here for two years. Been working out fine. Suddenly, the temp market is down 70%. This is not abstract. You will feel this because suddenly you're working 70% less than you were. Rent isn't any cheaper. Neither is food. SO... what are you gonna do? Get creative. What am I going to do, personally? I'm not sure yet. I'll let you know when I do, but I need to make some moves and FAST. Yow.

So, what else? Oh yeah, I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!! What the hell!? Let me put this in perspective. I have had ONE official girlfriend in the last TEN YEARS... and that was SIX YEARS AGO! So, now, suddenly, I have a girlfriend... and like... I love her. A lot. Like, head-over-heels in love with, and it actually seems to be reciprocated, which is even crazier. So, that's a thing.

Getting into a relationship again was really difficult for me. Not because I didn't want to, and not because she isn't great, but because during such an extended period of bachelorhood, you build up certain, mental/emotional/psychological/physical habits, and those are really hard to break out of, even if it's for something you really want. The best I've heard it explained is this (and I'm paraphrasing, here): Our thought/emotional patterns are like a car driving on a dirt track. Say the track is just a loop, for simplicity's sake. Where we drive, our tires make an imprint in the dirt, and if we keep following the same exact path each time, little by little, we make wheel ruts in the ground. As those wheel ruts get deeper, they become the path of least resistence -- it would be harder to turn the steering wheel to get the car out of them -- so we keep going along that route. Eventually we can even take our hands off the steering wheel, close our eyes, put it on cruise control, and kick back, because those deep ruts will keep our wheels going in the same direction. But say, suddenly, you want to go somewhere else. You don't like that track anymore, and you want to get off it. The more time that passes, the harder that's going to be, even if you really, really want to get off that track and do something else. You're really going to have to wrestle with that steering wheel.

So, that was a challenge. I feel like I'm out of it, now, though. On open range. It's nice, and I'm riding with someone who blows me away, more and more, on a daily basis.

In other words, my love-life is going well, I'm happy to report, for the first time in pretty much forever.

Okay, that takes care of Juice-Fasts and Girlfriends, so what is "The Ever-Present Rumble"?

I guess I mean that rumble inside that's keeping me moving, in terms of my art and career (which are almost the same thing, I'm happy to say). There are a lot of ups and downs, and well, walls. You try something, and you hit a wall, and you say, "Okay. That didn't work. Now let's try this." Then you hit another one, "Alright. Now, how about this." Another wall. "Motherfucker!! I really thought that one was going to work. (sigh) Okay, let's try this now." Maybe the rumble is the sound of the engine inside you that won't let you quit.

I made some important discoveries about myself in the last month, and those discoveries helped lead me to give one of the best performances of my life... maybe. The best, technically? Not sure, but it felt damn fucking good, and sometimes that's what's important. I won't go into the details of my discoveries, because the details are for me, but I'll say that it had to do with my fears. Acknowledging them, understanding them, embracing them, even, then choosing to move on without them. Will they come back from time to time? Likely. I'd like to think that I'm better equipped to deal with them now. In this moment, I'd like to belive that I'll never be as scared again as I was before, at least not in the same way, or of the same things.

I'm excited about this juice-fast. I invested in a juicer today, which I hope I'll continue to use even after the juice-fast is over. Days two and three are supposed to be the hardest, but eventually this headache will go away. My girlfriend (Stef, she's called) decided to join me on this fast, on a whim, at the last minute. God love her.

I spent a couple hours yesterday working on my surfboard. It had a few dings in it, and some scrapes and scratches here and there, so I patched those up, and I put a traction pad on it, too. There are no waves in the Atlantic right now, though. Alas, alas. I hadn't surfed much since my Costa Rica trip (shoulder injuries, plural, to the same shoulder), but I've slowly been getting back in the water. So many paralels there, it hurts my head.

I surfed twice while in California. Once, by myself, and the other time with two of my best friends, Max and Bay (and a huge seal). It was a perfect day, with a beautiful view, and playful, forgiving little waves. We didn't surf better than everyone around us, but we laughed a lot more.

Riding waves, with good friends, on a beautiful day, near where you all grew up...

... sometimes the universe is good to us.

-BR 9.12.08 1.09.am

Faces of Temping: PART TWO

2008-08-04T17:55:00.000-07:00

On October 4th, 2006, I posted what would become one of my most popular blog entries (back when my blog was just on Myspace, which is to say, back in the days when people used Myspace): Faces of Temping. The capsule summary is that when you temp within the gigantic Metlife Building, here in New York City, every day you have to go to the security desk and get your photo taken for your badge that day. They look like this:

Classy, right? Well most of the prose and poetry I have on the subject was written in the last entry, so I won't repeat myself (it's at http://brentrose.blogspot.com/2007/09/making-faces-at-corporate-america.html , if you're interested). I will, however, ad these quick thoughts. 1.) It's amazing how much harder it is to go back to something like temping after you had a period of time when you weren't being forced to do it, and just maaaaybe you'd allowed yourself to dream that you'd never have to do it again, and 2.) After getting away with everything you tried the last time you undertook this project, you will probably be even more brash and brazen this time, and will push things further, just to see what you can get away with.

So, without any further ado, I present to you Faces of Temping I and II (back to back, for your convenience):

Part I (click image for higher res):

And, brand new, Part II (click image for higher res):

I think the depression, rage, and insanity all show through just a little stronger, no? But hey, coping mechanisms are coping mechanisms, and it still makes the security guards smile.

Cheers,

Brent 8.5.08 2.01am

P.S. If this is your first time visiting this blog, please take a moment and check out of a few of my other entries in my "Past Favorites" section.

The Three Words

2008-07-08T13:09:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's been a long time since you last said the The Three Words to someone.

Maybe it's been years.

Maybe it's been more than five years.

Maybe, sometimes, the time is right.

Maybe, sometimes, your feelings are too big for "I really like you", and to minimize them like that would be akin to lying.

Maybe it's when you're getting off the phone every night, and it feels awkward and artificial to NOT say it.

Maybe, sometimes, you have no idea what the cute or clever (safer) way is to say the words.

Maybe it's because the words are inherrently unsafe.

Sometimes it isn't romantic.

Sometimes you'll be sitting in the dining concourse at Grand Central Station, eating what is arguabling the worst Chinese food you've had since moving to New York, two years ago, and you'll say something like, "So, here's the thing..."

And you say it.

And maybe it's the look on her face that makes it romantic.

And maybe it's the look on yours.

And maybe you don't know whether to laugh or cry or scream and pass out.

Maybe because you're terrified.

Maybe because you're happy.

-BR 7.8.08 4.55pm

A Few New Lessons

2008-04-10T01:48:00.000-07:00

The last six or so months of my life have been hectic to say the least, but despite the chaos (or perhaps, in part, because of it), I have been learning like crazy. Some highlights include:

Hard work and perseverance probably pay off. Probably.

I've spent days at a time wearing nothing but a bathrobe, yet working extremely hard the entire time. Is this what it's like to be a hooker? Once again, the line between artist and whore gets hazy.

Even when you're surrounded by assholes, you must never let yourself become one. (especially when you're surrounded by them, actually)

It may be possible to wish something into existence. Maybe. Results inconclusive, but I'm carrying out a new study. I'll report the results when I know them.

Meditation does me a world of good when I'm over-worked and under-slept.

I virtually never make time for meditation when I'm over-worked and under-slept.

A good session of surfing is better than ten sessions of therapy.

There are some genuinely nice people out there. (note to self: continue to seek them out)

I'm less afraid of death than I am of cancer.

RUBBERBAND!

My show premieres on Monday, 4.14.08. I haven't worked this hard on something since grad school.

There will always be incompetent people who you will have to work with in one capacity or another. How are you going to handle them?

Bad habits can be broken. Change is not impossible.

I have to take better care of my body (especially my shoulders... and my prostate).

I'm more excited now about the possibilities of romance than I have been in a long, long time...

I can learn.

Goodnight,
BR 4.10.08 5.09am

A Tree in a Vast Expanse

2008-03-02T16:26:00.000-08:00

I dreamed the other night that I climbed a tall tree. It was, perhaps, 300 feet. I climbed as high as I could, then went way out on a branch that jutted out perpendicularly. I climbed out until the branch was no thicker than my leg, and I just sat there for a while, enjoying the way I was swaying in the breeze. From that height, I could see for miles in every direction, and it was a beautiful, warm, clear day.

After a while, though, I decided that it was time for me to head back. A little fear had crept in, I think. I stood up on the branch I had been sitting on, and started slowly making my way back toward the trunk, using another, thinner branch as a handrail. Now, suddenly, I wasn't enjoying the swaying of the branches so much. They suddenly seemed flimsy and unstable to me. It occurred to me that at any moment my feet might slip, and then I looked down; it was a dizzying height. I immediately felt my heart rate spike, and I struggled to keep my breathing regular. Thoughts of falling started racing through my head, and I kept thinking how if I slipped, my hands wouldn't be strong enough to hang on.

I kept moving, though, and my hands and feet found their own way. My feet went just where I wanted them to, and my hands felt secure on the parallel branch. The thicker the branch got, the easier it became to walk, and when I got back to the trunk, I pulled myself up onto a branch well above my head, and I remember thinking, "My hands are strong, after all! My arms could have easily caught me if I slipped! The real danger was all in my head."

I climbed back down the tree quickly and easily; truly enjoying myself the entire way. When I reached the ground, I stood there for a moment with my hand on the trunk, and my feet on the ground, looking back up, with complete satisfaction, at the adventure I'd just had. No one had seen me, and that didn't matter at all. As I stood there, I remember feeling strong and extremely capable.

It was a very good feeling.

-BR 3.4.08 2.24am

(Chinese) New Year's Resolutions

2008-02-14T18:56:00.000-08:00

Change is difficult. Difficult in nearly every aspect.

You can't change directions (or speed) without running into Newton's laws, you can't get change at a store without buying a pack of gum, and you can't change your life without butting up against all your old habits.

But you try.

And not in "the ol' college try" sense, either. I tried college, then dropped out after six weeks. (one of the best decisions I ever made, actually)

You try, and you fall, then you get up and push forward until you fall again. Repeat.

Sometimes we make the right changes for the wrong reasons. Or perhaps they're merely inspired by the wrong reasons.

If the changes are right, though, you work, and you make the reasons your own. Pick the right ones, this time.

Not everything has to be done in order.

Once you've set the right goals, and you've found the right reasons, stick to your guns.

Persevere, and peace will follow you.

...

I'm glad I stayed in tonight.

-BR 2.14.08

Debates en Mass, or: Massdebating #1

2008-01-06T06:08:00.000-08:00

ABC's tagline for the big New Hampshire debates last week was, "Two Parties, One Night". Is this name not starkly reminiscent of "Two Girls, One Cup"? And which, I ask you, was more civilized? Well, 2Parties1Night involved copious amounts of throwing feces and the eating of it; in contrast, 2Girls1Cup does not feature throwing.

I forced myself to watch the whole thing, and ultimately, I'm glad I did. I wretched a couple of times, but it got a little better when the Democrats came on (...did you think I was still talking about 2Girls1Cup? How do you know I'm not?). I felt like I got a better feel for all of the players involved, and I'm interested in seeing how this will progress.

My snap observations:

-McCain seems like the least objectionable of the Republican candidates, but when you look at what you're comparing him to, that doesn't say much.

-You want to talk about the "unlikable" factor? Let's talk about the two ABC moderators. What a pair of assholes. Between Scott Spradling just being a plain old dick and trying to insight bickering (like the Repubs did without help), and Charlie Gibson showing off his gleaming ignorance about the world we live in (suggesting that a family of two professors at a small college in NH would rake in more than $200,000 a year, which got a HUGE laugh from the audience and was my favorite moment of the night), I just wanted to crawl through my TV and slap the shit out of them.

-Rudy is an idiot.

-Romney is a liar.

-Huckabee is a scary liar.

-Ron Paul will say something you really agree with, but then under his breath he'll mention the abolition of the income tax and along with it the public education system, and most of the other things we hold dear, here.

-Edwards has gone way up in my estimation. I like the idealism.

-Obama went up some, too, though not as much as Edwards. To be fair, though, I held Obama in higher esteem before this debate than I did Edwards, so Edwards had further to go.

-Hilary went down, some. It's not that I don't think she "has what it takes to be President", because as we have learned for the last either years, it sure doesn't take much. Rather, I think she "plays politician" too much. We'll see, though.

-I wish Kucinich was still in it. Not because I think he'd have a chance of winning, but because I think he would bring a lot of interesting points to the debates.

-Bottom Line: The ticket I'm hoping for is Obama/Edwards. I actually think that those two could get this country heading back in the right direction. We'll see how things shape up from here on out.

Speaking of abominations, there are dudes out there with fourteen inch cocks. There are a plethora of reason to find this upsetting, but I'd like to focus on one: What is the evolutionary purpose of a 14" dick? Are there really women out there whose cervix is fourteen inches deep?? The Theory of Evolution says that it must be so, but I've never met any. To be fair, though, fourteen-inch-deep-cervixed-women don't have a whole lot of reason to come breaking down my door. Sigh...

Penultimately, I want to take a survey here. Here is the query:

Do people who have too much crap on their "desktops"...

... have too much crap on their desktops?

Or is it just me?

And, lastly, I would like to share with you my (and Bay's) reaction to 2Girls1Finger... yes, the sequel to 2Girl1Cup exists, and it may well be worse. My favorite thing about it is how bay allllmost keeps it together right until the end there, when his mind breaks.

Enjoy.

-BR 1.9.08 3.23pm

Head Above Cold Water

2007-12-21T09:10:00.000-08:00

Missed me? Didn't realize I was gone? Either way, hi again.

Last time I wrote was Oct. 1st. I was in the Bay Area, in the middle of a play. Now here I am, two months and twenty days later, back in New York, freezing my tits off.

I don't think I'll ever get used to the concept of Winter. Don't like it. Never have, never will. I'm a Summer boy. In addition to that, I'm a Northern Californian -- "cool" is cool; "cold" is oppression.

Anyway, if the question is where have I been, the answer is "Busy" (which apparently means that busy is a place). There have been so many plans for so many blog entries, and one by one, they fell by the wayside. I think I felt overwhelmed. Too much happened too fast. It felt strange to write about one, without writing about another, and not wanting to show favoritism to one event and shaft another, somehow they all ended up equally undocumented.

There were surfing sessions in Northern California, wherein I caught the best waves of my life. Spending time with my family, my friends, and my 99-year-old grandmother.

There was the epic three+ week road-trip with Max, across the Southern United States, wherein many amazing experiences were had, many new friends were made, and many things were learned.

My return to NY, and the process of regaining my bearings and momentum. The starting of new (daunting) projects (which have absorbed my life for the last month and some). Surfing on Long Island when it was 16 degrees (with windchill) or lower. Reunions, departures, new things and old, growing a moustache, and shaving it.

This is, I supposed, what I'd feared would happen. I'd feel overwhelmed, and would end up writing such a cursory summary of all that's transpired that I don't really say anything. Let me just talk about now, now.

I haven't been this busy and stressed out since grad school, but I notice that I'm a lot happier than when I was in grad school. Still working on finding ways to keep my stress levels down, but I'm glad that I'm busy with something that's inspiring me. The project I'm working on is MY project, and that means a lot right now. When I turned twenty-eight someone asked me what my goals were for the next year of my life. I said I wanted to move closer to my ultimate goal of supporting myself though my acting and writing, and ideally, to be acting in what I'm writing. I'm happy to say I'm finally getting closer to that goal. Closer than I've ever been before, and it seems more and more possible every day. Now, clearly, I've still got a ways to go, as I'm writing this from a temp desk at a mid-town law office, but I'm getting there.

My personal life isn't any more stable than it used to be, but do you know what? That's not bothering me right now. I'm not sure that personal lives (at least mine) are meant to be stable. I think it's like standing on a ball; you don't wait for it to turn into a block, you just get better at balancing on it. Then if, down the road, you happen to be standing on something less precarious, you'll be even more sure-footed on it.

That being said, my home life is better than it has been in years. My new roommate is my old and dear friend Bay, and he and I, along with our third roommate (whom I've lived with for a year and a half) make a really nice little unit. My home feels more like home than it has in close to a decade, and I'm extremely grateful for that. It's very important, especially in this city.

So, now that we're caught up, no matter how superficially, I feel like I can move forward. I suppose I don't make much of a historian, but I'll do my best to keep up with my "in the moment" writing.

More soon.

Love,

Brent 12/21/07

It's True Because It's Funny

2007-10-01T00:52:00.000-07:00

First of all, let's take a look at the phrase, "It's funny because it's true." Oh, really?

The AIDS epidemic is the number one humanitarian crisis of our era.

I don't here anyone laughing.

So, let's flip it. Imagine if the phrase "It's true because it's funny," actually held up.

Contemporary religion as we know it would fall apart because Priests and Rabbis would constantly be going into bars together. Blondes would be perpetually pregnant from all their sluttery, and Poland would be a very dark place, indeed, with all their light bulb problems.

Some things are true. Some things are funny. Some are both. Some are neither. Let's leave it at that.

Moving on...

I bet bondage with Abraham Lincoln was no fun at all. He'd get you all tied up in shackles, then he'd just emancipate you.

What else?

The show is coming along. I'm sore and exhausted pretty much all the time. Also, I've noticed this: my shirts are getting tighter and my pants are getting looser. I'd like to chalk this up to the trapeze work I do in the show, but it could just be a dryer anomaly. There's just one week left, so I guess I'll find out soon.

Oh, and I turned twenty-eight, which means I can no longer say, "mid-twenties". That doesn't really matter, though, because people generally seem to think I'm in my early-thirties. As my dear friend Karl says, "It's not the years, it's the mileage."

I haven't been writing much. Not so happy about that. I've been putting so much energy into this play that I haven't had much left for writing. No good. There are things that need to be written, and I've gotta get to that.

Anyway, I do have some big news...

I'm in love.

It's still really new, and it's a little bit scary, because it's been a very long time for me, but I think I've been ready for quite some time, and was, essentially, just waiting for "the one". And then, one day, there she was. I knew within the first minute.

The first glimpse of her I caught, her curves threw me for a loop. I didn't know if I'd ever held a body like that, and, frankly, I hesitated. But when I heard her voice... I knew. My eyes lit up, and I just knew. Every fiber of my being said "Yes!"

So, everybody, meet my girl...

I think her name's Rebecca... or maybe Lola. She's made of cedar.

And, yes, we're very happy together.

More soon...

-BR 10.1.07 1.38am

The New Blog

2007-09-18T23:39:00.000-07:00

Here it is. It took me forever to migrate my old blog to this new one, and there's still some formatting anomalies. If you spot any, please let me know.

Please check out the "Past Favorites" section for a sort of "Best Of" of the blog I've been writing for the last few years. They're just some of my personal favorites. The full blog has been moved over here, but note that it all appears to have been written in September, 2007. The actual dates of composition are at the bottom of each entry.

Your feedback is always appreciated, as is your spreading the word. If you have an RSS LiveBookmarks thingy, please, bookmark away.

New entries coming soon.

Cheers,
BR

Fan Hits Shit

2007-09-12T13:00:00.000-07:00

Live theatre is a harsh environment. Sometimes you're working on a show, and there isn't enough time, and there aren't enough resources, and there isn't enough money, and the play is too big, and the space and the time-frame you've been given are both too small, and, with six days left before your first paying audience, suddenly everyone thinks that same thought that people in the theatre have thought since the dawn of time… "We're not going to be ready."

And that is where things get interesting.

Maybe the script is going through more daily changes than an infant on ex-lax. Maybe, with one week to go, you've been given a bunch of new lines to learn… and they're all in Russian. Or imagine that you have to swing, high, fast, and upside-down on a trapeze in the narrow gap between a 200lb. guy who's swinging at you, and a cement column – if you miss the guy by a foot, and the column by ten inches, you're golden… but you're going to be threading that needle about ten times a week for the next month and a half, and it only takes things going wrong once…

So, what do you do?

Take a few deep breaths.

Ask, "Do I know what I'm doing here?"

Yeah. Yeah, you do. This isn't a life you stumbled into. You've trained longer and harder than Marines do for war. This is your calling, and this is what you do.

Now, put down the ice cream, sign off instant messenger, stop bitching about some lost "old familiar" who clearly wasn't worth your time anyway, and GET BACK TO WORK.

You've got a job to do, and you'll be damned if you're not going to do it well.

Now… who wants to see some theatre?

-BR 9.2.2007 10.47pm

http://www.magictheatre.org/season0708/expedition.shtml

Old Familiar

2007-09-12T12:59:00.000-07:00

A little love died yesterday. She was an old familiar.

Friends for ten years, lovers for an eye-blink a few winters back, and now, suddenly, nothing.

Suddenly? Perhaps not.

The demise had been long drawn out. Love in an iron lung. Friendship with defibulators.

I gave out second chances like lolly-pops on Halloween. I was the sucker.

No more, though (I tell myself).

Though my capacity for forgiveness may seem (impossibly? foolishly?) endless, lines can still be drawn through it, and where lines can be drawn, lines can be crossed.

