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| Posted by
Brandon
on Wednesday, July 23, 2008 @ 10:48am CDT
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Oh, there are many things in this world to put a spring in a man's step. My toe is currently broken, so we'll say it's putting a hop in my hobble. The broken toe is a funny story in itself, but I should keep to a centralized theme-- my hopping hobble. If I could weave the broken toe throughout this story, dotting and dappling my paragraphs with before-broken-toe-happiness and after-broken-toe-profanity, that might work. If I could weave writing about weaving my broken toe into this post, that would work (and take a measurable amount of talent), but this is not a pipe-- nor is it Adaptation.
I'm looking at everyone differently at work. They're all like ghosts-- no, it's like they're striving to become memories. I'm the one causing this change in perspective, but it makes them all shine brilliantly. It's like the first time you see a tree for what it really is and you get that little hop of excitement in your stomach-- like learning that the girl you like likes you back-- like hearing that you've won a writing contest for a trip to Seattle and a hardcore nerd video game convention.
I will now reference made-for-tv movies again. This makes it seem like I watch a lot of made-for-tv movies, but I don't. I swear. I don't even know that Lifetime has its own movie network. Anyway, I saw one where a dude is uber-depressed. He walks around all the time being all like "I'm soooo sad" and "life is just teh awfuls." He even walks into the woods and cries in the grass. It was campy as fuck, and I got a kick out of it. But then it dawns on him, and it's not a subtle dawning-- it's not a challenge for the watcher-- he acts out the "epiphany" part to critical acclaim. Actually what I just said was a lie.
He decides to kill himself. And suddenly he's all like uber happy and stuff! I mean, LOL! He starts giving away all his stuff and being all like "I lubb you Mom" and "I lubb you Dad." They can't believe the change in him. It's like his own private little secret that makes only him happy. I bet his little stomach was hopping all over the frickin' place. He was going to kill himself, and he totally didn't even give a crap.
And now I'm all happy! But don't worry, I'll never kill myself. As I've told lots of people in the past, if my death is ever ruled as a suicide, it's a cover-up, and you'd best go looking for more clues. Someone killed me! LOL! But my happiness comes from a different place. A place where death is just an abstraction unless you leave work early to attend a funeral... or if you're a coroner.
See, I've been thinking about quitting my job for a while now (about two weeks into it, I wanted out-- almost a year ago now), and now I'm totally going to do it. I'm going to disseminate my resignation letter at the end of today, and no one's going to stop me! That's sort of why I'm posting this here. Because 1) I'm an exhibitionist, but with words, and 2) it makes it sort of final. I mean, I can't back out now, right? Right? Well, I hope I don't. I'm sick of complaining about work. Those close to me know all too well. LOOOOLZ.
Knowing this is my own private suicide (OMG MORBID!) is making work fun now. I suppose that's ironic in a number of ways. I'm not giving away anything, but I am all like "I lubb you laptop" and "I lubb you office."
People will ask: "so what's your plan?" And the answer to that is: "I don't have one." ROFL!!11 I'm going to branch out, I think. I'm going to try something that's totally uncomputery. I'm getting sick of the computers again. Who knows. Who knows. Who knows.
The movie Hook comes to mind. Y'know where Dustin Hoffman is about to shoot himself, and he's all like "Don't try to stop me, Smee. Don't try to stop me, Smee." And Smee just sits there. And then Hook sees Smee won't try to stop him and starts yelling "Try to stop me, Smee! Smee! Get up off your ass and try to stop me!" And Smee races toward Hook and pushes the gun away from Hook's head. But the gun totally went off just barely missing him. Now that shows balls. Hook was really going to do it. Dude crazy.
So feel free to try to stop me, Smees. But I'm going to hobble over to the gun, pull the trigger, and I'm totally not even going to give a crap. |
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| Posted by
Brandon
on Monday, July 21, 2008 @ 09:01pm CDT
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See, there's this ball.
And it's churning, and it's pulsating, and it's on fire.
Everyone's all like: the ball is your goal! The ball is what you want! Go for the ball!
And then you say: how about letting the ball be? How about appreciating the beauty of the ball? How about not possessing it?
And they say "but possession is life."
And you say "life isn't life?"
And they say "nope."
So you're off by yourself again.
And you build a fort out of blankets.
Awesome. |
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| Posted by
Brandon
on Wednesday, July 16, 2008 @ 08:26am CDT
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The hard part about being a comedic actor, and I say this not as a seasoned comedic actor, but as a particularly unseasoned actor, is "not laughing." I laugh all the time. I giggle like a little schoolgirl when I see a squirrel running or a stuffed animal hanging out of a window. So, to me, it's no surprise that when you put me with other people who I find hilarious, that we make each other laugh, and it becomes an exercise in restraining laughter, and it never works.
Once in 10th grade Spanish class, I was able to generate such a buildup of unlaughter, that is, the idea that you cannot laugh at a given point, that it began to affect me as well. I had seen my error about halfway through the process. We were going over verb conjugation in the preterit tense-- to wit, the verb poner which means "to put." To say "I put" in Spanish, you say puse. This is pronounced "pooh-say," which sounded to me like a frat boy wanting to get laid. "Boys! Let's get some POOH-SAY!!! WOOO!!!" [high-five]
The word was on the projector amongst a list of other words, and I had already determined how it would be pronounced. So my brilliant idea was to make the guy in front of me (his name was Justin) laugh uncontrollably when the teacher finally said the word. It was a plan that needed very specific seeding. I carefully and quietly pointed out the word and asked him how to pronounce it. He told me, and it slowly dawned on him what I meant. So I began to lay the foundation for my evil scheme.
