I have no shame.

Hey there, Timmy and Tammy Everykid! Why so glum? What's that you say? You're discouraged by all of the turmoil of war, hurricanes, energy crises, judicial vacancies, and so forth? The world is going to hell in a hand basket and you feel powerless to do anything about it? You just don't understand why anyone would be attracted to Paris Hilton? Well, SHUT UP! Stop being such a damn baby! No wonder you don't have any friends!

Um, what I meant to say was, there is a solution, and it's easier than you think! All you have to do is suck up to somebody popular and get them to give you a ride to Chestertown (motto: Come for the education, stay for the corn!) to see Duchamp Redux: an Ersatz Neo-Futurist Production! What the purple monkey heck is that, you ask? That's funny, I don't remember saying that it was your turn to talk, you ill-mannered banana hammock! To the rest of you, who were waiting patiently for me to finish, I apologize. For this show, a cast of 25 mildly attractive college students have memorized over 45 short plays, ranging in length from fifteen seconds to two minutes. It took lots of threats and mocking humiliation from director Dale Daigle, world-renowned for his experience in lion taming and air guitar, but he whipped these young people into shape. The audience will be seated on stage and will be harassed by a fierce-looking blond Amazon until they shout out numbers like hungry animals. Each number, ranging from 1 to 61, is attached to a specific play, as displayed in the program. The flaxen-haired stranger will then choose one of the shouted numbers at her own discretion, and the according play will be performed. This bizarre spectacle will continue for an hour, by which time the charming, unkempt performers will have completed no less than 30 plays. (Wow, that's amazing!) It sure is, parenthetical exclaimer! But what happens if they fail in this task? Failure is not an option, dammit! But just in case this does happen, Daigle has promised that the audience will receive a full refund and pizza. He will then torment the offending cast members with the empty boxes and hurl bottles of liquor in their general direction.

Sure, this sounds like the Utopian wet dream of some crazy Swede, I know that. But it's all true! Except for the libelous parts. Maybe you're the distinguished theatregoing type, and you'd like to know a bit more about what you're in for. Well, aren't we hoity toity all of a sudden? You can't fool me; I've seen that well-worn CATS t-shirt in your closet, you dirty fraud! Here's the deal. Many of the scenes are funny and absurd. Some are sincere and solemn. Most are political and provocative. A few are just plain gross. You'll see foul-mouthed bicyclists, fashion-conscious males who indulge their primal urges, homophobic puppets, vengeful meditation, feminine hygiene cross-bred with accessorizing, and the good old stand-by...MUCH, MUCH MORE! What??? You're STILL not convinced? Well, I've got a big fat rock with your name on it, you snooty, un-please-able person, you! And if idle threats don't do the job, this will. For two nights only, WAC Drama welcomes back its two most distinguished alumni*:

* = Who graduated in 2004, have odd facial hair, and happen to live together but don't like each other that way

KEVIN BROTZMAN AND MIKE MEAGHER

What will this pair of unpredictable jokers do when the spotlight is theirs for another half a minute? There's only one way to find out, by gum!

Now that I have surely brow-beaten you into a rousing night of fine performance art on the Eastern Shore, I will make with the details. Show dates are Thursday, September 29 (HURRY! ONLY FOR A LIMITED TIME!) at 7:00 PM and 8:30 PM, Friday, September 30 (FDA APPROVED!) at 7:00 PM and 8:30 PM, and Saturday, October 1 (THIS IS NOT BOXING DAY!) at 8:00 PM. Tickets can be bought for just five of your filthy paper dollars, though to ensure a seat, you must reserve ahead of time by calling (410) 778-7835 or emailing drama_tickets@washcoll.edu. Please don't do both; we will find you and give you a sideways wedgie. The bubbling cauldron of dramatic activism where this freakish sideshow takes place is Tawes Theatre, in the Gibson Performing Arts Building. It's the one that all of the Native Americans are buried under. You may find it if you drive or jog to 300 Washington Avenue, located in Chestertown, on the dazzling, fiddler-crab infested Eastern Shore of Maryland.