"My boyfriend doesn't want me to talk to you or see you."

The End.

Had he asked me, I might have told him,

"I equate her vagina to the Gaza Strip: As much as I'd love to visit, I'm not going near it while it's occupied."

Which is true, but I doubt it would have helped.

So, I go home early, for once.

Mom's place. This is an old familiar too.

The house has changed to the apartment, but the some things are always the same..

The Everything Drawer.

"Do we have any string?" "Buttons?" "Sheep shears?"

Look in the Everything Drawer.

Some people would stare, mouths agape, at this amazing drawer that is usually too full to open.

Sometimes I like to imagine that there really is an Everything Drawer, containing the universe, inside out. In want? Just reach in. It's in there. It's all in there.

And feeling in want (of an old familiar), I place a call, and head to a friend's house.

The town I drive through is an old familiar, too. The streets, the houses, the burrito joints, and the hills; they were all my childhood playmates.

I get into a hot tub I've been soaking in for more than a decade.

I think.

When my old familiar and I transgressed briefly from peculiar friends to peculiar lovers, it was in a hot tub. The public hot tub on the corner of the street that my mother lives on, actually, which makes me think of her every time I see that blue and white sign, which is unfortunate, as I pass it at least once a day. So, I think, maybe this other hot tub will help me erase all that.

The hot tub works wonders on my shoulders, but does little to soothe my heart.

The heart aches.

Prepared as I was, there is only so much bracing yourself you can do, and nothing ever seems quite so senseless as the murder of a friendship without cause.

"One day," I tell myself. "I will learn to only give access to my heart to those who will care for it."

So I would like to believe.

In the surrounding days there will be much to distract me. I'll be rehearsing in a trapeze, only to look up and see Joan Rivers watching me from the audience. Or the battery will wear out on the clicker that turns on/off my car alarm, and I will be forced to drive for two miles through city streets with my car alarm blaring bloody murder (amazingly only getting pulled over once). I will eat the world's best food, spend some one-on-one time with my mom and with good friends, and soak in the sheer beauty of this place I am lucky enough to be calling home for another three months, but this divorce from my old familiar is going to hurt for a while.

Until, one day, it doesn't.

-BR 8.22.2007 11.42.pm

Once More, For Glory

2007-09-12T12:56:00.000-07:00

The Update:

First off, I woke up this morning, and suddenly found that I was bi...

...coastal.

But I wish I was bi...

...lingual.

Anyway, yes, for those of you who haven't heard, I'm back in the Bay for a few months, doing a play at the Magic Theatre in SF. I'll be flying around on a trapeze (provided I don't tear my shoulder out of its socket... again... knock wood, please), and if you're going to be in the area from Sept. 8th thru Oct. 7th, you should definitely come peep it. Here's a link:
http://www.magictheatre.org/season0708/expedition.shtml

In other news, I just bought this new pomade that turns out to be so incredibly sticky that if I female should try ot run her hand through my hair, it might just stick there forever. In other words, I finally found the product I've been looking for, and I may now be able to sustain a relationship for more than a couple nights, if only by virtue of capture.

I was stung by a bee on Monday, right on my pinky finger. I went a good, solid decade without getting stung by anything, and now, bam, twice in a month. Is this God trying to tell me to stop stealing honey from supermarkets? Ha! You'll have to do better than that, God.

So, the Bay Area is this place that I tend to mythologize. When I'm away for long periods of time, I tell stories of my homeland like it was Eden. I'll go on and on about the people, the produce, and the burritos to the point where, after a while, even I feel like "surely this guy is exaggerating". But, you know what? Every time I come back, I realize that I haven't been exaggerating at all. The people really really are way cool. The place is totally breath-takingly beautiful. The produce really is fresher, juicier, doper. And, if the burritos were anatomically correct... well, I'd be making chimichangas.

My first big purchase when I got here: a surfboard. Actually, that's not true. I bought a car. It turns out it's waaaaaay cheaper to buy an old beater then sell it back after you're done using it than it is to rent a car for three months. But, after that, I bought a surfboard. Took it out on Monday, and I LOVE it, and I LOVE surfing in California. Who's coming with me? I'm not even joking.

The only other big purchase I have planned is this: after ten years of playing, I have finally decided to buy myself a new guitar. I'm very excited about it.

Also, my tattoo will be turning 10 next month.

I will leave you with this thought: Deltron 3030 is one of the greatest albums ever, and if you don't know, then you need to work on that shit.

Much love,

B. 8.17.07

Advice Column: The Answers You've Been Forgetting About!

2007-09-12T12:54:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader,
This morning, while on my way to work, on the subway, a hornet stung me in the back of the neck. Let me just repeat. Hornet. Me. Stung. Neck. Subway. What the fuck?

When your day starts out like that, you know it's time to write a frivolous blog. And what could be more frivolous than that advice column idea I had a couple months back (see entry "New Blog Experiment"). So, here we go. You asked the questions, and now the answers bubble forth.

Q: Where should I work when I move to New York? I'm talking an office job where I don't have to think that much and make at least 50k a year?

A: Do you know how to fudge? Not as in make sugary desserts, but as in do illegal things with numbers? If so, I recommend organized crime. See, "organized" crime is really kind of a misnomer, because most of those guys don't really have their shit together. Hoes run their mouths and you can't turn your back on a crackhead, and that's why guys like them need guys like you to manage logistics. Also, their dental plan is second to none (if you're into iced-out grills).

Q: Why do we sleep?

A: Jesus is always watching over us, but if he stares at something for more than about sixteen hours straight, he starts going all buggy-eyed. When he was pronounced legally blind at the DMV his dad intervened, so he just kind of has us conk out after a while. Talk about nepotism.

Q: What the hell this "shining beam of golden light" is that everyone keeps telling me that "lives inside of me and someday when I figure it all out I'll find my true calling and I'll conquer the world" sooo, what the heck am I going to do with my life??? what is my "true" calling???

A: The "shining beam of golden light" (or the SBGL) is extremely bright. If we look too hard at a magnesium spark, it will burn our retinas. If we look too hard at the SBGL, it will burn our consciousness. This is why we can only catch fleeting glimpses -- self preservation. If you want to see it more clearly, I recommend the following: breathe long, slow, and deep. Now pull back. Pull back from your tangled web of thought. Pull back from your concept of who you are. Pull back far enough so that it isn't overwhelmingly bright and scary. You won't be able to see all of the details, but you will have a better chance of understanding what direction it lies in, and which way it points. Mustering up the courage to follow, is a whole other thing.

Q: Why are my feet peeling?

A: Because you're gross. Work on that.

Q: Can you suggest a restaurant that won't break the bank but will be filling, nutritious, and delicious that isn't burritos?

A: Cinderella Falafel. 2nd Ave. between 7th St. and St. Marks. No joke.

Q: What do I do while the guy is putting the condom on? I hate that moment. It makes me feel really anxious, and it's just awkward.

A: How do you think he feels? Seriously, though, this is a great question. The answer is incredibly simple, and it amazes me how few people seem to know it. Basically... wait, mom, if you're reading this, skip to the next one... okay, basically, the broad answer is "maintain contact/connection". To be perfectly honest, the 1 best thing you can do while he's struggling to get that wrapper open is to go down on him. Pure and simple. It will not only keep blood where it needs to be, and awaken more nerve endings, it also lubricates the head before he puts the condom on, which is going to make the sex way more enjoyable for him (which, hopefully, translates into better for you, too). Be careful not to push him over the edge, but slow teasing with your mouth just until he's got the thing ready to go, and he will remember you forever. Really, any kind of teasing that will turn him on is good, but maintaining some kind of physical contact (specifically with his or your erogenous zones) is a must.

Q: What is UP with monogamy?

A: Good question, lady! I think a huge part of monogamy is where and when someone is in their personal timeline/geography, and how it lines up with another person's where and when. There are, of course, schemas at work, and we almost certainly have some amount of unconscious programming that we picked up as a child, throughout our teen years, and even into adulthood. Our experiences shape who we are, as much as who we are shapes our experiences. But, in my meager experience, it's all in the timing (or a lot of it is, anyway). When I'm in crush mode, I am going to fall for someone. I may fall for someone else in a couple of weeks (if I'm still in crush mode), and it won't feel any less real to me, and if my perception tells me it's no less real, then who is to say it isn't? When two people who are in crush mode (i.e. are wanting to find someone to really like) find each other, and if there's chemistry, then boom, relationship (unless our baggage gets in the way). Oh, wait, I've gotten a little off track here. Monogamy. I think that's just when you continue to be in crush mode on one specific person, and your crush overpowers your urges to fuck other people, and uh, they feel the same about you.
..[endif]-->

Q: With all the money she has....why didn't Lindsay Lohan hire a driver?

A: Because she's an idiot/asshole. An idihole, if you will.

Q: Which is the best Weezer album? The Blue Album or Pinkerton? (it's obviously between those two)

A: Obviously, and the answer is Pinkerton. In fact, that whole question was a waste of space. Are you kidding me? Pinkerton Pinkerton Pinkerton. Sheesh.

Q: Do you lead with your lips or your tongue?

A: I'm pretty sure you're talking about kissing, right? Personally, I'm a lip-leader, and generally don't bring the tongue into the equation for at least 20 seconds or so, but I've smooched plenty of tongue-leaders, too, and that can be fun as well. Going tongue-first definitely has more of a full-throttle feel to it, whereas lips first gives creates a little suspense. I'm generally pretty happy either way, but there are definitely those out there who have strong opinions one way or the other. If you like it either way and are unsure what to do, I'd say start with lips, and you can quickly add tongue like it ain't no thang if that's the direction your partner heads in. Tongue first could potentially startle someone... but if that's the case, you may be making out with the wrong person for you.

and lastly...

Q: Who is really asking for help, those who asks questions or who asks to answer...?

A: Ooooh, you just mind-fucked me. Congrats. Honestly, probably me (the one who asks to answer), because I wanted to write a blog like this, and didn't want to make up the questions myself. Plus, I want to feel smart and pretty and witty, and all that stuff. But, I'll tell you what, I had a good time with this, so if you enjoyed it, or if you think of more questions, post 'em in comments (or email me directly if you're embarrassed), and maybe I'll do it again.

And watch out for hornets on the subway. Those fuckers hurt. A lot.

Love,
Brent

7.20.07 2.03am

Adventures of the Super Amazing Bachelor Man

2007-09-12T12:52:00.000-07:00

Entry One: Saturday Night

Fans are always writing to me and saying, "Brent, we all hear legends of what it's like to be a bachelor in New York City; is it really as incredible as it sounds?" Of course it is! That why there are legends about it. And anyone who knows anything knows that Saturday night is the Holy Grail for a Super Amazing Bachelor Man. So now, my loyal and adoring fans (especially those card carrying Fan Club Members whose dues are paid in full), I will take you on a fantastic journey through the anatomy of a Saturday night for a Super Amazing Bachelor, such as myself.

7:00pm Hang around with your roommate while she gets ready for her date tonight. Talk to her about her date, and dating. Watch a little Everybody Loves Raymond.

7:30pm Start eating. Make yourself a multi-course banquet composed of leftovers. There's a lot of stuff in your fridge and freezer that you opened and only ate half of. Set the microwave on stun (but really just use the high heat setting), and go to town. By clearing that space in your fridge, you're creating more space for all the ladies' hearts you'll be storing there after you've stolen them, tiger.

8:30pm You're not done eating yet. Ignore that stupid appestat meter in your stomach; you are a burning love machine and you need fuel, baby! Keep going through your fridge. Find some cheese, and garlic stuffed olives. To the untrained eye this may look like the binge-eating of a depressed person trying to fill the void deep within them, but you know different; this is the binge-eating of the Super Amazing Bachelor Man, trying to fill the void of mercy, because ooooh yeah, those ladies have no idea what they're in for.

9:00pm Man, you've got a lot of work to get done. You're supposed to do all this writing this weekend. Now's the time, baby. Sit down and write the next Hamlet!

9:30pm Hamlet 2: Danes, Danes, Danes, is not going as well as expected. Despite constant pestering from the ghost of Hamlet and the ghost of his father, Horatio is reluctant to wage war against the tribe of naked Amazon women who live in the enchanted forest down the road. Fortinbras is equally obstinate. You need some inspiration. Eat some chocolate and watch an episode of The Office, you sexy man.

10pm Listen to the sounds of your neighbor's festive barbecue next door. Just listen to all the mirth and merriment those families are making! Start to laugh. You'll laugh and laugh and laugh, because they are tied down and not free, like you are. Heck, you'll laugh so hard you'll start crying. Crying with laughter! Then crying and crying and crying! Oh, those poor, poor happy families who are not free like you are.

11pm Think about girls a whole bunch. Now that you're preoccupied, try going back to your writing. Better eat more first. Eat enough pineapple chunks to make your mouth raw with the acid; that'll make you sweeter… for the ladies… (wink!).

11:30pm Start watching web shows by people who know what they're doing. Make yourself peanut butter and jam sandwiches on leftover hamburger buns. Start writing a blog that has nothing to do with the stuff you need to be writing right now. Ha! Just imagine how annoyed Future You will be that you didn't get all that stuff done earlier. Man, you got him good! (continue thinking about girls)

12:00pm Eat some frozen mango chunks. Write a few more sentences in one of your scripts, then delete them. You're such a maverick!

12:30pm Turn on the last half hour of Saturday Night Live. Feel instantly encouraged and confident that no matter what kind of horrid excuse for a script you are about to pull out of your ass tonight, it couldn't possibly be any worse than this. Reflect for a moment that these people do what you do, only worse, and make much, much more money than you do. Also, they're famous. Mutter something about the "corporate machine". Zing! Nice one, now they've been zung.

1:14 Finish your ridiculous blog, and try to read another chapter in that book you have that helps you deal with what a mess you are. Only a baller can do that on a Saturday night and still be a baller. Now brush your teeth and go to bed. You've got a lot of hearts to break tomorrow, you big Super Amazing Bachelor Man, you.

Signed,

Brent (The S.A.B.M.) Rose
7.8.07 1.17am

Janky Holidays, and Date-Ending One-Liners

2007-09-12T12:49:00.000-07:00

Part I: Janky-Ass Holidays

The 4th of July is upon us. Now, I realize that The House of Un-American Activities is going to be all over me for saying this, but... I don't really like the 4^th of July. Or to be more accurate, I find it boring. "Forth of July"? "More like Bore-th of July." Heh.

But what about our Forefathers?
Yes, I know.

But what about our nation declaring its sovereignty?
Yes, I know.

But what about the slaves being set free?
You're confused and you need to go back to school.

So, why is this holiday met with such indifference from me? Don't I like barbecues? Don't I like not going to work? Aren't I glad I'm not forced to watch cricket and drink tea every afternoon (caffeine makes me jumpy)? Yes, to all the above. So, what's my beef?

1.) Our flag is ugly. Please don't give me a knee-jerk reaction, but stop, take a minute, and look at our flag. Are you looking? Seriously, what the hell is that!? THAT, ladies and gentleman, is bureaucracy embodied. THAT is what happens when art is made by committee. "We should have stars!" "No, we should have stripes!" "Okay, okay, you two..." Yes, it's the symbol of our great country, but you know what? It looks like a fishing lure, and a cheap one at that. You ever notice that when someone wears pants that look like the Brazilian flag, or the Jamaican flag, it actually looks kind of cool? Wear pants that look like the American flag, and you've got the loudest, tackiest duds ever. Well, here's a secret… it's not because it's pants, it's just because it's shaped like pants that you notice, and it's going to be EVERYWHERE on the 4^th.

2.) Our national anthem is not pretty... but to be fair here, most national anthems aren't pretty. If the mute button didn't exist I'd never make it through day one of the Olympics. BUT, where ours goes really awry is that it's damn near impossible to sing! Only the elite singers among us can hit those high notes and actually sound good. Our national anthem is exclusionary by nature, and, on a personal note, the tune bugs me.

3.) And, if I'm to be honest, this is one here is the real kicker for me. This is where I am fully prepared to stand alone, and have the rest of the world judge me. One and Two are hardly factors when stacked up against this one. Are you ready? Okay… here goes… I think Fireworks are lame. Yes, that's right, I said it. You can all moan and wail now, but it's true. Y'know, when I was a kid, they were kind of cool. They're pretty, and they go boom, and stuff. But let's get real here. How far has technology come in the last, say sixty years? You look at a computer from 1950, and you compare that with today's computers... well, there's just no comparison. But look at the fireworks from 1950, and look at them today... yeah... there's really no significant difference. Yes, they've figured out how to make fire in a few new colors. Yes, they can make them explode so that they look kind of like smileys or hearts, but overall, it's still pretty much the same thing. If we expect so much from IBM, why don't we expect as much from the makers of pyrotechnics? I give fireworks a big, "Yawn"... especially if they're far away. People who climb up into hills to see the fireworks that are set off fifteen miles away make no sense to me. I will cheerily flick a bic lighter a foot away of your face and it will be way more exciting. This is where, every 4^th of July, my friends/family and I become divided. They want to go somewhere to see fire works and I would rather… learn to yodel, or really do anything else.

So, that's why I'm a bad American. Today.

In an entirely unrelated story…

Part II: Date-Ending One-Liners

I've been thinking about this all day, and I'm really not sure why, but this is a real story from my real life. Those who know me will not be so surprised; those who don't may be in for a shock. I'm not sure why I'm sharing it, exactly; I suppose I'm hoping that my personal foibles will be your collective merriment. Here goes...

Some years ago, I was on a first date. I don't even know if it can be called a date; it's was like a pre-screen for a date. She'd asked me to come visit her where she was tending bar, and I obliged. I was sitting there, and we were having a nice little conversation. It was going alright. Not amazing yet, but certainly not bad… and then I heard something. A couple stools down from me a woman was talking to her friend and said something to the effect of, "Yeah, so my girl friend and I went to this club…", and I started laughing.

I turned to my date and said, "Why is it that a woman can say, 'My girlfriend and I are going to go shoe-shopping,' and nobody bats an eyelash, but when I say, 'I'll be right back, I'm going to go suck my boyfriend's dick', everybody like, assumes I'm gay?"

Stone. Cold. Silence. And a blank stare to go with it.

It's not everyday where you can pinpoint a single, precise moment where everything went to pieces. This was one of those rare moments.

Now, some of you may look at that as a "What NOT To Do" story… but I'm not so sure. If this girl didn't find that remotely funny, then, clearly, she was not destined to become Mrs. Rose. We would have found that out sooner or later, so didn't I really just save us a whole lot of time?

I think so.

Happy Fourth of July, everybody.

Your assignment this week: Get out there and be somebody!

Love,

BR
7.3.07 1.24am

P.S. While we're out waving our flags and eating our hotdogs tomorrow, let's take a moment to reflect on how Scooter Libby's jail sentense was just commuted by the effing President of our country! Once again, hooray for America... have another hotdog, fatty.

A Blog of No Great Significance

2007-09-12T12:47:00.000-07:00

Scattered This and That's (from my trip to California, and other)

Caves can be nothing but holes in rocks, but when you fill them with brothers and best friends they can be things of wonder and majesty.

Perception is a tricky mother.

Regardless of faith, weddings are almost always freaky tribal gatherings... at least if you choose to perceive them as such... which I do.

Holy Christ, is it almost July already? Where did the first half of this year go?

Swimming naked in the Bay, in mixed-company, in a high-traffic part of Marin County, on a very bright day, without being seen, is not only possible, it is awesome.

I can make thirty boxes of Jello in an afternoon. No sweat.

Some people get harder and harder to leave as time goes by.

A good burrito literally brings tears to my eyes.

I'm fine with a sigh just being a sigh, but when a kiss is just a kiss...

I worry about my loved ones who worry too much. I recognize the irony.

I am still having trouble accepting that I need to do more than I used to in order to attain a body that isn't as good as it was. More work for less? Fuck aging.

I'm a pretty damn decent pool player when I'm on my game. I'm fairly mediocre when I'm not.

I love wearing new shirts, if only for the belly-button lint.

I've (finally) started practicing meditation and mindfulness. I think I like it. I think I like it a lot.

I've been writing a lot, lately, and in mediums I'd never really considered. Doing a lot of Seat-of-the-Pants Piloting, and I'm enjoying it. In a sink or swim scenario, the survival instinct is remarkable, so I'm just going to keep throwing myself in the deep-end.

I'm not sure that I would go as far as to say that "I'm in love with falling in love" right now, but I definitely seem to have a crush on crushing.

I need to spend more time in the water. More time on soil and rock. Cement is over-rated.

Did you know that the only difference between "Athelete's Foot" and "Jock Itch" is geography? This is why I don't sit cross-legged while naked.

I would sleep a lot more if I had fewer amazing people in my life. I consider myself a very lucky, sleepy man.

-BR 6.26.07 4.15pm

P.S. Surprise yourself today. Don't over-think it, just do it. I'm willing to bet that it feels good. Always remember, that you can do that any time you want. Any time.

