Things for Which Beckett Gives Thanks

1. Divine retribution (the wrath of Khan)
2. The color pink
3. The sun
4. Coffee
5. Sex
6. The riches he been snatchin from you bitches
7. Stephen Hawking
8. Lawyers
9. Cats, dogs, and all things cuddly
10. Salt mines
11. Sleep
12. LASERS (the car & the beam)

Pain Jar

I had an existential feast this weekend, seeing "Thom Pain, Based on Nothing," at DR2 Theater on 15th St. on Saturday night, and then, on Sunday afternoon, "Jarhead."

Neither was perfect, but both were thoughtful and provocative.

Thom Pain has been extended several times, and now T. Ryder Smith has replaced James Urbaniak as the show's sole performer. He's an engaging presence as he tells the discursive story of a boy, his dog, the dog's electrocution, bee stings and a failed relationship. The script, by Will Eno requires him to trip back and forth between the narrative and discursions and asides. He doesn't know if he's good enough. For life, for this show, for love. Life is pain for Mr. Thom. It's a smart-alecky, knowing treatise, shot through with real feeling, and Smith is generally up to the challenge. He fills the earlier moments of passion with genuine feeling, and several moments achieve the sublime. But, toward the end, as tears and sobbing are required of him, he doesn't seem to quite have it in him, and is forced to go through the forms of feeling, ending the evening flatly. My heart goes out to Smith. The show is performed two times a night, at six and nine, in order to maximize sales from the small DR2 theater, I presume. And the performance I witnessed was peopled largely by TKTS (a discount ticket booth) who were probable expecting a play of some sort, or at least some kind of attempt at spectacle. Not the best audience for a performer to have to bare himself before. I, myself, had brought four people along: my aunt, her wife, and two friends of theirs. I was accutely aware once the show started that it was a poor choice for tourists. Smith must have been aware of this, too as he fought his way to the end.

As for Jarhead, there is no shortage of writing on this Hollywood offering, so I'll keep it short. It is not nearly so hollow as many reviewers would have you believe. And it is well worth seeing for an askew view of the Marines, as well as some incredibly haunting visuals. It also happens to be funny and interesting the whole way through without ever dragging. It even manages a few moments of genuine pathos. Peter Sarsgaard and Jake "Beefcake" Gyllenhaal are great, and Foxx does his job competently.

Both works ask not just "Why?", but "Why bother?", and because the question is more important than the answer, do not, cannot answer the question more fully than with a "Because." True to life, but "Because" does not make for a dramatic ending. Reality doesn't follow a conventional story arc, and neither do "Thom Pain" and "Jarhead." Which is fine, but as audience members we've been trained to expect catharsis, and I was disappointed at the fizzles that capped each show, even as I left the theater deep in thought. Sure, it's smart, it's honest, but how bout a just one big old bang? Please? No? Okay. Stinking art.

Tomorrow Tomorrow

I'm sitting here with headphones on, absolutely transported by a musician I thought I'd become complacent with, and it's just overwhelming to me in this moment how impossiby beautiful Elliott Smith's music is. The melodies, the harmonies, the build and flow. Every song is well crafted, meaningful and moving. I've heard "X/O," which I'm listening to at the moment, dozens of times before, yet I'm delighted as each song starts again as if the first time I'm hearing it.

There's nothing quite like the beauty of tragedy and depsair. Misery, sorrow, fear, and longing become profundity in the right artist's hands. I'm glad I can again revel in his music. Since his knife-through-the-chest suicide, I'd been too disturbed by the reality of his demise to escape into the music. And, just as every single Alice in Chains song is about heroin, every single Elliot Smith song treats with depression, low self esteem, self loathing, and addiction. Sounds horrific, but no, in fact, it does not sound horrific. It sounds heartfelt. It sounds true. It sounds sublime.

Check out his profile at allmusic: http://www.allmusic.com/cg/amg.dll?p=amg&sql=11:m95f8qtnbtz4~T1

Sacriliscious

The Smoking Gun can always be counted on for items which will make you tremble in fear for the fragile future of this planet.
http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/1107051jesusjuice1.html



Yes, it's for real.

Hairoics

Another pun for a title as I follow the example set by my collaborator Glen's posts. I am a new man today. A fresh and bold individual, facing the world with renewed confidence and vigor. Because I, after at least two months, purchased for myself a hair cut. It's a good cut. Short, low maintenance. I begin to understand the traditionally female fascination with the stylist. It really does make a differenc in one's outlook. Wheeee!

When I was a child I had blonde hair. I was proud of it. I loved it. Adults consistently complemented my downy locks. Then my hair got browner. And greasier. And browner. And greasier. By the time I was in junior high, I had a greasy, cowlicked tangle of bland brown hair. But this year, I've noticed my hair becoming lighter. And when I've described its color as brown, folks have dissented. I'd like to think that what is occuring is a magical reblonding. But the white hairs that have appeared here and there tell a different story. And today, as I examined my shorne hair in my lap, I was able to pick out a fairly large number of crackers. Never have I witnessed so much unabashed honkey-ism in my hair color. So it begins. I am now undoubtedly on the (hopefully) long descent into white hair.

There is a silver lining to this loss of color. I have a young face, and a bit of greying may do a little to give me that distinguished look. Yeah, that's it!