Oh, I can't believe it! Some little snot-nosed weiner out there is still not satisfied! What now? Yes, I did suggest that you could make a difference in this crazy world by going to Duchamp Redux. No, I haven't mentioned how. I'll fix you good...grumble...exposing my ignorance...
As I just remembered, there is even a humanitarian bent to this weekend's proceedings. Your five dollars will not go straight into the pockets of those Drama Department fat cats, but rather it will be donated to the American Red Cross for its Hurricane Katrina Disaster Relief Program. So be the first on your block to shame your selfish neighbors, who have probably wasted their five dollars on some gross McDonald's sandwich with that brownish lettuce and those unholy blends of congealed sauces. Finally, the Dale Daigles and Harry Wrights of the world are giving back to America...after taking so much. So remember: if you miss this show, you don't care about black people. Just try and live with that.

Wow, there really is something very wrong with me.

Current Music: Harry Nilsson - Without You

In the style of Larry King.

No, I haven't morphed into a geriatric owl creature. However, I am stealing Mr. King's format of random observations:

-After traveling two miles from Route 32 to I-97 on Friday in THIRTY minutes, thanks to the fallout from a previous carbecue on the highway, I cannot imagine how I would have reacted to a fourteen hour backup such as took place in Houston during the mandatory evacuation. The veneer of human civility runs very thin. Suffice to say, I employed middle fingers and got in a brief shouting match with an inconsiderate driver.

-As Molly alluded to, Entenmann's coffee crumb cake is delicious. How did I ever forget this?

-There is comedy, there is high comedy, and then there is Christopher Walken in full outlandish supervillian mode suddenly breaking into...an armpit fart concerto. I was drinking at the time, which explains why I was watching "The Country Bears", but I'm fairly certain that I really saw this scene unfold.

-At the very least, it is estimated that 100,000 people marched on Washington, D.C. Saturday to protest the war in Iraq, as well as the other policies and failings of George W. Bush. Some guesses put the number closer to 300,000. No matter what, it is very reassuring to know that other people are pissed off and that we're doing something about it. Even better: there were only three arrests reported.

-On the other hand, two counter-protests in DC netted a *total* of 600 people. Comparatively, they look a little foolish. And really, I try occasionally to put myself in the other person's shoes, but when you carry a sign that says "Arrest the Traitors" - well, as has been said before, "It's better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to speak up and remove all doubt."

-Back to the bizarre, do yourself a favor and download a cover of the Talking Heads' "Burning Down the House", as performed by...Tom Jones and the Cardigans. You may curse me for it later.

-Nothing says "I can't be trusted with the keys to your room while you're away" quite like locking yourself out of said room twice in the span of a weekend.

-Duchamp Redux is going to be a hell of a show, even if the scene I wrote did get nudged out. All I care about is that I still get to injure myself and my roommate in the name of comedy.

-I do believe I stripped for a nickel last night. At least I got to keep the nickel.

-I don't drink coffee very often, and now I know for sure that it's not best to start when you'll be crossing the Bay Bridge in the pitch dark in the coming hours. That was not fun in my addled state.

-I am going to start writing a new play this week. I will write 20 pages of it by Friday. If I do not, please punish me accordingly. Start coiling the wet towels now.

Current Music: George Harrison - Set on You

B-I-G Pimpin'

Okay, I have made a promise, and I must deliver. Here goes.

HEY KIDS! Tired of the same old forms of entertainment? Reality television giving you a rash? Is that Playstation 2 controller covered with that gross dirt and gunk from your heathen's hands? Does that Tom Clancy paperback make you long for the sweet, airtight embrace of death? Well, have I got the solution for you!