These Pants Won't Break

2007-09-12T12:45:00.000-07:00

These pants won't break,
they're strong and solid.
Their buttons are brass,
their hue is an olive.

These pants won't break,
they're thoroughly stitched.
Don't need no suspenders,
I like how they're hitched.

These pants won't break,
they could go through a mower.
Roberta sure likes them,
and I hardly know her.

These pants won't break,
they never need fixin'.
Like cash in a safe,
they're what my dick's in.

These pants won't break,
yours are crawling with maggots.
Your pants taste like shit,
mine are rated by Zagat's.

These pants won't break,
not in nuclear war.
I can't be shot by a junkie,
or stabbed by a whore.

These pants won't break,
in 30,000 foot falls.
They cover my ass,
and safe-guard my balls.

So where ever, O ever, these pants will abide,
you'll know you can find me,
all snuggly inside.

-BR 6/12/07

How To Trick New Yorkers Into Interacting With You

2007-09-12T12:42:00.000-07:00

How To Trick New Yorkers Into Interacting With You
by
Brent Rose

Introduction
You know, it's all too well told: for being one of the world's most densely populated cities, New York is also one of the loneliest cities. It's hard to make new friends here, hard to date, but on a far more basic level, it's hard just to make contact. It's hard to get someone to look you in the eye, in fact, newcomers to the city are often instructed to avoid eye-contact for safety reasons, and it becomes ingrained.

New Yorkers are crafty, despite the way they talk, and are highly adept at avoiding basic human interaction (the kind that people in other locales may take for granted). If you want to make contact with a New Yorker, you will have to trick them. Here is a handy guide that will list several of the ways to get past the wily New Yorker's defense system.

1. Be a Hot Chick
Here's a test. If you read my introduction and found yourself thinking, "What is he talking about? It's not at all hard to get New Yorkers to interact with you!" then, congratulations, you are a Hot Chick. If you were reading that and thinking, "Yeah, I totally feel you," then you are everybody else in this world. If you are a Hot Chick, you don't need to waste your time reading this guide, unless you are interested in anthropology/sociology, because this information will be of no use to you. HC's do not have this problem that everybody else in New York has. In fact, they generally have the opposite "Would everybody just leave me the fuck alone!?" problem. HC's -- please note that you will get precious little sympathy from the rest of us poor, lonely fucks. In fact, if you're one of the HC's that's always saying things to non-HC women about the constant unwanted attention you're getting from all the men of the world, know that you are making them feel ugly, regardless of whether that's your intention (which will certainly be the subject for discussion later on when all the non-HC's get together and bitch about your passive-aggressiveness) and you need to stop. Okay, so, if you're not a Hot Chick, read on.

2. Ask For Directions

I hesitate to recommend this course of action; it will work, but there are caveats. New Yorkers, on the whole, are very forthcoming with directions. In fact, it's just about the only thing they're forthcoming with. Here's the catch: you run the risk of looking like a total idiot. They'll look at you, but it won't be the kind of look you want (unless you've gotten reeeeeally desperate). You ask, "Which way is Uptown?" in the Financial District, and you might escape with merely a look of dismissal, or perhaps sympathy. You go into a bar in Bed-Stuy and ask where the nearest Polo Ralph Lauren is, and you might just get your ass kicked. Asking someone on the subway if this train goes to so-and-so is generally safe, but you will generally be assumed to be a tourist.

3. Share an Uncommon Experience
This is most effective in enclosed spaces like subway cars or elevators. It could be anything, really. What you're hoping for is "weird without being horrible". For example: a really good (or, even better, a really bad) subway musician is a great thing to bond over, as is a cute little kid doing something cute (as cute little kids are wont to do). Examples of negative things include someone throwing up and/or defecating. If you have the impulse to say, "Wow, that guy's not getting enough fiber," you may want to squelch it. Subway conductors with indecipherable accents and/or speech impediments are a goldmine. Or the other day I was riding my bike with a bunch of other people and some moron said, "I didn't think there were so many Communists in the world." We all shared a good laugh, me and my comrades.

4. Carry Something Out of the Ordinary
While Sharing an Uncommon Experience is great, it places a heavy burden on luck. Carrying Something Strange, on the other hand, is entirely within your control. I first discovered this when I'd just got my surfboard and getting home involved multiple train rides and a brief walk down 42^nd St with it tucked under my arm. Nobody would bat an eye in L.A., but in NYC surfboards are oddities. Runner up would be the bonsai tree I was given last week. I couldn't believe all the curious looks I got from people, and when I smiled, generally, they smiled back. A bouquet of flowers isn't bad, either. You must, however, pick your object carefully. A knife, gun, double-headed dildo, econo-sized tube of ointment, and/or feral badger will almost certainly garner the wrong kind of attention.

5. Other Options
Dressing like an officious geek worked extremely well for me yesterday. I was all nerded up for a show I was on my way to shoot, and these kids on the subway were giggling and saying, "You ask him… no, you ask him?" I said, "Ask me what?" They said, "Do you know if the driving age in New York is sixteen?" I said, I didn't know, because I'm from California and I'm old. I said it used to be sixteen in CA, but now I think it's eighteen. Then someone from behind tapped me on the shoulder, "You're from California? What part?" Berkeley. So then we talk about California. Then the woman next to me says, "Excuse me, my daughter is thinking about going to Berkeley…" and on and on it went. It caught me very much off-guard, especially because I really just wanted to look at my lines, but suffice to say, I will be dressing like an officious jag-off more frequently in the future. The "officious" element is key, though, I believe, because it looks like you know stuff. I don't know why.

The latter two people in the above story exercised another good principal:

6. Something In Common
This one is fraught with hazards, but it can pay off. If you see someone with a shirt that announces that they are from Buttfuck, Nowhere, and you, too, happen to be from Buttfuck, Nowhere, congratulations, this just might work. If, however, she's wearing a shirt that says "Brooklyn", and you say, "Oh wow, I live in Brooklyn," while you're on a train in Brooklyn, then you will almost certainly be labeled a Rapist. Yankees hats, likewise, are no good (in fact, Yankees hats are no good anywhere on the planet). You're missing the point. Perhaps this section could be better titled "Something Uncommon In Common". You're both eating Laffy-Taffy, and it's not Halloween. You both have the same ring-tone by The Devinyls (note: the latest hit from Young Jeezy is not going to work). Or hey, you're both albinos! Awesome! Yeah, fuck sunlight, indeed.

7. Final Thoughts
New York is a cesspool of compressed humanity. Merely existing in this place takes way more energy (and a different kind of energy) than it does to exist in other places. By seeking and being open to the unexpected connections, however, you can find small but crucial pockets of energy, like springs in the desert, and it will help you make it through the day. Give as much as you take, and you won't upset the balance. Give more, and you'll get more, then you'll be helping to correct the imbalance already in place here. So, next time somebody's beating off on the subway, turn to your fellow riders, sigh, and say, "Oh, he's going to sleep like an angel tonight."

Just don't expect the Hot Chick to laugh.

-BR 6/5/07

When Did This Happen?

2007-09-12T12:40:00.000-07:00

Do you ever blink, and when you open your eyes you think, "My God, how old am I? When did I arrive at this section of my life?"

It's Sunday on Memorial Day Weekend, and I woke up early to help my friends move. My friends who have been living together. My friends who are engaged. I spent the first half of the day loading their belongings into a truck, so that they could move down to Virginia, into a luxury condominium. 'kay...

From there I go home, shower and shave, and then head out to an engagement party for another friend. It's a lovely day in Brooklyn. We're barbequing out on the back patio and it's wonderful. My friends are there. Some of them have brought their dogs. Some of them have brought their toddlers. And that's when it hit me...

Oh my God! When did this happen? When did I get to the age when I'm going to parties to which people bring their kids!? Just having a dog is a lot of responsibility, but these people have babies, for Christ's stake! Oh man... I know what this is! I remember these parties from when I was a kid; this is a grown-up party!!! AHHHHHHHH!!!

And then it happened.

The one-year-old found me. At fourteen months, the tike came up to where I was sitting on the bench. His dad sat down on the other side of the bench, and he plopped the kid down in between us. This kid is frickin' cute. He turns to me and starts talking to me in baby-gibberish. He reaches out and he holds my giant finger in his freakishly small hand. He stands on the bench, and puts his hand on my shoulder. And then, the moment. He puts his arms around my neck, and gives me a great big hug.

It was the sweetest thing ever, and the feelings which rushed through me were both blissful and terrifying. It felt really, really... right, somehow. It felt good. Frighteningly good, and all of a sudden it hit me, "Hell, this could be my little boy." And there it was. Suddenly, I wasn't a kid at a grown-up party; I realized that these people are me. Those who are getting married. Those who are buying apartments. Those who own dogs. Those who have kids. These are my friends, my peers. Some of them are younger than I.

The kid walked away, and I sat there and thought for a bit.

Really, everything is still bouncing around in my head, and it's hard to make heads or tails of it all, but I remember... I remember worrying about whether I would be equal to the task. Not in terms of being a loving and caring father, and not in terms of being a loving and faithful husband, but rather in the role of Provider. How would I do that?

How, if I was with the right girl, and it was the right time... how? I'm scraping by on my own here, but there ain't much extra. There's no money for an engagement ring. There's no money to buy an apartment, and there's certainly no money to raise a kid. And you know, I'm going to be honest here and admit that that scared me. That scared me a lot. I'm putting everything into following my dreams. There's no savings account. Fuck, there isn't even any health insurance, and if I got sick, or hurt... well, that's a whole other road... but suffice to say, how would I even take care of myself, let alone a family?

You know, though, things happen the way they do; whether you believe that there is a reason behind it, or not, is your business. Tonight, I am open to the possibility that maybe that's kind of why my love-life is in the state it's in. Sorry, let me plain-English that; maybe that's why I'm pretty much perpetually single. I feel that there's something I need to take care of before I do all that. It's not just a matter of "I have to make money"; I have to make money doing what I love doing. I have dreams I aim to fulfill, and at this juncture in my life, I can definitively say that I have absolutely no intention of compromising my dreams so that I can make enough money to do X, Y, and Z. I joke around about not going to undergrad a lot and so I sometimes forget that not giving myself something to fall back on was a deliberate choice. Yes, there are better jobs out there that make more money and are more palatable than what I'm doing, but I choose to continue doing crap-ass temp jobs so I can say, "No, I am not going to work today, so I can go to an audition," or "Yes, I will just go out of town for a week, and no one can tell me I can't, and if I want to come back next week without a nickel to my name, well, I have nobody else I'm disappointing." I am comfortable with starving; I am not comfortable with my kids starving. So, I'm waiting, damnit. I've got shit that needs to get done.

Now, at the same time, I would like to believe that if the right girl came along I would have the presence of mind to say, "Yes. You. Me. Here. Now." (note: being in love makes you talk in single-syllable sentences.) And what would happen then? I don't know. I hope to God that she would understand why I need to do what I do, and I hope she would be patient. Biological clocks are funny, though, and I certainly just rediscovered today that men have them, too.

I suppose we do our best to follow our dreams and our hearts, and we deal with life as best we can. Try to know the right path when you come to it, and try to remember why you set out in the first place.

-Brent Rose 5.27.07 10.10pm

P.S. After completing the above entry, the sky opened up, and I played in the rain, naked, on my roof. So there.

New Blog Experiment

2007-09-12T12:39:00.001-07:00

Hey all,

I've got a request. I always thought it might be fun to write an advice column, so I figured why not do it right here in this blog? Here's what I need:

Questions! Your questions. Questions you've always wanted to ask, but haven't dared. Questions about life, sex, relationships, sex, dating, sex, or maybe sex. No, really, it can be about anything. Don't hold back. You can post them as comments on this, or if you'd rather I post your question unnamed, then shoot me a message.

For those readers who AREN'T on Myspace (I know you're out there), I want to hear from you, too. Shoot me an email to: brent@brentrose.com (and tell me how you found my blog, while you're at it).

How I end up writing this will depend on the response I get. I've got a couple blogs in progress already, so I may publish those first, or I may do the "advice column" first. If there's a big response, I may do more than one. If it ends up being fun, I may make it an ongoing thing.

Some questions I may answer seriously. Some, I may not. Some I may make up. You never know what you're going to get. I promise to keep it entertaining, though.

I hope to hear from you!

Thanks,

Brent 5.25.07

P.S. 10 points if you know the reason I'm listening to the music I'm listening to today.

Istanbul was Constaninople

2007-09-12T12:33:00.000-07:00

Sometimes why you feel something doesn't matter. Feelings defy intellect; sometimes quite directly. You get yourself a strong feeling, and all the whys in the world don't add up to a two-inch speed-bump; they're going to go where they want to go, and they're taking you and your flailing brain along with them. Right or wrong. Good or bad. Smart or stupid. Safe or dangerous. Emotion just loves to remind you that words are nothing but nonsense sounds we have assigned meaning to, and their meanings are as ephemeral as our imaginations.

You can choose to follow blindly, and be carried away to paradise/utter oblivion/nowhere in particular/right back where you started, or you can dig your heels in and fight it, kicking and clawing. And who's to say which is better? Your gut's right at least as often as your brain, and your brain is a lot righter than your gonads, but where does your heart fit into the equation? What exactly is the percentage of correctness of the human heart? Well, first of all, it depends on whose heart, right? You have to look at the heart's story; its training, its abuses, its accidents, its victories, and its defeats. And perhaps just as important as where it is, is when it is (although it's arguably the same thing – see Einstein, spacetime continuum, blah blah blah). By that I mean when/where it is in its personal history; in its timeline of experience, education, and evolution.

All illusions of "rightness" aside, here is my current philosophy, somewhere in the middle of this, my twenty-seventh year: The needs of the heart are above all, but you can't just follow your heart, because your heart doesn't have any brains. At the same time, your brains don't have any heart, your gut is frequently full of shit, and your gonads are almost certainly either a dick or a pussy. Like humans, dolphins, monkeys, and dogs, though, they can learn to communicate in some ways, despite their vast differences. Feelings can, at least partially, be understood, and as we gain understanding we can enlist the support of more of our faculties. When you can get them work in tandem, rather than opposition, you can find a better path toward getting what you need.

I suggest this: Listen to your heart, first. Then consult your gut and your brain to come up with the best plan. What you do with your gonads is your business.

(end entry #1)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

(start entry #2)

Now. All that sounds fine and good, and it was that philosophy that I was clinging to about two hours ago when I starting writing the above entry, but now, I wonder if it's just the excuse for cowardice. This is where Old Brent and New Brent meet and do battle. There's the Wide-Eyed Brent of the past with his love-will-conquer-all fanatical beliefs. Then there's the Grizzled and Harried Brent of the present, with is bruises and scars, and burn-marks that maybe aren't quite healed through. If I know these two well (and I certainly do), I know they'll be up all night, arguing over the validity of the above entry.

If the question is, "Do you believe what you wrote?" The answer is I don't know.

I will say this, though: The best path between you and what your heart wants is seldom a straight line – but your heart doesn't know that. Your heart will dart toward what it wants like a starving dog for its dinner, and if there's a field of cacti and volcanoes in between, so be it. Your gut, however, is pretty fucking adept at sensing danger, and your brain isn't entirely useless, either. Like I said, though, don't even get me started on the gonads – those fucking things… *

That's all the wisdom I've got for tonight.

Happy trails,

Brent 4.29.07 10.48pm

* 10 points for anyone who caught that pun.

Our Dumb World: A Brief Tirade

2007-09-12T12:29:00.000-07:00

Today's episode... The Media: How it's Killing Us Mentally, Spiritually, and quite Literally.

What ever happened to the idea that tons of coverage of incidents like school massacres actually encourages people to follow in those footsteps? Do you remember all that talk after the Columbine killings about not over-covering things like that in the future, and certainly not letting the killers' "message" be heard everywhere, like they would want?

Today, as I was walking to work, I passed by a whole row of newspaper vending-machines. The front page of every one of them had this kid on there, with a gun in each hand, in his full regalia, looking like an absolute bad-ass. The front page looked like the poster for an action movie!! Certainly, that's not aggrandizing this killer, nooooo. The pictures they were using were from the guys home made publicity packet! Videos of him, telling the world his message in his own words, are all over the news and all over the internet.

So basically, Mass Media, the message you are trying to send is that, if you do something like this, it will work. It will get you want you want. You will be seen, you will be heard, and people will pay attention. You will be on the cover of every newspaper, on every TV and radio station, all over the internet, and your message will be heard by millions. Thank you, Mass Media, for further enabling this kind of horror show. (see that link for proof)

Then we have the correspondents, "on the scene", and you can see it in their faces. They're so close to smiling that you can actually see it at the corners of their mouths. They're so excited about this scoop! To have this story on "exclusive", and to be bringing that story FIRST! It's not about the news, it's about the news business. It's about winning. "Sure, the guy from the other network talked to a witness, but I talked to a witness and got them to cry!" News crews have become contemporary ambulance-chasers.

Also, what has happened to CNN? When did all of their correspondents become super-models who read well? Deliver tragedy smoothly and beautifully, with slightly smiling (but always perfect) teeth, and striking bone-structure? When did they hire the guy who does the crazy camera-angles and zooms from Who Wants To Be A Millionaire to do Wolf Blitzer's show? On February 8th and 9th, they barely touched Iraq -- It was all Anna-Nicole Smith! (And the truly frightening fact is that of the three major cable news networks -- CNN, MSNBC and FoxNews -- CNN actually did cover it the least; less than half of FoxNews' coverage... not a shock, and yet, still, revolting.)

Listen: I couldn't care less about what my news anchors and reporters look like or sound like, as long as I can understand them. GIVE ME SOME UGLY PEOPLE THAT GIVE A DAMN! Give me some people who care! Give me a reporter who weeps, and cries "O, the humanity!" and means it! Give me someone who is committed to the truth, not committed to saying "committed to the truth". Give me somebody who will ask the tough questions, and who won't settle for a bullshit answer. Give me somebody who cares more for people than they do for the company they work for.

I don't want a salesman; I want a HEART, a BRAIN, and a VOICE.

Is that really too much to ask?

-Brent Rose 4.19.07

something to chew on

2007-09-12T12:03:00.000-07:00

I have chocolate on my sleeve.

I've been doing a study, lately. Did you know that people are far less likely to sit next to you on the subway if you appear to be asleep? This is absolutely true. I think it's because they worry your head will nod over onto their shoulder, but I don't have any hard evidence to substantiate that. Yet.

Why does a clean room always feel colder than a messy one? It does.

The vast majority of Americans will never be satisfied with the tightness of their abs. If people with less tight abs hear those people complain about their abs, or see them refuse a second slice of cheesecake, they will think that those people are assholes.

Tongue-kissing is great. I'd like to meet the person that invented tongue-kissing. I would tongue-kiss them.

It's funny how our palates change over the years. The 7-11 Slurpee used to be a much coveted item. The appeal has become lost on me over the years. Unless, maybe, it was 1/3 filled with rum.

What is the reasoning behind making some dildos, say, bright blue or hot orange? Is it to make them seem more fun? Doesn't a device that has rotating beads and is designed to work your clit, vaginal walls, and g-spot all at the same time seem "fun" enough already? Women are needy.

Sometimes there is a great disparity in the way we view each other. Like, if I was walking down the street with a friend and I saw a woman I knew, I might say, "Dude, I know her. She and I have these amazing, earth-shaking conversations. Our desire for each other is palpable. It's as if our lips have complementary polarity. When we look into each other's eyes, I can actually see a future without war or pain. I can envision utopia, and I can see our children living it." But that same woman, walking down the street with her friend, might see me and say, "That guy does my dry-cleaning." You see? Disparity.

I would very much like to see the statistics on the increased percentage of people who talk on the phone while taking a dump since the massive surge in cell phone use during the last decade or so. I'll bet there's a direct correlation.

I still have my teddy-bear from childhood. Super Poochie. (Yes, that's his name, and no, he doesn't have a cape. Eff you.) He's awesome, and I enjoy having him out. I feel like his real place is in my bed, but he's been living on the shelf above my computer, because what if a girl comes over? There is a fine line between "Fuck this momma's-boy!", and "Oooh, I wanna fuck this momma's-boy!", or so I like to imagine.

If they made pens filled with chocolate ink, the teller at the bank would constantly have to say, "You don't want to lick that. Seriously. Everybody licks that," and he would hate his job even more than he already does. And you'd probably get herpes.

To bring it all back around: When a girl doesn't want to tongue-kiss me, sometimes I wonder, "Is it because I am a taupe-colored dildo, rather than a bright blue? Or am I, rather, the Slurpee she's moved beyond?".

Now throw your teddy-bear onto your bed! Take your clothes off and just drop them on the floor (to warm up the place). Now, wrap your arms around your waist and hug your abs. Just hug 'em. They're good enough.

Lots of love,

Brent 4.13.07 12.29am

The way it is

2007-09-12T11:59:00.000-07:00

I haven't said anything in a while,
so I will tonight.

The world is a confusing place. In fact, it's a spinning ball. Is it any wonder we get lost sometimes?