"You are going to laugh SO hard when she says that," I said. "I will not," he replied. "Whatever," I continued, "you're totally going to lose it. POOH-SAY. Oh, God, you're a goner." "You'll laugh too," he said. "No way. I'm too mature for that. But you-- YOU-- you won't be able to take it, and it will be hilarious." I had already realized now that I probably would laugh, but I kept going. I said things like "ooh, here it comes.. it's getting closer" and "she's going to say it! she's going to say it!"
When we finally came upon the word, it was introduced as "now SOME boys in the earlier class were not able to maturely hear this word..." and that was all it took. We both lost it. That simple introductory phrase was the rumble in the volcano, and we erupted with laughter. We couldn't stop. We were told to stop, sure, but that's not how unlaughter works. You don't stop, and the more you're told you shouldn't be laughing, the funnier it is. David Sedaris has a similar story about his youth, his siblings, and Grandma farting at the dinner table.
Anyway, the comedic acting: the plan was simple. The two of us were to perform a "comedy skit." We were to conduct an interview for a child portrait photographer. The funny part here was the interviewer would revert to a child. The interviewee would hand over his resume, be asked a few questions, and the interviewer would start crying. He would then explain that if the applicant really wanted to be a children's portrait photographer, he would have to be able to deal with difficult children. It was just a test, and it was all part of the interview process. Unsettled, but understanding, the applicant says "Oh, don't worry little guy, we're going to have some fun! Let's take your picture!"
I was playing the part of the applicant. And as I said that line, the interviewer screamed at me "No! I wanted to go get ice cream!" This was all scripted, but it began to go to extremes. I started to say "Maybe you'll get ice cream later!" and he interrupted me, screaming at me, "NO! NO! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU, I HATE MOM, AND BEARS, AND CARS, AND I HATE JESUS!"
And I lost it. None of those lines were in our rehearsal (which is the sign of good comedy) but I laughed, which means I ruined it. The interviewer kept playing his part superbly screaming such gems as "poop face" and "Jesus butt," but I could not stay in character. I absolutely could not stay in character. It's a problem I know I have to work on, and the skit ended with an apology instead of its intended conclusion. There was still applause, but it was the "good effort" kind of applause. It didn't feel right, and I felt like I had let everyone down.
After the show, I was given some great advice which was as follows: "You have to think about the audience. Our goal is to make other people have fun. What we did was funny, but imagine how funny it would have been if we had been able to complete it. If you think about the goal in terms of the audience, not-laughing becomes easier and easier." I told him the story about the word puse in Spanish class, and he called it "unlaughter," and then he called it a science. He said it takes just as much work as the comedy itself, and he's absolutely right.
There's another show on Friday with a rehearsal tomorrow night. There's excessive laughter at rehearsal, but it's expected to be restrained during the actual show. Everyone was very understanding of my "mistake," and that helped. They say things like "we've all been there," and then they say things like "we're all still there." And it makes me feel like I've found good people. People who can sometimes control their inklings to poke some pooh-say. |
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| Posted by
Brandon
on Monday, July 14, 2008 @ 08:59am CDT
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When I was little I was convinced I was adopted. I saw a television show, some pulpy made-for-tv-movie, where an adult learned very late in life that she was adopted right after birth. But she was never told about it. It caught her by surprise, and she coped or established a vendetta or whatever it is you do in made-for-tv movies. Maybe she bought some canned ham and went about her day. I don't remember. But I was horrified. My brain told me I wasn't exempt from those sorts of revelations. If it could happen on TV, it could happen to me. That was all it took to make my adoption final.
"It's okay," I'd say to my Mom. "You can tell me the truth. I can take it. I'm old enough now." She would shake her head. "You were NOT adopted, Brandon." But I'd poke, and I'd prod. "Why are there no pictures of me right after my birth? As with your ACTUAL children?" My mother would slowly explain. "It's because you had to be rushed away. You got stuck during the birth from being so big, and your oxygen supply was cut off. You were blue, and I was crying. I couldn't believe what I had done to you."
Her words were powerful, and I admitted that she made a good case, but I still wasn't convinced. They were most likely lying to me to preserve my feelings. How both very nice and very mean of them. People would tell me how much I looked like my Dad, or how much I acted like him, and I'd think they were just placating me, or I'd think that I had learned those mannerisms just by watching him. Amusing anecdotes were amusing, but they weren't proof.
Eventually I learned to accept the fact that I wasn't adopted. It was mostly the consistency of the parental denials. Part of me still thinks it's a possibility, but I've begun to see the traits of my parents in me more clearly, and it's hard to make the case. My Dad went gray at a young age, and I've begun to see wisps of gray in my temples. Hearing my voice recorded reminds me of his voice. My (sometimes excessive) sentimentality is absolutely my mother. My love of children is inherited from her too. The utterly inane wackiness-- to the point that some people will think mental disorder-- that is pervasive among me and my siblings can be connected through little but a shared genetic pool.
A few years ago when I learned that both my brother and sister will ramble incoherent babble to themselves-- guttural, undefined syllables designed to mimic the idea behind language-- I smiled. I do it too. When I learned they even do this when they're by themselves, my relation to them was solidified. When the three of us do it together, it's a cacophony of unlanguage, and it's beautiful, and it's confusing, and it's comfortable. It also makes other people leave the room.
All of this didn't, however, preclude the idea that we were all aliens waiting to be awakened by a supreme unannounced hierarchy. The Sci-Fi channel did that one to me. I just needed proof. Proof or constant reassurance-- either will work just fine. |
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