Come see the Rude Mechanicals production of KING JOHN at Laurel High School! They even let you choose which date you would like to attend! How's THAT for service with a smile, huh? Select from Friday, September 23 (why, that's tomorrow!), Saturday, September 24 (very popular with the ladies), Friday, September 30 (just added!), or Saturday, October 1 (that's a whole month away!). All shows are at 8 PM Eastern/6 PM Mountain time. Tickets are just $10, $8 for students and senior citizens. No Ewoks, though. They aren't covered by the insurance plan. If you are one of those hyper-sensitive types who needs to know exactly where a building is located before you decide to drive there, it can be found at 8000 Cherry Lane, Laurel MD 20707. So Mapquest it and quit whining, you pansy.

So what exactly do you get for eight or ten dollars, you wonder? Oh, my stars! Well, it's a show that is two parts Shakespeare and one and three-eighths Monty Python. It clocks in at just about two hours, which is highly valuable when it comes to Willie the Shakes. You'll marvel at the breast-fondling, French-stereotyping, lion-wearing, thumb-sucking whimsy packed into this little dynamo! If that's not enough to convince you that an evening with the Rudes is a better use of your money than the latest Ben Stiller Wankathon, I have five - er, no, three! - words for you...

JOHN.

CURTIS.

HEFNER.

Damn skippy, hippie! You loved him in "Vigil"! You recoiled in horror for "Blue Surge"! You wondered what the deal was with all the red coloring in "The Crucible"! But Hugh's favorite cousin is back with a vengeance and chewing every piece of scenery that doesn't contain asbestos! Can the consummate "larger than life" actor make you forget the meaning of the word subtlety? There's only one way to find out! Come on out and watch him bring the energy, the noise, and possibly the funk to the titular role of KING JOHN! Do it, or I will hunt you down and cut you!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, I'm back. Whew. What just happened? All I know is that I logged into Blogspot, and then blacked out. Why are you crying?

Current Music: Jay-Z - Big Pimpin'

Kevin, meet Cactus. Cactus, Kevin.

I've been promising this update all weekend, so I'd better get to it while everything is fresh in my mind.

If you're not a wrestling fan, it may be tough to imagine why I have such wide-eyed admiration for Mick Foley. Allow me to make my best attempt to sum it up. Mick Foley is one of us - a wrestling geek who made good. He grew up in a stable, suburban home on Long Island. He was best known for his sense of humor, and wasn't exactly a hit with the ladies. He didn't get his first kiss until he was eighteen; it was his freshman year at college, she was the girl he was crushing on hard. Then she called him "Frank". Ouch. After such a devastating blow, it was clear that there was only one path for Mick to take: he would train to become a wrestler.

Shortly thereafter, Foley began training with former tag team champion Dominic DeNucci in Pittsburgh. But he never gave up on college. He would drive from New York to Pittsburgh and back every weekend, sleeping in his old Ford Fairmont to save money. He worked from the bottom up, and waited seven years to get his break with a major company, WCW. Even then, he didn't have it made. He battled and struggled and moved from company to company, even wrestling death matches in Japan just to feed his family. He sustained countless injuries, the worst of which was having his right ear torn from his head after getting caught in the ring ropes during a tour of Germany. (So, is wrestling fake or real? The answer lies in between, of course. In this case, it was an unfortunate accident). It all paid off in 1999, when after fifteen years in the business, Mick Foley finally won the WWF World Heavyweight Title. That chubby, awkward guy from Long Island, the kid who wrestled as "Dude Love" in his backyard with his friends, had the top spot in the wrestling world.

Around the same time, WWF commissioned a professional writer to help Mick compile his life's story for publication. After his initial excitement, Foley was disappointed to see the early results. The pages he read sounded nothing like him. It was so flat and sterile. For God's sake, this ghostwriter didn't even know who the Fonz was. How could he give readers insight to the real Mick Foley? So Mick took action. He told Vince McMahon and his cohorts that he wanted to take a shot at writing the book himself. After producing several handwritten chapters, the company agreed. So Mick kept writing...and writing...and writing. About seven hundred handwritten pages later (don't quote me on that), he had his first New York Times bestseller. "Have a Nice Day!" was a huge success, and shattered the popular legend that wrestling fans can't or don't or won't read. It was heartfelt, it was funny, and most important of all, it was impossible to put down. The book created a world of opportunity for Mick. He was able to write a follow-up, "Foley is Good", which was just as popular. Since then, he has also written a handful of children's books and two novels: "Tietam Brown" and the newly published "Scooter".