I started to write something last week about journeys -- big and small. The example I used was my trip to Costa Rica, which had just been cut from three and a half weeks down to two. Then, though, something else came up, and it looks as if the whole trip is out the window. Suddenly with my example gone, I felt less inclined to write about the larger picture that my little vacation represented. The point, however, was this:

Sometimes we overcomplicate things. Sometimes we get so enmired in the details that we lose all perspective. In terms of a journey (large or small), it's easy to get so tangled up in the details, the stress, the logistics, the hows and whats, that we lose sight of why we wanted to take the journey in the first place. If you're taking a trip to Costa Rica because you want a vacation, you can lose yourself worrying safety, money, transportation, language, etc, etc. If you moved to New York to be an artist, how easy is it to find yourself swimming in the million details of daily life, and suddenly you wonder, "What am I even doing this for?"

And what's the answer? Well, I don't know. I imagine it's different for everybody. I will say this, though: we need less than we think we do. Never forget your quest, though. You can be cold and hungry, but the pursuit of your dream (again, big or small) will offer much satisfaction, whereas you can be warm and full, but if you're not in pursuit of what your heart needs, your soul will feel that lack, and an unsated soul is far more dangerous than an unsated stomach.

In other news, romance comes and romance goes. Sometimes the flux and flow is like the tide, and sometimes it's a rogue wave. Lately, though, I've been feeling like I'm just floating on my back in the middle of the sea. And I'm content with that. I'm not interested in paddling right now. I'm not in a rush to be anywhere. Currents are always at work, though, and land may be...

...anywhere.

Goodnight, from your tired friend.

-Brent 4.7.2007 4:37am

Thoughts on the Subway, Monday Morning 7:40am

2007-09-12T11:53:00.000-07:00

Sometimes we get stuff in our eyes. Sometimes oysters get stuff in their shells. When they get stuff in their shells, they may develop something pleasant called a "pearl". When we get stuff in our eyes we may develop something unpleasant called a "stye". This seems unfair. On the other hand, they're sitting at the bottom of the sea sucking plankton, while we're up here, munching pizza and Entenmann's. Who am I to complain?

---------------------------------

While I was coming into the station this morning I saw a pale, tubby kid (with an under-sized Yankee's jacket) just inside the rotating gate. He was just standing there, kind of absently spinning the gate with his hand, but not going through; not quite ready to leave the station yet. I just wanted to hug him. I wanted to pat him on the shoulder and say, "This world is going to be a rough place for you, little one, and I'm sad to say that it's going to get worse before it gets better. Just try to ride out puberty, though; if you can make it through that, you've got a good chance of survival." Poor little fucker. I don't blame him for standing there and spinning the gate. I wouldn't want to go either. That's a phase of life I wouldn't do over again for the world.

--------------------------------

My friend Abdul and I once had the same dream. I mean, the exact same dream. This one night, my senior year of high school, I passed out while my friend Bay was watching Desperado on IFC. When the movie ended he tried to wake me to tell me he was going home. I said, "No, you can't… you'll miss the meeting!"

He said, "What meeting?"

"The Kryptonite Meeting."

"What?"

"The superhero meeting… with the fat people."

At which point he said, "Dude. What are you talking about? Wake up. I'm leaving."

And then I actually did wake up and say, "Huh? Oh. Alright, peace."

And that was that. Until, maybe a week or so later I was at a party and I was talking with my friend Abdul. Bay was there too. And somehow that night came up, and we were talking about my crazy jibber-jabber as I was waking up. I said that I was like, "You can't go… you'll miss the kryptonite meeting." And Abdul, without blinking said, "The superhero meeting?" And I said, "Yeah." And he said, "Yeah… with the fat people." I said yeah. "Yeah. I had that dream," he said.

It was one of the weirdest things ever. Bay says he didn't tell him about it or anything. It was just one of those incredibly weird things, where two people, two friends, had the exact same, strange dream. Weirder still: he had the dream when he fell asleep one night while watching Desperado on IFC, leaving it running in the background, just as it had been with me. Now, I've watched Desperado since then, and I have verified that there is no mention of Kryptonite meetings or superheroes, anywhere. Yet, two people, passing out watching the same thing, had the same dream.

It was one of those things that was just so bizarre, and so far beyond explanation, that we both just kind of accepted it, like it's just one of those things that happen. We still bring it up every now and then. "That was really weird, right?" "Yeah. Really weird." But, beyond that, I don't think either of us really knows how to wrap our minds around it, so we haven't really tried.

Abdul is one of those interesting characters in my life. He and I really became friends when neither of us had ever been snowboarding before and our friends took us up an intermediate slope then abandoned us for the rest of the day. We spent the entire day falling on our asses and crashing into trees, but we laughed a lot. (And really, is there any friendship stronger than one that's forged in laughter? That's how Bay and I became friends too, now that I think about it. Dylan too. Hmm...) We never really hung out consistently, or that often, but he would show up for random moments of awesomeness. Running into each other in Washington Square Park, randomly, then getting shit-faced, and singing "Bloody Sunday" while sitting on some random stoop in the village and drinking vodka straight from the bottle (chased with Redbull). Camping in Big Basin, with massive amounts of absinthe. The all-important Kryptonite Meeting, with the superheroes and the fat people. Who knows? Maybe we were supposed to be best friends, but for one reason or another it never happened.

Whatever the case, that is my story about Abdul and the weird, shared dream.

-----------------------------------------------------------

And those were my thoughts at 7:40am on the subway this morning. There were others as well. Costa Rica coming up. My brother is in town. Girls, girls, girls, girls, girls. But I'll write about all of those another time.

Have a nice week.

-B 3.12.2007 10.36am

"I'm so god damned horny, the crack of dawn better be careful around me, boy." –Tom Waits (from Nighthawks at the Diner)

Farces of Nature

2007-09-12T11:51:00.000-07:00

Inertia:
So, you're stuck. Stopped. You haven't moved in days. You see scattered plans laid out around you, scrawled on wrinkled sheets of paper, strewn about your bedroom floor, surrounding you; all your ideas, all your projects, perhaps your dreams, perhaps your heart's best intentions. They are treasure maps to the things you want. Some would take half and hour, some would take half your life. Some are half-cocked, some are genius; most lie somewhere in between. You start to reach toward one, but you don't get far, because there's that other one. You move toward it, but you barely budge. Pulled in so many directions at once, you remain static, in the middle. Until... until you can't take it any more. Turn yourself as best you can toward the direction of your desire, then start rocking back and forth, bit by bit, trying to keep your nose pointed in the direction you hope to go in, and hope like hell that when you finally tip you don't go blindly backward and hit your head on the ground. Rock forward, then back, then forward, then back, each time the arc getting bigger, and then, finally, you tip forward, and you start to roll. Set in motion, you have, at last, attained some...

Momentum:
Man, that was hard, wasn't it? It seemed like every minute disturbance brought you back to zero, didn't it? Every disruption, every distraction, every excuse halted your progress, and maybe you even had to change directions a time or ten, but you made it, baby; you're moving. What now? Now you have to stay just ahead of it. You're like a kid running down a grassy hill, and for just a moment, it feels effortless; you're almost flying, and in that sweetest of moments, you actually let yourself believe that you've crossed some threshold, you've slain every dragon, and this is how it's going to be from now on; it will always be this sweet and easy. But just like when it was forming, momentum continues to be a delicate thing. Where, just moments ago, you were effortlessly gliding down that grassy slope, suddenly your legs are struggling to keep up with the speed of your body. Any change in direction or acceleration, any attempt to decelerate, and you immediately feel G-Forces acting on you. And you can't have a G-Force without...

Gravity (when things get heavy):
Sometimes things happen. Sometimes these things that happen are most certainly not the things you would have wished for. Sometimes you fall. Sometimes somebody gets cancer. Sometimes somebody gets pregnant. Sometimes somebody gets hurt. Sometimes it's you. Sometimes it isn't. Sometimes the kid falls down on the grassy slope; sometimes he makes it to the bottom, and stops to catch his breath. Sometimes the surfer doesn't have enough speed and the wave passes him by; sometimes he falls in front of it and it eats him alive; or sometimes he actually plays it just right, and he makes it to the end; in any event, he sinks back down, and he stops. Sometimes people slow down, sometimes they speed up, sometimes they change directions, and sometimes they collide. No matter the result, in any of these cases, eventually, you have to come to a stop, where ever you've landed, and when you do, you take stock. You check to see that your limbs are all where they're supposed to be, and that you can wiggle your fingers and toes. You look around to see where you've ended up, maybe who you've ended up with, or without. You replay the experience in your head again, as many times as you need, and you mine it for information. You see what you've learned.

Rest. Heal. Lick your wounds, cry your tears, mend your bones, shout away your victories and your demons, take a deep, deep breath, and put those lessons in your bag for the next go 'round.

Now, which way this time? It's a big, fat world out there. Don't stay seated too long.

-BR 3.5.07

Little Known Catholic Oddities

2007-09-12T11:49:00.000-07:00

When it comes to whacky religious traditions, those Catholics are on their game. Why just this week there was:

Ash Wednesday: The beginning of Lent, where Catholics go to church and the priest or minister marks the forehead of each participant with black ashes. The symbolism echoes the ancient Near Eastern tradition of throwing ash over one's head signifying repentance before God (as related in the Bible). They wear the ashes on their forehead all day (which, every single year causes me to go, "Dude, that guy has a serious mole!" until I see the second or third large-moled person, and I realize that A) It's Ash Wednesday, and B) I'm stupid.)

Fat Tuesday: a.k.a. Marti Gras! Juxtaposed with Ash Wednesday, rather than wearing ashes, people wear very loud clothing (in quantities as slight as possible). It's the quintessential bender before the forty days of social/sexual/libational hibernation (depending on what you're "giving up") that is Lent. Also, while on most days legal tender is generally considered "coins, bills, checks, and credit cards", the preferred set of currency on Fat Tuesday is "beads, beer, vodka, and virginity".

So, we have Fat Tuesday Ash Wednesday. Everybody knows about those. What most people don't know is that the Catholics have every day of this week plotted out! Let's take a look...

Spinach Saturday: The color for this day is green, specifically, in the teeth. On this day Catholics eat a hearty quantity of spinach for breakfast, purposefully mashing as much of it as possible into the crevices between their teeth. Then all toothbrushes are removed from the house and burned (note: a special papal dispensation in 2004 was granted allowing Sonicare owners to merely discard and burn the replaceable head, citing the high cost of replacing the base unit every year). For the rest of the day, Catholics are then encouraged to "Smile super-big!" so as to show both the top and bottom rows of teeth, and use lots of words that utilize the long E sound. This is to show fealty to God and his wisdom in creating plants and vegeatables.

Poo-Shoe Sunday: a.k.a. "Walk a Mile in His Shoes Day". Step in some poo. Go on, do it. If you live in New York, this will be very easy. If you live in the suburbs you may have to resort to your cat's litter box or your child's diapers. Don't wipe it off. Not until sundown. Your co-workers my object, but if they do, you may threaten to sue on grounds of religious persecution (and you'll bloody win, too!). This tradition dates back to an old rivalry between shepherds and goatherds, each of whom believed that the other's animal's fecal matter was less pungent than that of his own animal. In order to put an end to a resulting 89-year blood-feud, King Irving (a.k.a. "King Irving the Embezzler") mandated that each step in the other's animal's excrement and walk for not less than a mile (round trip). That shut them up.

Mustard-Stain Monday: a.k.a. Dijon Danny Day! The early days of Catholicism were not easy; Catholics were oppressed, enslaved, even hunted for their shiny, shiny ivory. Catholics are, however, not easy to identify merely by appearances, so whenever a known Catholic passed by he would be squirted in the pants with mustard. Then one day, horrified by this inhumane treatment, a non-Catholic traveler named "Daniel" (his surname has not survived to this day) opted to show solidarity, and doused his own shorts with mustard. Danny mistakenly used Dijon mustard, though, (the Catholics were generally squirted with French's yellow) and due to the high concentration of horse-radish he had just dispensed to his crotchial region, he ran screaming through the town, flung himself into the nearest well, and drown. (note: wasabi, to this day, is not sanctioned by the Vatican)

Trouser-Tent Thursday: Don't ask them about it, but the Catholics once were Jews. The Jews, back then, were a nomadic people (where as now, just try and get us to leave Brooklyn for an afternoon!), and dwelled, generally, in tents. The Jews were (and still are) also known for their comely women who "developed" early, and their teenage boys, who would "stare" and "gape" at them, while the whole world could read their mind through their tunics. Hence, Trouser-Tents.

and last, but certainly not least...

Frotteurism* Friday (if confused, see definition below): Catholics are, after all, if nothing else, all about the love. They give a lot, and they get a lot. The Catholic church is basically just one big love-fest. Frotteurism Friday, however, is the day they share that love with you, the stranger. Go ahead, rub up against that special someone on the train you've never seen before. Gently brush against your neighbor's wife. Do you work on the floor of the NY Stock Exchange? Heck, you can honor this age-old tradition during a busy bit of trading and no one will even notice (but they'll notice in their hearts, and in the eyes of Jesus). And if you're feeling ambitious, and you happen to be passing by a church... hey, what are you waiting for? That choir isn't going to frotteurize itself! Now get out there and give some LOVE!

T.G.I.F.F.!!

Love,

Brent 2.23.07

*Frotteurism: In psychiatry, the clinical term frotteurism (no longer called frottage) refers to a specific sexual disorder. It is a paraphilia involving rubbing against another person to achieve sexual arousal or even orgasm, discreetly without being discovered, typically in a public place such as a crowded train. -wikipedia

P.S. Hope no one's offended. You know I love you guys from the deepest cockles of my heart.

My Conversation w/ Myspace's Tom (and other wonders)

2007-09-12T11:42:00.000-07:00

Let's have fun today. Let's catch up.

First, I recently installed Myspace Messenger because, yes, I really am that bored at work, and I noticed that Tom is always signed on. I figured that no one was actually there, or that it was just a program that would have automatic responses or something, but yesterday, I decided to send a message and check. The following is the copy/pasted actual conversation I had with the real Tom:

tom is online (02:53 PM on 02/15/07) :

":-)"

Brent:

Hey Tom. How's it going?

Tom:

woo!

Brent:

Nice.

Tom:

woo!

Brent:

I was just kind of curious to see if anybody is actually there.

Tom:

woo!

Brent:

That's all you say, isn't it?

Tom:

woo!

Brent:

Hmmm... I can't tell. I know, I'll ask you some questions. Who is your favorite hiphop crew?

Tom:

woo!

Brent:

... Oh! Wu-Tang? (it's actually spelled W-U, not W-O-O, but I knew what you meant) Yeah I think they're awesome! What is your favorite Jada Pinkett movie?

Tom:

woo!

Brent:

Good answer! Man, you didn't even hesitate! Okay, okay... what do gay construction workers shout at boys as they walk by?

Tom:

woo!

Brent:

Your omnipotence humbles me, Tom. I will tell others. Bless me, father, before I go?

Tom:

woo!

Brent:

Thanks.

Tom:

woo!

Brent:

woo!

Tom:

woo!

--- end of conversation ---

Second, the last couple of weeks have been very trying. Love-life woes combined with a stagnant-feeling acting/writing career (and a soulless day job I have to wake up at 6am for every day that's sucking all my energy) made for a very unhappy boy. Last week was the worst. Because, on top of all that, I seemed to have some sort of transportation/communication curse placed on me. Really, almost every single train I got on last week either was late, stopped on the tracks, or was rerouted while I was half-way home. It was maddening. And I seemed to be unable to express myself properly, to anyone, about anything. Things were getting confused and misinterpreted all the time. But then I heard a lot of other people complaining about the same thing sort of thing (love-life, transportation, and communication) last week as well. It seems that it may have been more of a universal curse. I'm not generally one given to believing in planetary shit but maybe Mercury was in retrograde, or Venus was in technograde, or something. Anybody else? (Pluto in metrograde?)

Last week I send out a big email and bulletin post saying I was, at long last, going to make my "Wallowing In It" mix cd, and I asked for suggestions. I expected maybe two or three responses. Three days and roughly 90 emails later, I suddenly found myself in an intersting situation: already in my highly emotional state regarding things of the heart, I suddenly had literally HUNDREDS of the world's saddest songs to (carefully) listen to, contemplate, and, well, wallow in. And let me tell you something, aparently, my friends are some sad, sad motherfuckers. Or, at least, they have good taste in incredibly depressing music. Suffice to say that, not feeling social anyway, I spent a good portion of my weekend at my computer, with my headphones on, balling my eyes out like a misunderstood teenager. Don't start feeling bad for me, though, because it was actually exactly what I needed. That's the whole idea behind the Wallowing In It mix: get it out of you system, so you can get on with your life. I was feeling much better on Monday.

On Wednesday I had a big audition. It was for a killer role on Law and Order. And, well, I didn't do all that well. The audition was alright, but it wasn't much better than that, and I knew it. What killed me is that I was so "right" for the role, and the casting director thought so, too, and I know that if I'd just been in a better headspace, I should have at least been able to get a call back. But yesterday was the day I would have heard, and it came and went, and I was bummed... big time.

Also, looming, was that this weekend (or now, today, actually) the girl that is the up-to-this-point love-of-my-life is coming to New York... with her new husband. (NOTE: See blog entry "How bizarre, how bizarre..." from March or May of '06 for more on this.) I haven't seen her in over five years (essentially, since we broke up), and I've never met her husband, yet, here we are, all going out tonight (along with a few other friends I haven't seen in half a decade). Am I uncertain of how I feel about all of this? Yes. Yes I am.

Then last night, around 1am I awoke when a friend called me (forgot to turn off my ringer again, damnit), and I was talking to her, trying to remember how to speak English, when my roommate knocked on my door, and said there were all these firetrucks on the street. I hung up the phone, and sure enough, you could see four fire trucks from my window. My roommate opened it, and the smell of smoke poured in. She thought it was the pizza place on the corner (about two buildings over... which I was really upset about because that's the best pizza in the neighborhood and it's right on my corner!). So I threw some clothes on and went outside. It wasn't the pizza place. Worse, it was an apartment building across the street, and it wasn't four fire trucks, there were nine or ten full-sized trucked, and dozens and dozens of SUV sized, ambulences, and cop cars. Thick smoke was pouring out of the windows, and suddenly, all of my problems were put in perspective. I was watching fire fighters strapping on their gear, getting read to go in, and you could see that there was some fear in their eyes, but they were going in just the same (god, I have a lot of respect for those people). And I could see whole families, who'd clearly come out of the building, huddled around in blankets, and I said, "Man, my problems are small-time, compared to this." I went home, and my roommates and I sent some good-wishes/prayers to those affected by the fire (residents, fire fighters, etc.), and I went back to bed. It wasn't that my problems were gone, but I sure as shit wasn't complaining anymore.

I leave you with a story of triumph and great glory:

Tubing.

It finally fucking happened! I got out of work early on Wednesday to go do that audition, in the thick of the East Coast storm. I sent out the bulletin again, and I got two takers. My friend Clara (and her two dogs), and my friend January. We got as bundled up as we could, walked to Prospect Park, and blew up our intertubes... and it was amazing. We started on a small slope, and gradually found a big one where you could get really, really long rides, that would take us crashing into a very forgiving fence! It was hilarious and wonderful. It was real "kid fun", you know? And I think that's really the purest kind. In fact there were tons of kids sledding around us; we were by far the oldest people there. Well, we were, but then there was this father and daughter who had been admiring our tubes (our tubes, incidentally, were WAY faster that any of the sleds that the other had... campmor.com ... five bucks... get yours!), and so we let the daughter borrow one for a bit. Then we put them both on my tube built for two and they went careening down the slope and smashed into the fence. They absolutely loved it. We let some kids play on them, too, and I'd try out their snow toys. It was a really, really great day. I hope more people can come next time. I'm leaving you with some more pictures below.

Much love,

Brent 2/16/07

January and pooch (Maya) with glorious tubes in the background:

Clara and pooch (Radio), right before she went careening down the slope with him in her lap:

Me, about to take off, stoked out of my mind:

Say Goodnight, Hollywood

2007-09-12T11:36:00.000-07:00

When you open your eyes you'll realize you haven't brushed your teeth in 48 hours, and you'll be wearing the same clothes all day tomorrow. Somebody you love can't stand to look at you right now, and that's eating up your insides. The right side of your jaw is swollen almost shut, and you worry that the muscles in your right shoulder have come unraveled. Every time you run your hands through your hair you wind up with more stuck to your palms than yesterday, and your belly might eclipse your cock soon. There aren't many people in this world who you truly hate, but your Number One of the last few years showed up tonight, and you had to sit around like it was no big deal, even though you felt at any moment his hands might find you. You wonder if you'd have the courage to knock his teeth down his throat this time.

This wasn't one of your better days, but you wonder if this is the bottom? No. You know it's not; you just hope you're not going any lower any time soon.

And you watch
your friend's friend try
to make off with your
friend's girl,
and a fake-titted girl dance
with a Speedo-clad boy,
and loved ones fall
by the handful.