One more thing: I went to a place with a semi-pretentious name like David Concept Studios. Here in the city the predeliction for punny salon names seems less prevalent than in the suburbs, where one always has a choice between Hair Today, E-clips, and A Cut Above. I wonder if any of the owners who decided to go with "Hair Today" considered the ill favor of its implication: "Gone Tomorrow."

Cataclysm

I love cats. I have two of them, in fact. They're my boon companions. But my cats cannot do tricks. Most cats cannot do tricks. Most cats are not a part of the Moscow Cats Theatre. The Moscow Cats Theatre is best described thus: a smallish group of clowns enticing a larger group of cats (and one dog) to do tricks of varying difficulty and impressiveness. It's more of a Cat Circus. I imagine they call it theater (okay, "Theatre") so that they can charge $50 for it.

I would like to say a thing or two about the Moscow Cats Theatre. First, if you are into psychotropic drugs, it might be advisable to take some before attending this particular theater. Though, I must counsel caution: the experience itself was tantamount to a tab or two of acid, so if you walk into the joint packed full of rum and mescaline, you are headed for a five-alarm, Hunter Thompson-style freakout. The kind that ends with evil fear, large bills, and a confrontation with law enforcement.

But I digress. On to my second thought regarding the Cats Theatre. While I admit I laughed my ass off several times, and that it was far better than much of the real theater I've attended, I can't say that it was really worth $50. Yes, the cats did some pretty nifty things, but the magical clown storyteller/painter in search of love beset by nightmare elephant-clown cat stealers and aided by a fairy catmother storyline felt a bit artificial.

And the "tricks" would be better termed "impressive demonstrations of normal cat behavior." Cats climb things. We saw them climb very high things. They jump. We saw em do that as well. They squeeze themselves into improbable places. Uh huh. They get trussed up in dresses by pathetic clowns. No doubt about it. They hang on with those devlish claws for dear life when something they are on is moved. Yep. That's cat behavior all right. They do handstands. They walk along parallell bars with two feet, as the other two dangle below. Okay, the last two I'll admit into the record as "tricks." But really, wouldn't some quaint square in an aging European capital dotted with unwashed hippies and tourists be a more appropriate venue for this busking act?

And here's the coup de grace: the kids just would not shut up. All the little urchins did was holler and bellow and howl like it was Christmas day. It's like they'd never been to the theater before. theatre that is. Theatre.

Slavior

Trail of Tears

Often, it seems to me that life consists of enduring one trauma after another. Tragedy begets tragedy, and we all smile in spite of it, because it's got to be better than being dead. From Mississippi to Iraq to Sudan to Pakistan to Guatemala, horror approaches, shakes my hand, offers me a seat, and punches me in the groin.

Someone dies, mourning lingers, then another death. There will be a point when I will no longer be attending my friends' weddings, but their funerals.

What has provoked this depressive, bitter, overly general diatribe? Many coincident events of varying crapitude, but one in particular. Someone very close to me has been harrassed sexually by her superior. Her response has been measured and reasonable in bringing it to the attention of management. And what have they done about it? Tried to brush her off. Not taken it seriously. Tried to end it with some ludicrous promise that the offender would get counseling. Take it from someone who likes the sauce a little too much, a couple sessions of sensitivity training will not rein in an out of control alcoholic.

That the company didn't bend over backwards for her sake is shocking to me. If they don't give a shit about the work environment or rights of their employees (which they clearly don't), they should give a shit about getting sued. Which they are about to. Fuckers.

So I go from a general consideration about the ugliness of life to a specific and enraged complaint.

If only I could take a hacksaw to the prick's prick and lob a Molotov into the offending corporate offices.

Letter of Condemnation

When I got to work today, there was an envelope with my name on it on top of the register in the pump hut. I asked Vijay if it was for me, and he asked me if it had stupid written on it. I said no, and he said give it to him. I did, and he said open it, stupid, it's for you.

It was a letter from the Mayor Alein, thanking me for my bravery when the station got robbed. I don't know why I got a letter this time. I guess because my picture was in the paper. I was looking at it, thinking it's a weird thing to get thanked when you get robbed, as if you had something to do with it, when Vijay told me to get to work and clean up a bunch of oil next to pump 3.

I haven't shown it to anyone yet. I'd like to get it framed and put it in the pump hut, because that would be appropriate, but we're not allowed to hang anything except approved materials in there. It's probably a mistake anyway. They probably meant to send it to someone who actually did something besides hit the alarm button and put the money in the drop safe when they got robbed. Besides, I've gotten beat up lots of times, and I never got a letter about it before.

The pump hut is still freezing. I don't think they're ever going to fix the window. It'd get fixed if Vijay had to sit in there all night.

Nothing Left

Not much left anyway. Just enough to let a few lines dribble listlessly out. Each time a project of mine ends, I feel utterly rudderless. I could easily sleep until three in the afternoon and stay up until four in the morning. I force myself to get up and do things, but only because they must be done. Because something must be done, and laying in bed as the world falls to shit is simply unacceptable (tried it in college...not worth the lack of effort), no matter how disagreeable doing stuff may seem.

I think I could classify this post-project mourning period as a symptom of a pervasive and nearly constant depression. Combine that with the feeling of dread that creeps over me from time to time (while I'm watching TV, while riding an elevator, while sitting and reading), and I've got quite an incentive to stay in bed.

What's worse, I've misplaced my glasses. Damn my eyes. At least the LSATs are over. At least there's that.