More importantly, Mick was able to find life after wrestling. Most grapplers never do - they spend their entire lives traveling from show to show, taking hundred dollar paydays in podunk towns like Kearney, Nebraska in hopes that they'll get another break, or that they'll just feel something. With his all-out, risk taking style of wrestling, Mick knew that he was putting himself in serious danger the longer he wrestled a full schedule. Now that he has made his mark in the literary world, he is practically retired. Since 2000, he has wrestled a few dates a year, but he mostly just makes public appearances. This gives him much more time to spend with his beautiful wife and four children.

So what can I say? I grew to love him by watching him wrestle in the guise of a wide range of characters: from cheesy hipster Dude Love to tortured, mangled freak-turned-lovable, sock-puppet wearing goofball Mankind to bloodthirsty maniac Cactus Jack, I've been rolling my eyes or laughing or gaping in awe all along the way. Once I read "Have a Nice Day", I felt like I knew the man behind those masks, and he wasn't very different from you or me, give or take an ear and some front teeth. My favorite match of all time is still his no-holds-barred street fight against Triple H, a bloody marathon of a bout that unfolds like a story. To me and my friends, it is known simply as The Street Fight. I rejoiced when I was able to track down a rare Cactus Jack t-shirt on eBay, and in fact, I was once accosted in a Suncoast Video by a fan who offered to buy it right off of my back. (It was too small for him, and I wouldn't have done it anyway.) I dressed up as Cactus for Halloween. I adapted parts of "Have a Nice Day" for a Playwriting II project, which meant foisting the book upon TM for a period of time. I wonder how much he read. When I thought about who I would actually *want* to be my commencement speaker, rather than the crackpot governor of Maryland, it couldn't have been anyone but Mick Foley. As lukewarm as my interest in the current wrestling scene has become, I'll still flick on the TV any time I hear that he's making an appearance. (The next is October 3, by the way.)

So, okay, even if you don't think Mick Foley's wonderful, you can understand why I was so whacked out over the looming prospect of meeting him face to face. Mostly, I was worried that I would blow it. I so desperately wanted to say something witty, or honest, or original, something I'd want to remember, and maybe he would too. I spent hours debating what I should say, how I should act. Should I tell him that I'm a huge fan? Bleah. He's never heard that before, I'm sure. Do I tell him that I dedicated multiple college assignments to him? Sure, THAT's not at all creepy. So yeah, I was worried that in the heat of the moment, I would turn into a quivering, sweat soaked mass of awkward stammering and wide-eyed confusion. But, there was a more latent fear, no matter how impossible it seemed to me. As another one of my personal icons, Bill "The Sports Guy" Simmons has said, there is nothing worse than meeting one of your heroes and finding out that he is a jerk. With all of this swimming around in my head, I left my parents' house at 9:30 AM Saturday morning...

...And got to the convention center at 11 AM. For the uninitiated, I (or my parents, I guess) live no more than 40 minutes away from downtown Baltimore. This part of the story is not terribly interesting and it just makes me angry, so I'll keep it short. Construction RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE TOLLS on I-95. No one was moving. Brilliant. Had to turn around and take Eastern Avenue to the Harbor, which meant sitting at a traffic light every twelve seconds. Spent ten-fifteen minutes downtown in an amusing search for a parking lot that had an attendant, since I didn't have exact change and driving in the city is an impossible discipline. Found a place on Pratt Street that offered me parking and a car wash for twelve bucks. My car is dirty and I was too frazzled to keep looking for something better, so I acquiesced. Walked several blocks to the convention center. Okay, we're caught up.