Sit apart while
they sip their chlorine-splashed booze.
Worry they'll crack their skulls
(like your mother would),
and worry how you'll fix the things you've broken.

No answers tonight, though.
In the water
or out.

-BR 1.28.2007

Humble Beginnings, and Other Tidbits

2007-09-12T00:57:00.002-07:00

So, I started an improv class last night. Improv 101. Basic, introduction to… improv. That's it. And wow. I'm not very good. I mean, to be perfectly honest, I went in there with some ego. I was thinking, I've got all this training, and I've got all this onstage experience, and I'm a real fucking actor god damn it, and how I was just going to stand out like a beacon of light. But, I didn't. It was really, really hard for me. It was like the first time being onstage in front of people. I was nervous, I was focused too hard on being "funny", I was full of self-judgment, hell, I didn't know what to do with my hands! In an instant, my years and years of doing this was wiped clean, and I was on a level playing field with everyone else. …good. It's terrifying and I wanted to quit. Good. That, to me, means that it's probably exactly what I need. Take your medicine, Brent...

I must say, though, I can't believe I'm in school again. I mean, it's only one class, but my god… I'm in school again. I didn't think I'd ever want to be in school again. And, well, I don't. I really do hate school. Always have. Hate it hate it hate it. But I want to learn this stuff, and it seems to me, that this is probably the best way for me to do that. So, I won't like that I'm in school, but I will endure it, and I will try to focus on my lessons.

In more shocking news: I went to the clinic today to get checked out. Nothing wrong that I knew of, but it's something that I make I point of doing regularly. And by "checked out", I mean, "checked out… down there... like you know…", but you probably guessed. And I'm a careful person, so I wasn't expecting any surprises. But I got one, big time, and it really threw me for a loop. I was shocked, surprised… scared, but the results were right there in front of me: I am ten pounds heavier than I thought I was! TEN!! How could this happen!? But sure enough. I've noted all do well the sort of "melting" phenomena that has been taking place in my abdominal region recently, and I haven't been doing anything about it. What's more, I haven't been working out, so this isn't like, muscle weight here. In fact, my muscles have been atrophying, which means I've probably not merely gained 10 pounds of fat, but I've probably lost 5 pounds of muscle and gained FIFTEEN pounds of fat! Maybe I'm over-reacting, but y'know, for a guy who had worked so hard to get into the best shape of his life within the last year, to now be in the worst shape of my life… well, it's really upsetting for me. I have changes to make, and I'm going to start making them immediately. Right after this muffin...

On the brighter side, though, me rod n' tackle are looking good. Really good, actually. The doctor asked if I could spare a few minutes so that he could do a watercolor of them, but I said, "No, I've got to get to work. Now feel my balls for lumps and let me get out of here."

Also, did you know how far technology has come with regards to HIV testing? In my day, they took some blood, and then you had to check back in a week for your results. A whole week of agonizing and worrying (even if you didn't really have anything to worry about, you can't help it), before you hear back. Now, they give you a plastic stick which you rub briefly on you gums and hand back to them. You get your results in twenty minutes. TWENTY! I didn't even have a chance to start agonizing. Fast, easy, painless. You have NO EXCUSES not to be doing this, people!

I will end on this: I have been trying to get people amped up for some snow-tubing since, oh, what, November now? Yeah. As of January 23^rd, there has been zero tubable snow, and I feel like a jag-off. I'm still crossing fingers, though. My tubes and thermos are in a box, lying in wait, ready to pounce, and so am I…

XO,

P.S. Weezer's second album Pinkerton is brilliant beyond brilliant. I would say it's savagely beautiful. If you don't own it, you should. You need to. Some music is better than therapy. Because it's not merely exquisite and complex, but it fucking rocks too! Word to your mom.

Onward and Upward

2007-09-12T00:57:00.001-07:00

That is my official theme for this new year: Onward and Upward.

My god it felt like a long one this time, didn't it? It was a year of change, though, and change is good, generally.

The biggest change, for me, is that I finished grad school, thus ending three of the unhappier years of my life, or so I hope. There's a nagging question, though, that graduates feel tickling at the back of their brains, at least I do, and that question is: Am I really better off for having gone through that? And that, my friends, is a tough question to ask yourself. With all of your heart you don't want the answer to be "No". You don't want to believe that you could have put yourself through THREE YEARS of that shit, only to come out with less confidence in yourself than when you went in. Man, because if "No" is the answer, then you're opening the door to a whole flood of unsettling questions. Where might you be if you had gone another route? Gone to another school? Worked? Traveled? What if you had just kept on doing theatre, rather than studying it; would your career be in better shape, or worse?

Most of these questions are impossible to answer, but sometimes when you're lying awake, again, and you can't sleep, again, some of these questions may creep their way into your consciousness. I can offer no answers, only my empathy.

Pause for a moment. I'd like to raise a drink to Jesse. 's been a year now, Jesse, and I hope you're in a happier place.

It doesn't matter how old you get, when you ask a girl to dance and she says no, you still feel like you're that skinny, awkward kid at a middle school dance.

This was the year you decided to "quit dating for a while", and ended up more emotionally convoluted than if you hadn't. Good thing the irony isn't lost on you.

This Spring you were in the best shape of your life. By the time Dec. 31st rolled around, you were quite possibly in the worst shape of your life. It's amazing what a potent excuse an injured shoulder is, but that's all it is.

The chair you're sitting in is broken, and you almost just fell out of it. Again.

Well, let's get back to my theme here.

Onward and Upward.

Onward and Upward means not dwelling in the past. It doesn't mean putting make-up on your scars, but it means letting them fade in the sun.

It means you stop telling yourself the stories of why you can't do something, and you start living the story of how you can.

That's my new year's resolution.

I hope '07 brings each of you peace, love, and understanding, health, happiness, and a whole lot of fun.

Lots of love,

BR 1.1.07 2:18am

Reds and Blues

2007-09-12T00:54:00.000-07:00

Reds and Blues

So, you had a few drinks last night. It was your roommate's birthday party, and you were bowling. Beer is a staple of such activities. You had fun, you bowled well, you were thoroughly embarrassed when your drunken roomie began divulging some highly personal information about you to all of her friends, but you got over that, hugged your hugs, goodbyed your goodbyes, and made a swift exit, on to your next party out in Brooklyn.

About half a block from the bowling alley you realize your feet feel funny. Kind of uncomfortable, kind of slippy. Looking down, you realize you still have you bowling shoes on. Bad enough you're wearing your bright green and yellow kickball shirt, you are now also wearing your bright red and blue bowling shoes. Lovely.

You're only half a block away from the bowling alley, but still:

A) You really do want to get to that other party.

B) You can probably just get your shoes back tomorrow.

C) You just left a reasonably good first impression with your roommate's friends at her party. Are you going to go back in there and say, "Oh, also, did I mention that I'm a dipshit? I just wanted make sure I didn't leave without you thinking 'that guy's a dipshit...'"

A, B, and C all apply, but what really wins you over is

D) It makes a better story to tell.

Onward to the subway.

You won't leave the other party until about 2am, and when you do, you will be significantly more inebriated than you were when you when mistook what was on your feet. You will now actually get lost in your friend's apartment building and have to call her to show you where the exit is. Things are looking up.

On the street now, there are no cabs around. Subway it is.

Now, there is nobody in the subway station. Nobody.

When you go down to the train platform you will be met with a most eerie silence. Not a soul. Not a sound.

And cue paranoia...nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnow.

Is this dangerous, to be waiting on a platform when there's literally nobody else around? Also, this is the G train we're talking about here; what if it's not even running right now? What if someone tried something with me? I guess I'd probably run. Oh, wait, I can't run.. I'M WEARING BRIGHT RED AND BLUE BOWLING SHOES.

Here's where you start hating your shoes. It's like having flashing neon bulls-eyes strapped to your body. You want nothing more than to have these god damn things off your feet. You may start berating yourself, "'A good story to tell'?? You dickhead! Yeah, it'll be a great story unless you die with these clownshoes strapped to your stupid feet!"

Don't people live in the subway tunnels? The mole people?

You look way down into the tunnel. You don't see any mole people, but you're pretty sure you can sense their presence; watching you, waiting, and now that you've looked, they know that you know that they're there.

That's it, you're calling a cab.

But wait, there was no one on the street, either, and you've never been to this neighborhood before. Would you be even more of a sitting duck (with red and blue feet) out there in the open? Normally your "Yeah, I'm big and tough" walk/stance keeps trouble at bay; you can't help but wonder, though, if the bright red and blue shoes mightn't undermine such pretense, somehow. How long might it be before you catch a cab? Mightn't you miss the train while you were up there? And if you heard it coming, what're you going to do, run for it? You can't run in clown shoes!

Is the G train even running? I'll wait.

Wait, no, the fucking mole people are going to come any second now.

..FIND THE STATION AGENT! Brilliant.

You go upstairs, and sure enough, you see a sign indicating that there is, in fact, a 24 hour booth, at the other side of the station. After debating for a few minutes whether it's better to exit the subway system and walk straight to the booth (risking missing the train because you can't run), or to walk down the train platform, you decide exit and go straight to the booth on the strength of the argument that you can't run from the mole people, either, and those guys can scurry, you bet.

Walking toward the station agent's booth, you ready yourself. You know perfectly well that the little Communications Center in your brain is not working perfectly right now. Your thoughts seem lucid enough, but you realize that you're fantasizing about people living in the tunnels, and god only knows what's going to come out of your mouth when you open it up. He's talking to another employee in the booth, when you arrive. She indicates your presence, he turns around, looks at you, and says, "Uh-oh..."

...Uh-oh!? Why'd he say "Uh-oh"? What did I do? ...did he notice the shoes?

No sudden moves now.

Things at the booth go about as well as could be hoped for. The G train is running, it's just only coming every 20 minutes. Okay, thank you.

Start to leave. Go back to the booth.

"Actually, where could I catch a cab?" He tells you an intersection a few blocks away where you might catch one. Okay, great.

Start to leave. Go back to the booth.

"But I might miss the train and still not catch a cab..." The guy shrugs. Pause. He's getting leary of you. Pause. "Okay, if you were me, what would you?" He says just wait for the train. Awesome. Thanks.

Start to leave. Get to the turnstile. CLUNK. Go back to the booth.

"I just used this card at the other end...", he waves you back to the gate, where it beeps, and let's you through. Say, "Thanks" again. Courtesy counts.

You'll want to ask if you can just wait up there with him, because of the mole people and all, but you don't. You go back down to the platform, and assume your best "I'm big and tough" look for the benefit of the mole people until ten minutes later your train comes.

You get home just fine.

I will leave you all with this, though. Before leaving the party at your friend's house, your stoned ass called the bowling alley to inform them of your mistake, at which time, you posed for the following, classic, photograph.

Goodnight, and good luck.

-BR 11.27.06

(For further reading: )

2 Poems (very dissimilar)

2007-09-12T00:53:00.000-07:00

Mrs. Jones smiles
at my little advances.
Her temperature rises
at the way that we dances.
I showed her the stars
and the vasty expanses,
when she fainted from love,
and how tight my pants is.

-BR 11.17.06

--------------------------------------------------

I want you when
your lips are sweet
and your spit is purple
from eating berries
by the handful.

I can wait.

-BR 11.17.2006

The Week: in Highs and Lows

2007-09-12T00:45:00.000-07:00

First of all, it's hard to focus on writing while listening to Jay-Z, so I'm turning him off. Sorry Jigga.

Most of this last week was spent thinking of lips I'm not supposed to think about, and waiting for phonecalls that wouldn't come. It was punctuated by an incredible hell-raising night, a someone-put-a-bullet-in-me-hung-over morning, a naughty businessman, and cold, cold water. Shall we? We shall.

-- Last Friday night, myself and a bunch of good friends wound up drunk. Shocking, right? Well, sometimes it's not the what, it's the where. We wound up drunk, in a pool, in midtown Manhattan. I brought a bunch of my friends to another friend's birthday party at a rather amazing bar. A big warm pool, with a bar you can swim up to (credit only from the pool, please; they don't like soggy cash), a cozy warm sauna, and a steam room with < 2 feet visibility. It was an enchanted evening. No drama, just a lot of free-spirited fun that kind of took me back to more carefree days. It was wonderful. -- Then, there's nothing that can make you feel like poo quite in the same way that a bad haircut can. Man. I tell ya. This one was just bad. The cut AND the experience of it getting cut. It was awful. I just wanted to crawl out of my flesh and leave it sitting there, like a creepy body-sock man-puppet. -- The beginning of my week was spent, largely trying to force myself to think about my phone not ringing. I'd make it to the 2nd (and final) callback for a show I really wanted to do. Great play, good contract, and it would have planted me in Florida for January and February... in a beach town. On Wednesday I finally received word; they "went in a different direction". (For those of you not in "the business", this is generally considered to be the theatrical equivalent of "It's not you, it's me".) It was a bummer. I got the news while temping in New Jersey, on a day where I missed every one of my train connection by two minutes, and when it was pissing rain (and I'd forgot my umbrella). That was "Hump Day", but I think "You Can Blow Me Day" is a little more apt. I feel fine about it now. In this instance, I actually believe that it was just "going another way"... they can be wrong. Such is life. A big part of the disappointment, frankly, was that I wanted to go surfing again. Ah, well... (...?) -- This was, also, the week where I decided to take some of my "hobbies" to the next level. This translates to, "Fuck me, I spent a lot of money this week." I finally bought some serious recording equipment (no more free laptop mic and built in sound card). This also required me to buy more memory for my computer. I bought a small digital voice recorder, for taking notes. And, the big purchase: I bought a digital camcorder (and all the needed accessories). Wow. Why did I do this? My current projects: 1. I'm writing a screen play. 2. I've started writing a stage play (one-man show). 3. I'm compiling a book of poetry, which will be illustrated by a very talented friend of mine. I'm hoping to publish. 4. I've got a bunch of songs I'm in the process of writing/recording. 5. And because... well, because sometimes you out-grow dabbling, and decide it's time to see just what you can do. Here's to the Long Road of Discovery... (note: it's "of" discover, not "to") -- Sometimes, you can pinpoint when a rough week turns around for you. It's true. It my case, the other day, I was hanging out, eating tea and cookies in one of the bougiest bakery cafes in Manhattan. We're chillin', chattin', when all of a sudden I notice the businessman at the table next to us and my jaw dropped. Luckily for you, I am able to share this moment of joy. I pulled out my phone, and said, loudly, "I've gotta send someone a text message real quick." Then I snapped this picture.

Didja catch it?

Didja!?

No?

Well, let's look a little closer:

WHAT!!!?!??!!!?!?

Yes, a well-dressed, seemingly mild-mannered business man, pulling an Al Bundy in the middle of a posh NY bakery/cafe. And he just kept it there, for like, five minutes, until his friend arrived. He even checked some messages on his Palm Pilot (which begs one of two jokes. A) Wow, Palm wasn't joking when they promised "true one-handed operation"! or B) His palm is piloting what exactly?)

("user friendly" indeed...)

-- We'll end with a story of trial and triumph. On Wednesday (also known as "Crap Wednesday"), I get the call. Dylan's roommate says there's a swell coming in on Thursday, and do I want to rent a car with them and go to Long Beach. The answer? Well, yeah I do. (Note: Yes, it is November, and yes, this is New York.) So I wake up at 5:50 on Thursday, and we head out to Long Beach, and man, it is huge. I mean, the last time I tried to go surfing it was way to big for me, and this was probably double that. Overhead to double-overhead waves are barreling left and right (literally). There are big close-out bombs, and the surf just keeps pumping in, in a constant bombardment. We just sit there, staring. Eventually one of us finally says, "Man, I am not nearly good enough for surf this big," and the other two agree; none of us were. We are hopelessly out of our league here. Luckily, we're young, male, and stupid, so we're going to do it anyway.

The last time I went surfing it was big to the point that I couldn't even paddle out past where the waves were breaking. Again, this was double that. Dylan's roommate, Matt (the most accomplished surfer of the three of us, which, sadly, isn't saying all that much), picked the spot for us to head in, right by a jetty. I was nervous about paddling out so close it, but Matt said the current would pull me away from it, and we'd be fine. So we wait for what looks like might be a lull (ha!), and we charge in, and I do mean charge, into the cold fucking water. As soon as we're deep enough, I am paddling my guts out. I'm taking wave after wave right on the head (trying to duck-dive my board under them), and it's just unending. It feels like I'm not making it anywhere, my arms are turning to jelly, and then, just when I think I might have made it out past the break, a (really) big, outside set comes, and I'm right in the impact zone. I don't remember exactly what happened then because I must have been flying on adrenaline by that point, but I think I can safely say that I got pounded like dough.

The next bit that I recall, I'm back on my board, paddling frantically for the outside; waves just keep coming through, and then out of the corner of my eye, I think I see something very near by. That something looked, suspiciously, like a JETTY, and I looked, suspiciously, like I was about to be driven into it. And that's exactly what happened. I remember thinking, "I'm going to kill Matt for suggesting paddling out so close to this thing," and then I was paddling to the right of it as hard as I could. Too late. The next wave that came through knocked me off my board, and I just tried to cover my head as it pushed me onto the jetty, and dragged me down it. (Incidentally, for those of you not "in the know" when I comes to jetties and are wondering what they're made of, the answer would be "BIG, jagged, emmer-effing rocks".) When the wave let go of me I was on the right side of the jetty again, apparently unscathed. At this point I figure, "Fuck my board; maybe I can swim faster if I just drag it." That was just plain dumb. I start swimming like mad, the board acts as an anchor/sail. I try to dive down to avoid a wave, my board catches it, dragging me backwards, and before I know it, I'm being rolled over the rocks again. When I come up, now kneeling on the jetty, some little voice in my head screams, "Swim to the left of it, stupid!" Before I can even ask the question, "How do I get off this thing?" a wave answers it for me, and I, tucked into a ball, go tumbling across the boulder-pile again. This time, though, I end up on the left side of the jetty, and I paddle for shore. I make it out, completely exhausted and with a thumping headache, but I am otherwise, somehow, completely undamaged. Extremely lucky.

(Matt, it turns out, was not dumb. Paddling out by that jetty was a good idea. I was not swept into that one, but a different jetty, that was approximately two city blocks down. Good times.)

This story ends happily, though. I was convinced, by Matt, to abstain from the vice of "Work" for one more day, and go surfing with him again today. It was still fairly big, but nothing like it was yesterday. The first wave I caught was one of the best rides I've had in my life.

-- And now, here I am. Ten o' clock on a Friday, and I'm calling it a night. My body is as tired as tired can be. I've got slippers and sweats on, and my roommate is bringing in some sushi in just a matter of minutes. So, I'm putting my Jay-Z back on, and bidding you a fond good night.

Ah... hello, HOV. Welcome back.

-Brent 11.10.06 10.13pm

P.S. My episode of Guiding Light is supposedly airing this coming Tuesday the 14th, on CBS. Check your local listings. My bit should be within the first ten minutes.

a quick one

2007-09-12T00:44:00.000-07:00

She stepped off the train at Canal,
and everything
I might've said to her,
was lost in the wind and the rumble.

-BR 11.3.06

Making Faces at Corporate America

2007-09-12T00:31:00.000-07:00

Hey there, cats and kittens,

This Moday just past marked the end of five weeks and a day of temping at a mega-giant corporate law firm in Manhattan. Most of you who know me would probably think, "That's weird, Brent doesn't really seem like the sort of person who would thrive in the corporate world."... and you'd be right. So, the question then becomes, how did I maintain my sanity in such a hostile environment? Good question. (Yes, I do ask myself questions, and then complement myself on the quality of the questions I just asked... it makes me feel good.) The answer: You know those "Magic Eye" pictures that were all the rage a couple decades ago? At first glance they just look like a bunch of dots, but then if you adjust your eyes in just the right way, you're like, "Oh, wow! It's Gorbachev... and he's wearing a party hat." (Sidenote: I was never able to do these, and on behalf of all those who couldn't see the hidden pictures and were treated like leapers, I just wanna say that all you dot-staring jerks and your hidden sailboats can eat it!) The point is, that if you adjust your eyes in just the right way, you can see the hidden silliness all around you. Or sometimes the silliness finds you.

Example, one morning my mega-millionaire boss came out of his hole ("hole" meaning "gigantic corner office", which seems to be something that's sought after by people that wear business suits, but if you ask me, a hole is a hole) fuming and bubbling with anger, and barks for me to call computer services right now because he's got a major problem. I say, "Okay, what's wrong." And he says to look at it, the computer screen is black and when he types and nothing happens. I walk in there, blink, then bend over and push the "on" button on the computer. Some jokes write themselves.On the other hand, sometimes things get a little slow, and that's when you have to make the silly come to you. Hence, my art project.

Every morning when I walked into the Metlife building on 42nd Street, I had to go up to the "Visitor Center", show my I.D. and have my photo taken for my badge that day. And every single time they snapped that little digital photo of me it was a very depressing experience. I looked awful, and no, I'm not just saying that. They all looked like drivers license pictures taken during the midst of a bout of food poisoning, without fail. I could smile, I could do straight-faced, but I always just looked ugly. So, after about a week, as I was walking up to the Visitor Center, I figured, "as long as these pictures look ugly, I might as well just try to look ugly." So I made an ugly face...