So now I'm sweating profusely, I'm sure. At least I fit in better that way. Okay, that's unfair. Several of the conventioneers seemed rather well-groomed, and only a select few were in costume. Besides, I have no right poking fun at anyone when I was wandering around in a Cactus Jack "Wanted: Dead" shirt holding a Mick Foley novel. I wonder who I came to see, hmm? Anyway, I entered the convention area to find a sea of tables and booths. Comic books and action figures and whatever else have you, as far as the eye could see. I set about to find Mick, afraid that I could miss him. After all, he was only there until 1 PM and I had no idea what kind of line there would be. But as I wandered down the main aisle, I saw a familiar banner and yes, some familiar faces.

Their names are Mike and Jerry, I hear, but I know them only as Tycho and Gabe, the creators of Penny Arcade, the gold standard among video game-themed webcomics. There was nobody (!) at their table, so I wandered up and struck up a conversation. I told them that I loved the comic, even though I was a casual gamer. They expressed surprise that I still understood and enjoyed it, so I assured them that theme matter such as giant scorpions was universal. They agreed. I also rambled on for a bit about how great it is that they run the Child's Play charity at Christmas, which started off as a gesture of goodwill and an opportunity for gamers to prove to an ignorant, litigious society that we're not all degenerates. Tycho explained that he knew that people would be willing to give just as long as they made it as easy as possible. So they did all the grunt work in contacting the hospitals and setting up a means of distribution and a wish list through Amazon and PayPal, and the results have been staggering. (Over half a million dollars worth of toys, books, and money collected in just two seasons!) I also congratulated them on a recent eBay auction of one of Gabe's art prints, which raised $8700 for Hurricane Katrina relief. Gabe pointed out that it was the winning bidder who did all the work. Finally, I decided that I should probably stop being a deadbeat and buy something from them. I asked about the poster and t-shirt prices, and was informed of some enticing package deal. They assured me that their partner Robert would accept my "filthy human money", which at the very least made it clear that they talk just like they write. Tycho noticed that I was seriously mulling it over, so I quoted the ancient prophet Homer J. Simpson: "Your ideas intrigue me, and I wish to subscribe to your newsletter." He laughed, and as a line was forming, I rededicated myself to finding Mick Foley. Eventually, I came back and bought a Fruit'>http://www.penny-arcade.com/view.php?date=2003-06-04">Fruit Fucker t-shirt. As I told Gabe and Tycho, "You just can't say no to the Fruit Fucker."



I probably didn't spend more than five minutes searching, but it seemed much longer. While I was conversing with the Penny Arcade guys, I heard a PA announcement about Mick Foley. I didn't want to seem rude, so I didn't abruptly stop and find out what it was. Was he leaving early? Was he in a secret, cordoned-off room? In my impatience and insecurity, I considered stopping to ask someone where he could be found, but who among them would know? I imagined a haughty X-Men fan heaping scorn upon me, the oddball who comes to a comic convention to seek out a dirty pro wrestler. Finally, something caught my eye in the far corner of the room: a telltale black shirt with a yellow print. This was it. No turning back.