..every day, for the next few weeks...

What started as one of my least favorite moments of the day became something that I looked forward to on the train every morning. And so I share with you, Faces of Temping (named, appropriately, after "Faces of Death", which I would recommend you NOT look up, if you don't already know what that is). To go in chronological order, start at the top left, and go right (it reads like a book... a book of big, stupid faces).

CLICK TO VIEW FULL RES

Now, the best part is that the security guards who were taking these didn't even notice I was doing anything until about two weeks in (right around where I pulled my upper lip back). When they finally did notice, though, they laughed. And one said it made his day. On the day when I had the Kleenex hanging out of my nose, the guard had just been growled at by his boss, and when he looked up at me, he said, "Thanks, man, I really needed that." For the moustache at the end, I just cut a strip off a black plastic bag, then licked it and stuck it to my face right before the shot was taken, thus integrating good ole American ingenuity.

Anyway, that's my art project, and that's the lesson of the day: Find the silly. Then make some more of it. Your surroundings are only as stark and sterile as you choose to perceived them; you may change your mood to suit your environment (booo!), or you may change your environment to suit your mood (yay!). And, when all else fails, you've always got your plastic bag fake moustache to fall back on.

You may have to work for the man, but that doesn't mean that you can't make faces at him.

-BR 10/4/06

F.M.I.T. (or, Fuck Me, it's Tuesday)

2007-09-12T00:25:00.000-07:00

First of all, temps are sexy. If you think they're not, you're just wrong, and that's all there is to it. Second, temps are invisible. You may find it hard to rectify these two aspects… and there you have it: The Mystery of the Temp.

Thoughts and notes:

-My current boss for the last two and a half weeks has a huge corner office on the 25th floor of a stunning Midtown sky-scraper. It is nicely furnished. He also has a giant house on the New Jersey shore, bought and paid for, which, I am sure, is also nicely set-up. He has limos pick him up and drive him around. I have heard him say "Hello", I have heard him say "Thank you", and I have heard him talk baseball, but I have never once seen him smile. Not once. His desk is strewn with various pill bottles his doctor has prescribed him for his various ailments due, no doubt, to stress. I answer his phone, and I make his copies, and I feel sorry for him. Every time I look at him I think, "What was the point, if it hasn't made you happy?"

-Temping is, by far, the easiest job I've ever had in my life. I'm making $18/hr to sit on my ass, screw around on myspace, catch up on emailing, and that's really about it. One day I answered the phone thrice… THRICE, then made one singular copy, and that was all the work I did. Mega-corporate-law-firms have too much money. It's dirty money, and I'm happy enough to put it through the Artist Filter and clean it up.

-Also, every law firm I've worked at so far has at least twelve flavors of instant coffee in their pantry/break-room, and there's always at least one really weird flavor like "Mars Bar". I'm not a coffee drinker, myself, but I discovered that I could get seltzer water out of the soda-fountain, and I don't even know how many liters of that stuff I'm downing every day.

-The other day I was riding the train home, and a man seemed to fall asleep on a little old lady's shoulder. She got up, and moved hurriedly to the other side of the train, huffing and puffing her outrage. It was pretty funny. Everyone around started cracking up, and I was thinking, "This is so great. It's so rare in New York for a group of strangers to laugh together. Especially on a subway at rush-hour." Then some teenage boys (who were laughing the hardest), started posing with the man as he leaned further over to the side, taking pictures with their cell phones. People were still laughing. A German tourist said, "Yah, now you have a souvenir!" Finally, as the man went completely horizontal on the subway bench, the two boys got a friend to snap pictures of both of them with him, throwing peace signs and whatnot. There was still some giggles here and there. Suddenly a woman spoke up.

Woman: You know, that's a human being you're doing that to.

1^st teen: Well, he shouldn't be on drugs.

Woman: Well, he has a problem but—

1^st teen: No, he shouldn't be on drugs. (putting his hands up and yelling) Everybody! Do not do drugs! This is what drugs will do!

Woman: You're just being cruel.

1^st teen: If I'm cruel, why don't you sue me? (as he and his friends are getting off the train) My name is Brian ______, and I've got millions of dollars. Sue me! Don't do drugs, everybody!

Well, the train moved on, and nobody said anything. Anyone who'd laughed felt fairly abashed. The German man still chuckled, shrugged, and said to me, "He's right, of course." (Amazing sympathy for all living things, those Germans.) I felt bad. I thought it was just some guy who was falling asleep. The revelation of the drug element, suddenly, changed all that. At the next stop the conductor came out, and shook the man awake. The guy woke up, and sat up, clearly dazed and sick. "Are you alright, buddy?" The conductor asked. "Do you need me to call the paramedics?" The man shook his head. "Is that blood on your shirt?" The man looked, and shook his head. "What is it, soy sauce?" The man hesitated, then nodded. The conductor left him alone, and pushed the train forward. The man continued to nod, in and out of consciousness, until I got off.

-In a related (drug) story, I got stoned a couple weekends ago while camping and I wrote the following:

Love
is a complicated disastrous
beautiful enchanting
thing.
-------------------
Ornamental oysters always
ask the same question:
What part of the this
am I?
We don't know either.
So we laugh
at them
and call them mangy mollusks.
Serpentine pork-chops
bark
directions
we think
we don't hear.
----------------------
Love lips.

-It is not always easy for straight men to relate to each other. Which is why when they find a topic they can talk about, they tend to stick to it, hold on for dear life, and ride it out though the rapture were coming. A couple of guys I spent a weekend with found that they could talk about movies that they had seen. Once they figured that out, that was all the talked about for the next two days. Non-stop. Others found it annoying. I was like, "Awww, isn't that sweet? They're trying to get close to each other." It's oddly romantic and touching, if you look at it that way. But don't let on that that's what you think, or they will shoot you; one of them hunts.

-On a final note. One afternoon, as I was walking around Midtown, trying to find a place to have some lunch. On one particularly run-down corner, there stood a particularly run-down girl, listlessly passing out flyers for something or other. Her hair looked tangled and unwashed, and there was what appeared to be grease stains on her jeans. But then I saw the thing that made my day. She wore a pink t-shirt that said, simply, "Outta Your League!" It made me happy, until I wondered if it was true... then it made me sad.

XO,

BR 9/12/06

(untitled subway musing)

2007-09-12T00:24:00.000-07:00

Miss
my train by half
a minute
and I think
Well, ain't that typical?

Walked out of the bar
half-hard
and pent-up
and pulse-all-sped-up
and it seems like just
any old night.
And now,
sitting in the station,
listening to the bums
howl about love and
"God bless the woman that
can see beauty in me!"
and I think,
well, hell
I aint any different.
Becoming cross, they say,
"Why don't we just
continue this tomorrow?"
and
"Wha -- Wednesday? Yeah, alright man."
and I think:
I think we're just the same.

But the one'll leave us
with a song,
and damned if it isn't
pretty good.
I'll sit, and listen, and
tear-up a little, even,
and smile when the
woman down the bench from me
clipping her fingernails
starts absent-mindedly snipping
on the downbeats.

When my train pulls in
I toss a buck in the man's case,
a thankyou in his eye,
and with a smile that's genuine
I take off down the tunnel
toward home, and thoughts
with nowhere to take off
their shoes.

-BR 8/29/06

Post-Death Event Planning

2007-09-12T00:22:00.000-07:00

So, I've been thinking lately, for no particular reason: What would I want to happen to my body after I die?

I've got a will, and all that fun stuff, but I don't believe the current version I have filed says anything about what I want to happen with my body, or what kind of hors d'oeuvres I'd like served at my funeral (devil'd eggs... fuck yeah!). So I got to thinking.

I used to be of the very pragmatic school of thought, "What do I care what they do with my body? I'm dead. Let 'em use a few organs if they need 'em, then do to my body whatever my surviving loved ones would find most comforting." And, I suppose, when push comes to shove, that's still where I stand. But I have preferences.

For a long time, I thought, "Eww, I don't want to ROT, for god's sake. Just cremate me, and scatter my ashes somewhere." I was never sure where, exactly, but the idea I always come back to is the Pacific Ocean. But then I was like, "I don't know that I want to be tossed into a sterile oven, then put in a little can, waiting for my loved ones to scatter me to the winds. That's kind of a drag." It was the oven and crematorium, that I found especially to be a bummer. But I still liked the two main ideas: cremation, and Pacific Ocean. That's when it hit me...

VIKING FUNERAL!

Oh, sweet! A small, wooden boat is constructed, and a pyre is built on it, where my pallid, lifeless body is laid to rest. Then people throw flowers on it (mostly because hair stinks when it burns, and I'm kinda furry... unless they wax me first... man, that would be a shitty job for somebody... oh, wait, I've gotten sidetracked), and glasses full of booze (single-malt, please), and some memorabilia with sentimental value, like photographs, and costumes from plays, and Garbage Pail Kids (that would be so throw-back). Then they push me into the water on the out-going tide, and some gorgeous woman who loved me will run into the water wailing and beating her breast, but before she manages to fling herself into the waves, my buddies will have caught up to her and pulled her back (they are so gonna try to get with her later, and I'll be all, "Go for it, dude! I'm dead, I'm not even trippin'!"). Then, when the boat gets far enough out that they're sure it's not going to drift back to shore (that would be embarrassing, haha!), some highly skilled archers will shoot flaming arrows into my boat, and I'll go up in raging fire, and be cremated right there in the Ocean, while everyone on shore gets rip-roaring drunk.

Nice, huh? But where does one go to have a viking funeral arranged? And are there legal and/or ecological issues to be considered. More research is required... a good idea, though.

But recently, I've had a few multidimensional psychedelic experiences (don't ask) which have led me to contemplate the eternal in new ways. Now part of me thinks, "Hey, it's not natural, being turned into gases and carbon ashes all fast like that. I'm supposed to decompose, and slowly go back to the earth." Right? But WHERE to be buried?

The impetus for this new train of thought was wanting to rejoin the natural cycle of things. That being said, a standard cemetery is definitely not for me. All those bodies lying there, turning into perfectly good fertilizer, and what do they fertilize? Grass! Are you kidding me!? What a waste! My cells will turn to nutrient-rich soil, and that soil will be used only to feed some LAWN!? Fuck that.

Now, a few years ago I read about this unique "cemetery" which is really just some forest that's been sectioned off, and you're buried in this special coffin which biodegrades super fast, and then you're food for the TREES. Now, I really like that a lot. I think I'd love to become part of a forest; have people stroll though me, meditate in me, some teenagers will carve their names with a heart around them in me (hey!... ah, kids will be kids). The problem is that this place I was reading about is in Wisconsin or something; I don't have any family or friends there. It'd be tough for them to visit me if they wanted, and that would just be selfish of me.

Then, more recently, I was thinking, "Hey, I was born into the animal kingdom, maybe part of me should stay in that kingdom." Which led, of course, to only one logical conclusion:

Torn Apart by Beasts.

Okay, fine, not my most popular idea ever, and there are certainly some big strikes against it; most notably, my mom would totally freak... and friends would probably find the idea upsetting as well, but I mean come on, how cool would that be? Find a pack of hungry lions, toss my (refrigerated, then reheated) body in the middle of 'em, and they will get the job done faster than any undertaker on the planet. Then I'd be part lion! Or rather, the lions would be part me, which would also be cool. Then, y'know, the crows and vultures could have the rest, which sounds gross, but then part of me would be flying around (which I've always wanted to do). Then, also, every time these lions and vultures procreate, a little part of me descends through their progeny, and just a little bit of Brent goes on forever (same thing happens if they're eaten by other animals... that's cool, too... whatever). Sounds good, right?

OR... is that just my sad little attempt at immortality, because I fear other worlds, having known only this one? Hmmm... I'll have to do some thinking about that.

I guess, all things considered, I'd still probably let my loved ones have the biggest say in what happens to my body. After all, they're the ones that need some comfort and closure, and I'm just dead, and I'll probably be fairly indifferent. I would guess that leaving my corpse out in the jungle to be Torn Apart by Beasts then rot and moulder in the sun, would probably supply the least amount of comfort and closure for them, so I guess we can probably rule that one out. The Buried in a Forrest idea has a lot of potential, and I guess it's up to them what they would find most comforting. I will only add this...

... dude... Viking Funeral. I mean, come on!

That shit would be dope.

(don't forget the devil'd eggs)

-BR 8/18/06

Odds and Ends / Evens and Beginnings

2007-09-12T00:20:00.000-07:00

Where to start.

I’ve got a handful of stories to tell, but within every story there is a dozen smaller stories. Today, I’m mostly going to deal in the big handfuls. If you want the left-out goodies (which, sadly, are usually the best part), you’re just gonna have to buy me a drink someday. Onward and upward!

First, a generalism: all is well in the big city.

Yes, my lovelies, it’s been a while, and I’m so sorry to have left you for oh, so long. (Notice how I write like I’ve got a loyal band of followers? Well, I think it’s funny, anyway.)

Madness.

To begin, I found an apartment. Not just an apartment, I found an apartment that I love in a neighborhood that I love, with some cool ass people, AND my rent is dirt cheap. The story of how I found and landed the apartment is a funny one, but I’ve told it a lot lately, and I don’t feel like writing it now. Suffice to say, I’m a lucky bastard, and the world is a funny, funny place. Welcome to Park Slope. This place is the shit. Then Dylan, one of my core homies, moves to Park Slope too! What could be better?

Surfboards.

What?

Yes. Surfboards.

Some of you may – and some of you may not – know, that in the last two years I have developed a fierce obsession with surfing… buuut, I was living in the feggin’ Rockies. This is a bit like developing an obsession with breasts while you’re in jail (n.b. man-titties just don’t cut it). Well, as Shakespeare said, “an oven that is stopped or a river stayed, burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage.” And burneth and swelleth it certainly did(eth). More than a year before leaving Denver, I had done dozens of hours of research on the surfing possibilities New York had to offer. I took some lessons last Summer when I was in California and it just fit. I mean, it fit for me, and it fit in my life, and it just fit into some gap in me that had been waiting for it (for more than twenty years). I needed the ocular proof, though (that’s from Othello). So, a couple weeks after my initial arrival to NYC, Dylan and I hopped the A-Train down to Rockaway Beach, and it was going off. He and I sat there for a long while, watching the waves, and finally we just said, “We’re doing this.” I don’t even think that Dylan and I had ever talked about surfing in NY before, but in that moment, at that beach, we both made a decision, and we knew we were going to follow through.

Enter, the surfboards.

That next week we both bid on, and subsequently won, two surfboards on eBay. We surfed our guts out last weekend. And we suck, but we’re improving.

What else? Oh, the road-tripping of all of my crap from Denver to New York. First of all, thanks Tei; you’re the shit. Second of all, what a bloody effing nightmare. Car starts showing electrical problems the first night. No biggie. Second day, we stall out on the freeway just outside of Iowa City. I somehow figured out that if I turned the car on and held the key ¾ of the way turned, that it would stay running (I may be a theatre sissy, but I do secretly come from a very long line of engineers… don’t ask, don’t tell). So with my right hand glued to the ignition, we somehow make it seven or so miles to a service station. Then bad news. Need parts (expensive parts), can’t get ‘em ‘till morning. They offer to drive us to a hotel. We say, “That’s cool, we’ll walk.” They say, “You hear that siren? … That means there’s a tornado coming.” Tornado. Yep. That was a first. Anyway, after another breakdown the next day an hour outside of Chicago, then two hours of sleep at a rest-stop, then another break-down on the New Jersey Turnpike, I made it to my new home. I was so tired that I was pretty much completely useless for the next week, although I did manage to get to Ikea before I took back the trailer and fill up my apartment with furniture.

One of my first nights back, myself and a rag-tag crew go to see Maceo Parker play a free show in Prospect Park. Beautiful night. Amazing music. He leaves the stage, everyone’s shouting for an encore. Then we get it. Maceo comes back and starts ripping it up, but he’s playing some song that sounds oddly familiar. How do I know that song? Isn’t that on the new Prince album? Who’s that new guy playing guitar? Oh. Fuck me. It’s Prince. And oh, looky here, Lauryn Hill his helping him out with the vocals.

Yeah.

I love Brooklyn.

What else? Okay, showbiz. Things are going pretty well, I think (understand that that’s a subjective statement). I’ve had some good meetings, some good auditions, and most importantly, I’m having a good time. Oh, and if anyone ever tells you that EPAs are a waste of time, tell them to suck it. I got a callback off my first EPA ever, and it was for Romeo no less. The callback went well, but all the other guys there looked about four years younger than me. Oh, the ravages of time. Cruel, cruel. Anyway, I’m freelancing for a couple of agencies now, and I’m feeling pretty good about the state of things. Got a gig in two weeks that’s taking me to D.C. then Baltimore for pretty much all of July. Showbiz, baby.

I’ll leave you with one final thought. You know how in New York nobody really looks at each other, or smiles or talks to each other (strangers, I mean)? Well, I stumbled upon the antidote: Surfboards. Seriously. Walking around New York City, or riding the subways with a 7’6” surfboard has been an eye opening experience. People look at you. Many people smile at you. Tons of people just want to talk to you. “A surfboard on the subway?” “Are there really waves here?” “Where do you surf?” “Where are you from?” I’ve had some great conversations with some total strangers in the last couple weeks, and I’ve got to tell you, it’s effin’ beautiful.

I know I’m supposed to be a struggling actor and all, but I’ll let you in on a little secret… I’m having a great time.

Shhhhhhhhh…….

-BR 6.20.06

Red

2007-09-10T20:50:00.000-07:00

So, years ago, when I used to live in New York (where I will soon be living again), I passed a girl walking through Union Square. It’s been such a long time, now, that I cant remember where I was going, what I was doing, or even when it was. I’m fairly certain that it was in the year 2000, but that’s about as exact as I can get. Anyway, I passed a girl, or rather, we passed each other.

Her hair was red. It looked natural, though I have no idea whether or not it was, and she was beautiful. I was on the Northwest side of the square (near where the farmers market usually is), walking further Northwest. She was walking southeast. We were walking toward each other for a while, our eyes met early on, and we sustained eye-contact. She smiled, and I smiled. Her smile was beautiful, radiant. It was a laughing smile, and so must’ve been mine, because we smiled, almost laughing, until we passed each other and continued on. I think we both looked back once, smiled and laughed once more, and then she was gone.

I remember I stopped, and I turned, and I watched her go. I was trying to think of something to say to her, but she was going, and the father I let her go, the harder it would be to say something. Finally, I decided there was nothing I could do, and I turned, and continued to wherever it was I was heading.

Now, there are very few things in my life which I truly regret. Many things I chalk up to learning experiences, or growth, rather than regret them, which is genuine, and not semantics. This, however, oddly enough, is one of my very deepest regrets. I’ve made many mistakes in my life, but letting this anonymous stranger walk by without ever speaking a word is one of only a handful of things that I regret.

This is insane. No?

No. I think it’s very revealing, though.

I believe in love. And yes, I believe in the kind of love you see in the movies. People always talk about the Hollywood love-story, and we talk about it so derisively, but Hollywood is not a sentient being. Hollywood does not have a pulse, and Hollywood does not dream. Humans do. The human dream of One True Love predates Hollywood by as far history can take us back. Or we call it Fairytale love or Storybook love, but all of these genres were born out of the dreams of humans.

My point is this: when I saw Red, I felt something. I felt something deep and exciting. Could that have been what Hollywood would call Love At First Sight? Or was it what Shakespeare would call, "merely a lust of the blood"?

I'll never know.

Letting Red walk by and away opened the gate to a flood of questions which are unanswerable. They echo eternally. What if? What if you had stopped her? What if she was the one? The questions themselves are maddening, but far more maddening is the knowledge that I will never know the answer to them. Of course, if I had stopped her, and had talked to her, I may have found that she had a boyfriend, or maybe we would have gone to coffee and realized that we had no real connection, or maybe she wouldn’t even be interested in stopping and talking to me. All of these are very real possibilities, probably even more likely than the fairy-tale romance which I wonder about.

The problem, though, is that I didn’t stop her, and I didn’t talk to her. I wanted to, but I was afraid, and I let my fear get the best of me. Yes, me, the guy that has Carpe Diem literally tattooed over his heart, let himself be ruled by his doubts, and I’m still paying for it.

It’s been five or six years now, and I still think about it, and I still think about her. Her facial features have long since become blurred in my memory, but I remember the feeling as distinctly as if it were five minutes ago. It was a feeling I dismissed at that crucial moment as a flash in the pan (which really, I think, was a way of letting myself off the hook), but was it? Do I believe in fate? In destiny? In "the one true love"? Am I still haunted by these feelings because I didn’t act on them when I could have, or is it something greater than that? Could it have been real? Could it have been right?

I often day-dream about serendipity bringing us together again. Would I recognize her, I wonder? Her physical features are all gone from me. I remember her hair was red, I remember that her smile was beautiful, and I remember the flood of emotions I felt, but if she and I were walking toward each other again, on the Northwest corner of Union Square, would I know her? Would it happen again? Would she know me? Has the memory of our brief, shared moment haunted her for the last five years, resurfacing every now and then, seemingly out of nowhere?

I am, by nature, hopelessly romantic; I can’t help that (and wouldn’t really want to, frankly). Experience, however, has taught me a certain amount of pragmatism. I dream of a mystical reunion with Red (the romantic nature), but I’ve learned that, when it comes to love, life seldom gives us second chances (the pragmatic nurture).

I have learned from this experience, though. From this lapse in Carpe Diemishisness, and from the What ifs that I live with, I have, indeed, altered my behavior. To this day, I am far more likely to act on my gut, when it tells me to do something, and I’ve learned that it almost never leads me astray. I’ve had some wonderful experiences because of it. In this case, however, that does not out-weigh the regret and the what ifs. I wish I knew why.

So, that’s my Story of Red. Its one I still think about a lot, and perhaps more so recently, because I am moving back to New York in just three short weeks. Will I see her again at Union Square? Or will I see her somewhere else? If I do, will I recognize her? (Is her hair even red anymore?) And if I recognize her, will I feel a semblance of what I felt the first time? Will she log onto Myspace one day, somehow see my picture and be oddly compelled to click on it, then be even more oddly compelled to click on my blog entry entitled Red, and suddenly be hit by a wash of memory and emotion?

Pragmatic Brent says, "It’s unlikely."
Romantic Brent says, "It’s possible".
And the Brent that’s a combination of both and all my life experience says, Stranger things have happened.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

I wrote the above just over a month ago, and was then swept up in rehearsals, performances, moving and life. I am now back, living in New York. I’ve walked through Union Square a few times now, and though I’ve seen people I know a few of those times, I’ve haven’t seen her. I’ve thought over her every time I walk through, though.

To close this, while I was writing the above entry (six weeks ago), I was suddenly struck by a though, I’ve written about this before. That’s where I stopped writing and went tearing through all of my old books and journals. Sure enough, I found something. It must have been within a few weeks of my encounter with Red, which, if nothing else, gives me a better sense of when it happened. It’s amazing to me how my thoughts now still echo my thoughts so soon after it happened. Ah, life. Anyway, I thought it'd be a nice way to leave this.

I thought about her all day today.
I only knew her for an instant,
but that was enough to preserve
her in my mind.
She was beautiful.
A red-head.
Perhaps not natural, but
today she was a red-head.
She had pink-red lips,
like sumptuous roses,
and
as we passed each other,
our eye contact remained,
we both smiled,
(just a whiff)
and I could swear she said,
"Hmmm".
And with that, she was frozen
in my mind,
ever since.
I wish I'd asked her name.
But, oh well,
at least saw her lips.

-BR 4/27/00

1st New York Blog

2007-09-10T20:47:00.000-07:00

Well, well, well.

Here I am again. New York City. Mmmm.

I'll tell ya, it feels different this time; and that's a good thing. Last time I moved here I was nineteen years old, and I didn't really know anyone here, or know anything about the business, or really, know my asshole from my elbow (chalk that one up to "lessons you learn the hard way"). Things are different now.

I've been here a week, so I figure it's about time for my first NY blog.

I'm writing you now from my very dear friend's kitchen floor, which is where I've been sleeping for a large portion of this last week. Nice.

The business side of things is going pretty well, I think; we shall see. I need a home, though. I'm pretty domestic; I need a domicile to be domestic in. You know? This too will come.

In my first three days here, I saw three three-legged dogs, which is one dog for each limb that each of the dogs possessed. Just an observation.

I've been writing on the subways again. Something about this city (or maybe the trains) just makes my pen go. It's been a while, and it's very welcome back.

What else? I don't know. I feel like I'm in the midst of a chaotic whirlwind, and it hasn't stopped swirling yet. Part of that, I think, is not having a home base (a shelter? if we keep going with the whirlwind metaphor). Part is just being back in this place where I have so many memories (good and bad), and part of it is the nature of the city.

I feel like I've just embarked on yet another wild adventure, and, I suppose, I have.

Future blogs, I'm sure, will be more interesting than this one. Think of this one as the "establishing shot" at the beginning of a film. Now you know where you are. What happens next? Your guess is as good as mine.

See you in the next scene.

-BR 6.14.06

Sun-Proof Cock: Anatomical Anomaly

2007-09-10T20:42:00.000-07:00

Out to breakfast last Sunday with a friend. She says that after the meal she plans on swinging by a tanning salon and getting a little color. I say I’ve never done it. I was buying breakfast, so she says, “I’ll buy you a tan.” And I say, “Fuck it, why not?”

Eight naked minutes in a level one tanning bed, and I’m done. I look the same, I feel the same. Nothing happened. Lame, but whatever, I was more into it for the experience anyway, so who cares, right?

Well, eight hours or so go by, I get home, and it suddenly occurs to me, “Say, my skin is kinda hurty.” So I take off my clothes, and lo and behold, I am Lobster Boy. More specifically, I am Uneven, Patchy Lobster Boy. My stomach is burnt to shit, but the color mysteriously stops just below my tits, which remain seemingly unchanged. My face and neck look normal, my back is fucked; burnt and stripey… nice. My sides are as white as they ever were. I brace myself, and scan further down. Yep. My butt cheeks are belly-flop-pink; like they’d been slapped for hours on end by a particularly savage lover. “Oh god… please say it ain’t so…” I slowly turn back around to face my fears… Oh god. My thighs: burned as burned can be. At this point, I figure I must be completely fucked. Of all my body parts which have not been exposed to much sunlight before, there is one particularly sensitive part, and it’s dangling right at the epicenter of the burn zone. These thoughts followed:

“How will I be able to walk? Fuck that, will I even be able to wear pants? “

But just before absolute terror set in, I looked a little bit closer, and……………

NOTHING!!!

Yeah, nothing! I couldn’t believe it! My whole body looks like a Care-Bear reject, and yet my most delicate bits and pieces are totally unscathed. How could this be?

Wild thoughts began occurring. Could my cock actually be burn-proof (the penile equivalent of Bruce Willis in Unbreakable)? Hmmm… well, I cook breakfast naked frequently enough to know that spattering-frying-pan-oil really, really stings… but have I ever seen a mark from that? I don’t think so. I began to contemplate the implications: Could I somehow use this power to better humanity; make the world a better, safer place? Could my un-charrable wang end crime? Poverty? World hunger? And just as I began to feel almost burdened by my newfound responsibility, I remember something... FRICTION BURNS! Damn it! Did I learn nothing from all those awful, dry hand-jobs in high school? Alas, how often we conveniently forget those things which we wish we did not remember.

Sad for me, sad for the world, and indeed, sad for all mankind, but we must face this fact together: my cock is mortal… it just tans well.

It tans really well, actually, but I found that to be precious little comfort with my bright-red ass and thighs on a bicycle for the next week.

Kisses,
B.

4.8.06

How Bizarre, How Bizarre

2007-09-10T20:40:00.001-07:00

So, today I finally balls-upped enough to go to a website I wasn't sure I wanted to see: A-Blissful-Wedding-dot-com, which announces and gives information about the wedding of Sean Blissful* to the up-to-this-point love of my life, Alexa Marceau*. Wow, is right. She had told me about the engagement shortly after it happened, and she had told me about the website a couple of months ago, but I didn't go to it until today. If I had been avoiding it, I didn't realize it, but when I stop and look back on just how many hours upon hours I've wasted in the last two months puttering around the many useless sites on the internet, and I didn't look at this one until just today? Come on. Who was I kidding?

I realized it when I typed in the web address and caught myself holding my breath before I hit "enter". Then I realized it even more when the site came up. My breathing was even, I didn't fidget, and probably continued blinking as if I were reading a movie review; I have a good poker face. In front of me, though, was a photograph of the woman I once believed I would marry and have kids with, smiling and kissing Sean Blissful. It immediately occurred to me that I'd never even seen his face before, but there they were, together; my old girl, and the man she's been with since a few days after we kissed each other goodbye. Five years ago. Man, oh man.

On the computer screen, I moved the pointer to the box that read "PHOTOS", and I gave it a click. I readied myself for a barrage of images of the couple rolling around in the tall grass; running through the woods, barefoot, laughing; starchilly posed, as if at a prom; kissing on the mossy banks of a picturesque Canadian lake; I was ready to face that, but instead, up popped a little sign that said "(photos) Coming Soon…", and I breathed a little sigh of relief, despite myself.

I'd been invited to the wedding. She'd sent me a "Save The Date" card, and she told me that it would mean a lot to her to have me there, and I'd told her that I'd be there if I could. I meant it. At the time, I meant it. A few weeks ago, though, I sent her a letter telling her that I would not be attending, and it asked her blessing, or really, asked her to release me without guilt. I didn't make up any excuses; I just told her the truth (as I've always done). How could the first time I see her again after five years be at her wedding (to someone I'd never met, no less)? Perhaps it would be different if we'd been living in the same city all this time, going out for tea every now and then, and we had a real, tangible friendship which did not exist solely on paper and telephone wires, but we don't. We're comforting voices to each other; voices which conjure up a host of powerful memories, good and bad, but can we really consider ourselves friends until we see each others' faces again? Until we've hugged, or sat down and heard each other talk without any static or feedback for the first time in half a decade?

Regardless of whatever the answers to those questions may be, she released me from my promise with as little guilt as possible, for which I am very grateful.

All this has got me thinking a great deal about love. I suppose I'm always thinking a great deal about love (as I am a bit of a sap), but these recent events have altered the flow of my thinking a bit, at least on the surface (like new rocks placed at the bottom of a river, if that makes any sense). I went out to dinner with a good friend last night, and we talked almost exclusively about love and relationships. I suppose I'm going through a phrase where I'm trying to figure out (or decide?) what I believe in with regards to love and dating and all that. Life is so much easier for us humans when we can fit things into blanket statements and aphorisms; you just toss 'em into a box, and then you don't have to think about them anymore. It's convenient, and it's easy, but I don't think I believe it. Life is scarier when you look at all of the exceptions to every rule. One may panic sometimes when they feel like they don't "know" anything to be written in stone (which is, incidentally, breakable). They'll see all the true chaos in the world. I prefer life that way, though, because when you can look at it calmly, you can see that if there are no hard and fast rules binding the world around you (which is what makes it dangerous), then there are no hard and fast rules binding you, either. Floating in the sea may be frightening, but floating in a sea of endless possibility and wonder… that's another thing. That's freedom. That's life. There is no path to take, only a direction to turn in. The possibilities are as endless as our imaginations.

-BR 3.26.06

* Note: "Sean Blissful" and "Alexa Marceau" are fictitious names.

Mental Health Day

2007-09-10T20:20:00.000-07:00

Ahhhh... baby, it was long, long overdue.

The day of rest. The day of nothing. Beauty.

I woke up at about 10am today, slightly hung-over, but only slightly. Good hung-over, do you know what I mean? Not the hung-over of a person who has poisoned themselves and must now grapple with the ensuing effects. No. I'm talking about the hung-over of a person who was up past four, who had just been drinking, dancing, smoking, and flirting at a party that was wonderful beyond wonderful. I'm talking about the revelry of a man who has worked like a dog for thirteen days without a day off... and he's dressed like Tom Jones.

Is there a better hung-over than that, I ask you?

All you need for your Mental Health Day is... nothing. You need only not worry, and if you catch yourself worrying, don't worry about it (note: tricky). Here are some recommended ingredients, though:

-- Food. Good to have around; preferably within arm's reach. If you don't have food, worry not: That's what delivery is for. You probably don't want to go grocery shopping, unless you would find that relaxing right now. If that's the case, shop to your heart's content, my friend.

-- A Warm/Comfy Place. Why put clothes on at all, if you don't have to?

-- Orgasms. I'd recommend three or four. Procure them somehow. It doesn't really matter how. Give 'em to yourself, have someone else give 'em to you, hump a cantaloupe, whatever, it's all gravy and I'm not going to judge you.

-- Go For a Walk. My God, it was beautiful today, wasn't it? It was cold and overcast, but everything seemed so crisp; something about it was just breathtaking. Gorgeous.

-- Movies. Dude, as long as you're going for a walk, you might as well walk to the video store, right? Grab a couple movies. Impulse rent! I know, I love Netflix too, but whatever happened to the good old days of walking into a video store and saying, "Hmmm... 'Starring Charlie Sheen and Ja Rule'... fuck it, why not?"

Those were the key ingredients of my day. No, I didn't clean my apartment, like I swore I would. No, I didn't work my Italian accent for Othello (don't ask), or my music for Our Town. I fixed my bike… because I felt like it. I called some people just to say hi. The point is, it should be a low-maintenance, whatever's-clever type of day. You can do whatever you want, you just can't stress about it, and I'll tell you right now, that is a thing of pure beauty.

To tell a plain, simple truth, I have been a wreck, lately. These last couple months have been extremely rough. I feel spread so far beyond thin that if you held me up to the light, you could see right through me. I'm used to multi-tasking; I've been doing that since I got here (Denver); it's the stress-level, though. I don't know that it's ever been so through-the-roof. It's not just that I'm divided between three to five things at any given time, is that each of those things has so much weight, and so much more pressure associated with them. I'm a big ol' mess, and I look like hell, and I feel like shit, and I feel like I'm eternally falling behind. So...

... to take one day, just the one, where I kick back and say "Fuck it", "Fuck it" to everything that's bringing me stress, "Fuck it" to everything that's been bringing me down, "Fuck it" to all my fears, "Fuck it" to anything I just plain don't want to deal with today... that is a powerful tool. That's a lifeline in the murk. That is how I'm going to get through next week.

Tonight, baby, I'm full of mellow. I'm bubbling with love, and I'm brimming with content.

Take time to make time for yourself. That's the best advice I could give anyone. You'll be your own hero.

-BR 3.19.06

follow me

2007-09-10T20:12:00.000-07:00

Today will be the day you decide not to tie one of your shoes. All day. You'll just leave it. You'll be walking down the street in the evening, every other step accompanied by a light, plastic click-click, and you'll find the sound inexplicably comforting. You'll find yourself more than usually enwrapped in your more than usually inane thoughts. You'll imagine that you are the mother of a girl about to go off to college; you'd say, "Now, if the roommate they place you with is fat, you should try to gain some weight. Its only polite." You'll get home, and you'll only feel like eating fruit. You're not trying to be healthy; its just all you feel like. You'll try pouring some gin on a cube of watermelon, but you wont like it, so you wont do that again; it's just the fruit you want. A bunch of grapes on the vine. A couple medium-sized apples. You'll remember making a pipe out of an apple a long, long time ago (last week), and this will lead you to coming up with a brilliant concept for a smoking device. If you really pursued it you could probably make a lot of money. You wont though, because: A) You don't smoke that much pot anymore; and B) You smoked enough pot in the past to make you lazy enough to not seize an opportunity.

Once full, you'll untie your shoe (the one that you had tied), and take it off. You'll leave the other one on for a while. No, that's stupid. Take that shit off.

Stare at your blank computer screen for a long time. You have no emails waiting for you, nor is anyone waiting for an email from you. This is for the best. You don't feel like communicating tonight. You feel like staying in, being quiet, and masturbating. Your neighbors all think you're a really lousy lover, because you're extremely loud when you masturbate, and they pretty much always only hear one voice (except for when you actually are having sex with someone, which they dismiss as a fluke), and they don't believe that it could be just one person simply masturbating, because who makes that much noise while just masturbating? You do, that's who. You've arrived at the point where you don't care what the neighbors think. You, unlike the vast majority of the American populace, have outgrown the trauma of childhood masturbatory paranoia, and good for you. You fucking howl when you come, and your masturbation is all the better for it. You beat the system.

Your pants around your ankles, hop to the bathroom to wash your hands. That done, take your pants off. Your feet are a bit cold now, though, so put your shoes back on (but don't tie either of them this time; you're not going anywhere). Floss your teeth. Water your plant and rotate its pot (so it doesn't grow at an angle). You like your plant a lot. It's hard to believe that it took you two and a half years to get it.

(The mystery of life is long and cavernous, and the tributaries are explorable and infinite. Seek.)

-BR 1.18.2006 1.01am

Good-bye 2005... hello...?

2007-09-10T20:06:00.002-07:00

It’s 2006. Technically January 2^nd. 1:04am, to be precise. Wanna go for a ride?

Let’s.

I’ll start off with saying I did not, as I expected I would, party like a rock star on New Year’s. Nope. I started partying slowly (that’s how all rock stars start… at first you think they’re gonna be all mild, then they go on a tear), but before any insanity started happening I got a phone call and had to drive a friend to the hospital, and later on, drive her back home from said hospital. Now, let it here be stated and sworn to be the truth, that I did not mind doing this at all. The friend who called me happens to be a friend that I love very much, and I had much, much rather spend my New Year's Eve helping someone that I love rather than taking shots in LoDo. This is the truth, so help me God. All of this is a round about way of saying that it’s roughly twenty-four hours past the new year, and I am only now getting trashed. I don’t have to be in rehearsal until 3:30 tomorrow, so it’s on. So how’s about we go on a little thought-sharing expedition, huh? Stream of consciousness style? I say, fuck it, why not?

I just did it. Yeah. That’s right… IT. I was here, in my apartment and I was like, “Fuck it… I haven’t done it in a while, I wanna get a little drunk and DO IT!” So I did. I imbibed a good chunk of whiskey and I ... washed every dish in my apartment, and baby, it’s just as good as I’d dreamed it would be. I’ve now got a dripping drying-rack full of dishes that I could (and will) eat my dinner off of. This is just the first step, of course. Tonight I get trashed and clean my whole apartment…. I won’t vacuum ‘till tomorrow though… I’m not a complete a-hole.

Foremost on my mind right now, though, is J. As far as I can recall right now, J. is the first of my friends to have killed himself. Killed himself. God, it sounds so harsh, but I suppose an act like that deserves to sound harsh, no? Thinking back, right now (admittedly toasted, here) I can only think of one person I knew that killed themselves. Themself? Their self? Fuck it, you know what I mean. That was this girl I knew named Mimi. Mimi was a ballerina; truly, truly beautiful; the kind of girl you look at as say, “Man, she’s got it made” (which, I guess, just goes to show you). She was the older sister of my baby-sitter when I was just a little kid. I think I was about 5 when this all went down. Maybe four. I don’t know. Anyway, Mimi climbed up the side of a building (balcony to balcony, I believe). Somebody called the cops, but they couldn’t stop her. She jumped from very, very high. I remember that the police said she “slipped”, but none of us believed that. We figured they just told that to her parents to make them feel a little better. The autopsy, I remember, also said that her heart stopped before she even hit the ground. Again, I think that’s just what they say to parents of people that kill themselves. Try to make it sound as painless as possible. I remember all of this so vividly, and I was only four or five. Strange. And now, just last week, a friend of mine, not a baby-sitter’s sister, but someone who was actually once a friend of mine, killed himself. He killed himself. I still can’t wrap my head around it. I want to believe that he faked his own death, but I know that’s silly. I want to go home for the funeral/memorial, but I can’t; hell, I missed my own grandmother’s funeral because I was in a play, how could I justify going home for this (my grandmother would beat the shit out of me when I get to the afterlife… she may do that anyway)? I guess what I mean to say, is that he’s still on my mind, and I’m still raising my drinks to him. This one’s really chewing me up inside.

1:30 now… time to pour myself another whiskey, put on some Bob Dylan, and do a little more cleaning.

I lied. I put on The Kings of Convenience’s “I Don’t Know What I Can Save You From”. My friend Eileen introduced me to it on Christmas. If you can, right now, download it, but make sure you get the version that’s on “Quiet Is The New Loud”… the version that’s on “Versus” isn’t as good.

1:39am: I realize that I don’t have enough hangers. Fuck.

I really do love the works of Shakespeare. I can’t help it. I almost wish I didn’t, for some reason, but I do. God he’s good. Even in the occasional crap-burger that he wrote, like Two Gentlemen of Verona, there are moments of brilliance (like the over-done, but still beautiful, “What light is light” speech…. sigh, and some of Proteus' stuff).

I don’t think I ultimately have a plain-old “problem with authority”. I just have a problem with authority when it doesn’t make any sense to me. Authority folks will either have to start making more sense, or learn to deal with me having a problem with them. That’s how it goes.

I’d like to get better at singing harmony. I love harmonies.

I still haven’t learned to meditate. Not really. Damn.

Swimming, for me, is like therapy. It took me a long time to learn that. I hope I don’t forget it. Us water-babies must return to water.

1:57 now. One more shot of Jack Daniels may well put me over the edge. Should I do it?

Cheers.

My grandma’s old. I mean, really, really old. I think she’s 97 now. Ninety-fucking-seven! I spent a lot of time with her this Summer. Not as much time as I honestly think I should have, but more than… more than I have in years past, because suddenly she was living in Berkeley. She doesn’t even know she’s living in Berkeley, and if she did, she’d be pissed about it. 97, though. Jesus. Maybe those Mormons know what they’re talking about? I don’t know… maybe not. The last few times I went to see her, she didn’t know who I was. That was rough. Man, that was rough. She thought I was my dad (her son), at one point. At another, she though I was my grandfather (her HUSBAND), who died in 1988 (my first relative I remember dying…. fuck cancer, by the way). One time I went to visit her and there were a solid seven other people in the room with us… except only she could see/hear these seven other people. I had to play along, or I chose to, anyway (which, truth be told, though very emotionally taxing, was ultimately kind of fun). I saw my grandpa’s (on the other side) mind go, too. Bodies going is one thing, it’s hard; minds going, though, is an entirely different animal. It makes you wonder what we’re all really made of. You know?

I haven’t been in love since the year 2001. I wonder when it’s going to happen again.

I really poured a big drink this time. More cleaning.

I have a friend named ____ who women just want to fuck. He can get away with anything. Truth be told, he’s kind of an asshole, but he’s pretty, and so woman want to fuck him. Now, that’s not what I’m after, really, but frankly, it makes me jealous. Not because I want to fuck everyone, but fuck, I mean, everyone wants to be wanted, no?

Had I a pirate radio station tonight, I would be broadcasting all this live and direct. I don’t, though. I just have this little blog. Not many people read this blog, but I think rather highly of those that do. Much love.

Truth be told, I’m thinking of a girl right now. Yes, that’s right, a girl. A girl who I’m hoping will read this. Do I hope she’ll read this? I don’t know about that. Maybe not. This girl, if she is reading it, probably doesn’t think that she’s the girl I’m referring to. I am, though. Surprise! And no, I’m not going to give any hints. Sorry.

Have I ever told you how much I love hip-hop? Man. I really love hip-hop.

Okay, as time goes on tonight, I’m getting more and more effed up (I love saying “effed up”… but only when you spell it out like that), and I’m going to publish this before I go to bed. So does that make me less accountable for what I say? Well, that’s the principle that I’m going to operate on, so let’s go farther…

Growl!

Oh… my Kings of Convenience album ended. Now what?

Fuck it. I’m going to listen to some songs that I wrote. Ha! I bet most of you reading this didn’t even know that I’d written songs. Well, I have. So there.

Jeez. I sound angry, don’t I? I don’t mean to sound angry. I don’t. Especially if I kinda hope this girl is reading this. I feel like I sound like an angry alcoholic. I’m not. I’m not either. I’m not generally very angry, and I don’t generally drink all that much. I guess this is just one of those “let’r rip!” type-a nights, and so I’m let’n ‘er rip, as it were.

2:33 now. I’m going to finish my last whiskey. I poured a big one, and there’s still a lot left, but such is the life we’re consigned to (….huh?).

Oooooh… that one hurt.

Wadda you think? Should I sell my car? Survey says…..? No, I mean, sell my car like now-ish. I was gonna wait, because, frankly, I like having a car in this town. I don’t get out of it much, but it nice when I do. I kinda like having it… but my insurance cash is due, and the car needs work… should I just sell it to a dealer who will ultimately rip-me off but then hey at least I don’t have to deal with it anymore? Ah, questions...

I’ve written a lot of drunken poetry in my lifetime. The best part about it? You read it months or years later, and you don’t remember writing it at all. You stare at it and wonder, “Who (or what) was this about?” I generally date my poems, and I try to go back to where I was, and what I was doing (I usually break it down by what play I was in then), and try to remember why I wrote said poem… I almost never remember. God, I love that.

I’ve written more than 300 poems in my lifetime. Those are just the ones I still have. In total… I’d guess more like 400. 140 of them were written in the span of something like nine months. Ah, those were the days, I like to say (lyingly) to myself. When I lived in New York, and I tore down subway posters so I’d have something to write on. Or I’d use a napkin, or a coaster. Blah, blah, blah. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Etc.

Going to fold some laundry now. In the meantime, I’ll try to think of a good way of ending this.

I’m a week too late; all my shirts are wrinkled. Oops.

Acting sounds so easy. "Behave truthfully under imaginary circumstances." So simple. So why is it so fucking hard?

How good at this am I, really? Hmmm….

Did I say my last whiskey? I meant my second to last. I’m in rare form tonight.

At least my socks weren’t wrinkled.

Let’s go back to this, how good am I, really? I wonder. Nobody’s going to tell me. Nobody could tell me. I’m not going to believe anyone, no matter what they say. Right? Right. So. Let me drop this little fact-ette on you about the business which I am in (incidentally, there’s no business like it. No business I know). Back in the mid-late 90’s, when the economy was really good, only 2% of all actors made it into the union, and (here’s where it get’s really scary) only 2% of the actors in the union were making a living just acting. That’s 2% of 2%, folks, and that’s when the economy was bangin’ (which it ain’t anymore, by the by). And yet… I’m psyched about this enterprise. Fuck it. Haven’t I always had kind of a fuck it mentality? Well fuck it.

Oooph. Why did I pour another whiskey? It’s only ½ finished, now, and here I am, at one might call “The Point Of No Return”… and I’ve got half a drink left…………….. what do I do?

……yeah… I am going to shoot it.

You’re right. It is that kind of night.

Done.

Seriously, though. This time I’m not pouring myself another.

Now, if I can make it though the rest of the night without slipping and braining myself on the edge of my desk, I’ll consider that a real accomplishment.

Now, I’ve got my Bob Dylan playing. Mmmmm….

I don’t think I’ve ever been this drunk alone before. Did that make sense? Oh boy. What I mean to say is, I don’t generally dig drinking alone. Maybe one drink. Maybe maybe two, but almost never. Yet, here I am, trashed. Alone. Although, frankly, I don’t feel alone, and that’s because of you. You being anybody who’s actually read this much. Are there any of you out there? Has anybody actually read this far? If you have, leave a comment. Not because I need valediction (that’s a word, right?), but just to see, you know? If you’ve gotten this far, say something… that’s all I ask.

It may be time to brush my teeth. 3:05am…. that’s a good teeth-brushin’ time.

3:19am. Points:

A.) Human beings should not be able to consume as much whiskey as I have consumed and still be able to walk, never mind touch-type.

B.) Do I really hope that girl sees this? Or would this just ruin everything? Well, I guess if she saw it and it ruined everything, then it just wasn’t meant to be, yes?

C.) Is for “cookie”. It’s good enough for me.

D.) Because, “Duh, I love you.”

E.) = extremely fucked up

F.) = fucked up (extremely)

G.) Good night. And, good luck.

I’ve got love for anyone who’s actually managed to read this whole, tumultuous thing. I may wake up tomorrow, more sober, and delete this blog, but I hope I don’t. I hope I’ve got the balls to just let this big, ugly thing flap in the breeze (as it were), and not give a shit one way or the other. We shall see. Time will tell. Let me pick some final words here:

I hope 2006 turns out to be better than 2005. If 2005 was good for you, I hope 2006 is even better. If 2005 sucked pretty hard, then I hope 2006 is much, much, much better. We can always hope.

California: I miss you. Denver: I’m soaking in you. New York: I’m getting ready for you… so get ready for me.

Lots and lots of love,

Brent Rose 1/2/06 3:28am

Hush.

2007-09-10T19:16:00.000-07:00

Butter-cup blue, baby baby.
I skid out of bed
with no
respect for gravitas,
and paw at a faint fleeting glow.
Tilt back -- as far
as I can
(without going flat),
squint,
and make a wish up-on the blank city sky.
Silence gapes.
Grandma’s dying. Shhhhh…
Waves are breaking:
All far away.
Lips are waiting. Someone’s humming. She
(“a” she;
“some” she), wonders what’s my deal.
Free

f a l l i n g.
(Almost free. Almost falling.)
No flailing anymore;
I lean
into the breeze;
recline, and rest my head
as the Oh-Two tears
at my clothes like a drunken lover,
and pulls at my hair
like time
spedup…

(If) (I meet a girl named Simile, I hope she’s like a……………?)
(…or something damn near to it.)

Much love
And kisses with mouths
full of hair.

-BR 11.16.05

Hail to the Captain

2007-09-10T19:09:00.000-07:00

Halloween 2005

Well, I went to a couple of pumpkin patches today. Problem was, all the really big ones had been taken already. I got the biggest one I could find, though. I took it home and cut a great big hole out of the top. Then I emptied out all of the gunk and separated the seeds (I'm going to spice and roast those fuckers later). It took forever to clean it out. Then I cut a couple big leg-holes. Then things got weird.

Have you ever tried on large vegetables before? Well, you don't want to ruin your clothes if it isn't going to work, so there you are, standing in the mirror, naked, trying to pull a fourteen dollar pumpkin up to your waist. Hole too small. Cut a little more. Still too small. Cut a little more. Oh, SO close now! Cut a little more, then pull it on, and you've almost got it, and you give it just one last tug, and what happens? Your ass splits the pumpkin in two. This is embarrassing for many reasons: 1.) Your ass just broke a pumpkin; 2.) You're now standing it the mirror, holding a big, useless, broken pumpkin, and the entire (naked) lower half of your body is covered with pumpkin slime and fibre. That's hot.

Here's what you do then:

1.) Swear. (try "Fuck!", I think that's what worked for me).

2.) Wonder to yourself if incidents like this might perhaps be a clue into why you're single.

3.) Still grumbling, go take a shower.

4.) While in the shower, contemplating your back-up costume, you will say the following to yourself:

"You know? I really don't feel like going as the World's Ugliest Party-Girl, again. After all, it wasn't such a big hit at Burning Man (except with that guy who grabbed my balls)." Then you decide, "Fuck it! No cracked-pumpkin's gonna get me down!"

You resolve to simply wear underwear underneath your pumpkin (sell-out). You dry off, bore four more holes in the pumpkin, and then, slipping the cold, damp, orange squash back on, you fashion crude suspenders made of rope. That done, you take it off, shower again (for the second to last time of the day), then take out your permanent marker, and on your gourd-loin-covering your write your super-hero name.

Happy Halloween, "CAPTAIN PUMPKIN PANTS", go break some hearts!

Post Scriptum: Captain Pumpkin Pants won 2nd prize in a costume contest. Just another victory to throw on the Captain's pile.

Peach-Meat and Bumble-Butt

2007-09-10T19:08:00.000-07:00

Peach-meat and bumble-butt walked into a party. Peach-meat whispered soft and low in bumble-butt’s ear, “It smells like pussy in here.” Bumble-butt nodded gravely… “Not our scene”.

Walking out into the cool-night air, the two inhaled deep, and from the depths of the stinkpot sewers a smell of posies wafted into their nostrils.

“Everything’s okay here,” whispered Bumble-butt.

The two held hands, walking in perfect syncopation, and never a bit out of time.

“Oh glorious glorious glorious, Ben,” Bumble-butt sang. “When will you find my arms again. When will you wake, when will you sleep? When will I be yours to hold and to keep?”

They walked on in silence for a while.

An ape flew over the moon. Peach-meat raped it with his eye. Bumble-butt was startled.

Everything got quiet.

Their pace slowed…

Slowed…

Sllllllllllllllloowwwwwwwwwwd…

Stopped.

They watched their feet intently. Surely an answer lay hidden in a toenail.

Bumble-butt spoke first. “I’m not happy.”

“I know,” Peach meat admitted. “It pours off of you like milk.”

“I’ve got to walk away.”

Peach-meat thought of pig’s feet. Plum brandy. Exhibitionists. Head-lice. Harpo’s lampoon. Lampo’s Harpoon. Fish-eggs, Adam’s apples, butter-scotch-brie… Robin Williams, Adolf’s arse, and marijuana tea.

They’d had good times.

He blew his nose on the side-walk.

The sidewalk sizzled.

He smiled.

He laughed.

He burped.

He put some gum in his mouth. He waited for the sun to go down. He ate supper, and had tea.
Bumble-butt didn’t blink.

“Define this moment with a decision,” Peach-meat finally said.

“I already have, my sugar-tit-blue. I already have.”

Bumble-butt took one step. Then another. Then another. Each step cracked like a hammer on ice.

Peach-meat began to tremble. Bumble-butt thudded onward.

Peach-meat fell. He hit the ground hard, nearly shattering his glass jar. Sick rose in his throat. He expelled it. His stomach turned with the violence of a whaler’s gun, and he wept like a dead chimney-man’s wife.

No display would turn Bumble-butt around. With fishy eyes, he tried to keep his shoulders from shaking, and just kept walking away.

-BR 7/28/03 Oakland, CA

Secret Admirer

2007-09-10T18:53:00.000-07:00

I wish I had a secret admirer. Not just any secret admirer, though. She'd have to be pretty and intelligent and funny and all that stuff. And sexy; shit, how did I leave that out? Basically, I want a secret admirer whom I also secretly admire. I want her to write first, though. Maybe I never would have written her. Hard to say. But she'd write me a beautiful, sensuous and poetic letter that expresses how groovy she thinks I am, and the reasons for why she thinks I'm so groovy. Then, upon reading it, I'll be like, "Oh, this has gotta be (Sally), because (Sally) is the only girl I know who uses the word 'groovy' without irony." Then I'll find some way to confront her, but in the sweetest way possible, maybe over a banana-split at some greasy-spoon. I'll let her know by the way I bring it up, though, that I'm clearly interested. Not overly-interested, though, because I know women, and man that would kill it so fast. She'll get all blushy and embarrassed, and I'll say, "It's okay, I'm your secret admirer, too. But instead of bearing my heart in a letter written on three sheets of college-ruled paper, I chose to tell you at happy hour in this crappy diner." She'll say, "Oh, its happy hour?" And I'll say, "Yeah, you want something?" and she'll say, "No, thanks. I'm on a cleanse." That'll throw me off, but I'll recover quickly. "When did you first know?", I'll ask. I'll be hoping she'll say something beautiful like, "When I first read your poetry", or "The first time I saw you on stage", or "That time we broke into that farmhouse and played strip poker", but she wont be able to place it. She'll say something nice and because I like her and really don't want to blow this I wont press the issue. Then there will be a lull in the conversation, and well both become increasingly more interested in the banana-split. I'll wonder if it got quiet because she got interested in the split, or if she got interested in the split because it got quiet. I'll want to ask, but I know that's another deal-breaker, so I've gotta play it cool. Don't fuck this up, please God don't let me fuck this up. Eventually, though, we'll both start to giggle a little, and I'll know it's going to be okay. Finally, she'll ask, "So where do we stand?" And I'll say," Gee, (Sally), I don't know. I guess we could try dating, but I've always been a bit of a whore (women love a challenge), I think I'm ready to try loving again, but I'd be afraid of hurting you." If she buys that one, I'll know I've sealed the deal. She'll say, "I can take care of myself. Besides, what's life without risks?" (Gotcha!) Now I know my hooks are in for a solid three months. Don't get cocky, though, stay cool. I'll reach across the table, and we'll take each other's hands. I'll get mustard on my white sleeve. Fuck. That'll never come out. I'll say, "We've got nothing but time, so lets not rush things." It will be understood that I mean "tonight we do 'everything but' -- no sex till morning." She'll understand that. She's my secret admirer. Only she gets me.

-BR 10.4.05

Meet the Meat (of the FUTURE)

2007-09-10T18:51:00.000-07:00

Okay, we've all heard about how bad meat is for us these-a-days because they're pumping so many antibiotics and hormones into the cows and chickens (and what not). Well I say fuck it. That's right, fuck it. Clearly this trend the meat-industry is on is irreversible, so instead of fighting it, let's go all the way with it. That’s right, ALL THE WAY. What am I saying? Don't inject the animals we eat with less antibiotics and hormones, inject them with MORE! Do you understand what I'm saying here?

Stay with me. I'm saying inject the cows and chickens with a certain, specific type of antibiotic or hormone that BENEFITS humanity each in a different, specific way. I'm talking prescription meat-products here people!

Imagine it: Got a nasty sinus-infection? Better take a Zythromax-burger. Pneumonia? A penicillin-pork-bun is what you need. Fucked around and got the clap in Tijuana? Sip a Cipro-milkshake and soon it won't hurt when you pee!

But hey! Why stop there? In such a heavily medicated society, why not just go all the way? Don't want to get pregnant, ladies? Don't forget to take your birth-control-McNugget every day. Hey fellas, having a tough time with erectile dysfunction? Well a Viagra-sausage will get you (and your sausage) straightened out in no time! Can't stop crying? Try the Prozac-pimento-loaf.

See? In my new America there would be a butcher at every Walgreen’s, and a pharmacist behind every deli-counter. It's good for the pharmaceutical industry, it's good for the meat industry, and it's good for America God damn it.

I'm Brent Rose, and I approve this message.

-BR 7.4.05

Pathology

2007-09-10T18:49:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine said today that she felt like she was at a crossroads. I thought, “I feel like I live at a crossroads,” but then I realized that that wasn’t quite right, because that implies staying in one place. I started thinking about it, though.

I used to think of myself as going down a path and every now and then I would come to a crossroads and I would make a decision. Then, as I worked to improve my vision of life (for want of a better phrase), I realized that the crossroads were much more frequent than I’d thought. As it got even better, there were crossroads all around me, all the time, going off in all directions. I finally arrived like this: when my vision is at its best, I don’t see any crossroads at all, but rather a plane, and I am free to go in whatever direction I choose at any time. There is no path ahead of me at all; the only path that exists is that which was made my footprints behind me.

I am striving to see things that way more often.

-BR 4.11.2005

Goodbye, Doc Thompson

2007-09-10T18:42:00.000-07:00

Hey folks,

We lost a literary giant this week, and a true madman. The world won't be the same Hunter S. Thompson.

So, in honor of the blown away, I thought I would share this with you all:

http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/print?id=1992213&type=story

It is, as far as I know, the last article to be published before his death (correct me if I'm wrong), but it's an especially good one, I thought. So read it, then go to a used bookstore somewhere and find more of his work. Madness like his is rare and must be cherished and celebrated.

We'll miss you, Doc.

-BR 2.23.05

Rejection.

2007-09-10T18:41:00.000-07:00

When I sing in the bathroom I sound so good I could put on a concert for the Queen, but when I beckoned to her she said she wasn't allowed to follow Americans into the bathroom. I think she's just stuck up.

-BR 2.13.05

My First Sonnet, proper

2007-09-10T18:40:00.000-07:00

And when my jades do turn themselves toward you,
I do and do not wish to reign them back;
For if I let their charges follow through,
I doubt that we shall 'scape some bloody wrack.
For though your body's like a Summer's spring,
And on your lips my team might quench their thirst,
Yet vipers hide where we would sleep and sing,
And make oasis dark and cold and curst.
But even with these dangers all about,
I cannot turn my foolish head away,
Nor with my cautious mind give room to doubt,
For one more glimpse of you is worth this fray.
Though love and toil mine eyes and jades do see,
They'd prove me false if I did turn from thee.

-BR 2.6.05

New Life Rules

2007-09-10T18:38:00.000-07:00

Ten New Rules for my life (and for yours, too, if you want):

1. Always try to avoid situations where you're in the same room with multiple people you've slept with.

1b. Always always always avoid situations where you're in the same room with multiple people who think that you're going home with them. This especially holds true when you don't feel like going home with anybody (this can make for a shitty Saturday night).

2. If you're going to do a little binge-eating, match it with a little binge exercise.

3. Find a way to keep your heart open to love but closed to disappointment (Hint: there is no way... take the bad w/ the good, baby).

4. Try to find a pair of lips worth kissing, then kiss them a lot.

5. Try to find a song worth singing, then sing it a lot, until a new one strikes your fancy.

6. Eat good food.

7. Eat good women (or men, depending on which way you swing).

8. Try to relax your jaw (not related to number 8).

9. Make time for the people you care about.

10. Make time for sanity maintenance.

So... Who's with me?

-BR 1.18.05

What can one do?

2007-09-10T18:33:00.000-07:00

I write you now from a tent.

A good tent. A big tent. But nonetheless,

a tent.

My house, my home, the place where I grew up is all in boxes. I'm supposed to sleep on a matress on the floor in the study. My family lived there for, something like twenty-three years, and now, it's all wrapped in cardboard and ready to go.

It's hard.

The final straw for us was the death of our cat, Walker. Walker was the best fucking cat that ever there was, and I mean that. I know how all cat owners think their cats have personality and how they're "special" and all that shit, and maybe I'm just a sap like that, but to my family and to myself, that cat was just the best. I could write a hundred entries, just about him, but suffice to say, he was 18 and a half years old when he died (which is just a few months younger than my little brother), he was born in the kitchen of my house which we will soon be departing, and he was in many ways the glue holding my family together. He was the best, and I really miss that little fucker.

Anyway...

so, here I am, sleeping in my friend's tent in a back-yard in a suburb. My WiFi internet connection is somehow working, and I'm tired and a little bit drunk. What's sad to me is that while my friend is out of town I feel so much more comfortable, so much more at home in this tent than I do in the house I grew up in. I feel like it's been gutted, and all that's left is the skeleton of some place I used to know quite well.

So I chose the tent.

I guess I've always liked camping.

-BR 8.4.04