As I approached, there he was, in the flesh. The shaggy long hair, the wild goatee, the burly frame...in a Bruce Springsteen shirt, but no matter. He sat with an assistant, who collected the money. There was a stack of brand-new "Scooter" novels, a pile of 8x10 photos, and a smaller stack of copies of "Foley is Good". Behind him there were "Wanted:Dead" shirts, but they weren't the originals. This was a newer model, that read "Wanted: Dead or Alive", and said "Mick Foley" rather than "Cactus Jack". No thank you. The line wasn't deep at all, maybe five people. I took my place at the back, and noted the prices. $20 for a shirt, $15 for a photo, $10 to get your own item signed. Ouch. So I was definitely just getting my novel signed. Or was I? When I was next in line, I picked up a copy of "Scooter". I'm going to read it some time anyway, I might as well get it straight from the source. His assistant told me it was $28. Ouch. Maybe not. Mick looked up from the book he was signing and told me that he'd sign my copy of "Tietam Brown" for free if I got the new one, too...if I wanted. But even the prospect of Mick Foley bargaining with me didn't overwhelm my grip on the purse strings. Not that I have a purse, of course. It's just a figure of speech, I swear. So I put down my $10 and handed "Tietam Brown" to Mick. He asked me if I had enjoyed it, and I started gushing. I don't think I was too mawkish, but I did make it a point to tell him that I loved it, loved all of his books...not that I had read "Scooter" yet, but I plan to...my favorite match of all time is the Street Fight...

"With Triple H?" he asked.

Of course. It had never occurred to me that everyone didn't speak in the same code as my friends and I, and that after twenty years in the wrestling business, he had probably had more than his share of such matches. Oh well. Working overtime to cram in as much content as I could, I tossed him the story about someone trying to buy my Cactus Jack shirt right off of my back in the mall. He offered some sort of cursory response, probably "Yeah?". I don't remember, because I was concentrating very hard on not wetting my pants. So I told him that I dodged a bullet, as it wouldn't have fit the guy anyway. Before I could ask for a picture, the next guy in line walked up and handed Mick a handful of fliers for his buddy's wrestling show or something. They talked for a minute, and I patiently waited until they were done so I could get my picture, the picture that will hang from my baby's crib someday. Okay, maybe not, but you get the idea. Part of my insane pre-comicon deliberations involved this moment. What pose would I assume for the picture? I wanted to go with the Cactus Jack "Bang Bang" fingers, but it seemed way too over-the-top and chances were that I would find a way to screw it up. I finally settled on the cheesy Mick Foley thumbs up, which he had assumed as part of his on-air persona late in his career. As I leaned in for the picture, I caught Mick in my peripheral vision giving the thumbs up. Well, that settled it, then. Camera and novel in hand, I thanked him and went on with the rest of my life. Observe.



The time was 11:30 AM. I had done everything I had come to do, at a price tag of $37 for admission, parking, and an autograph, and it had only been half an hour. So I shuffled around the convention for a while longer, stopping to gaze idly at a Family Guy figure or a rack of comics. I was out of my element. I took a return trip by Mick Foley's table, on the off chance that he would be free to talk and I could say something more substantial. He actually happened to be standing in front of the table, and as I came nearer, he walked right past me to buy an action figure from a nearby merchant. I didn't get a chance to get his attention, but I noticed that he wasn't much taller than me, maybe an inch or two. He was HUGE, however, a bear of a man. He turned and left, and I have no idea where he went. In the course of another thirty minutes of wandering, I didn't see him again. I don't know if he grabbed lunch or what, but it seemed odd that he would disappear ninety minutes into a three-hour session.

The more I think about it, he really didn't seem to be in a good mood. Maybe he was missing his family, or maybe he was tired. Perhaps he was discouraged by a low turnout at his table and a lack of buyers for his newest novel. Way to go, Kevin, you insulted Mick Foley and made him cry. Okay, not really. But no matter what it was, he didn't take it out on the people who had come to see him. He was very polite and patient with me, as well as the folks ahead of me in line that I observed. Small children, women, dorky young guys like myself, it didn't matter. I guess you could get pretty sick of the song-and-dance after a while. But all that matters to me is that I met Mick Foley, and I have a picture to commemorate it. Oh, and the book! I almost forgot. The inscription read, "To Kevin - glad you liked Tietam. Mick Foley and Socko."

Current Music: Jim Johnston's Mankind Theme

Don't you ever think anything you don't say?

I am home for the weekend. I need the comfort that my family provides, just need to eat with them and talk to them and see my house again. I'm going to see Boots at the hospital tomorrow. I'll watch the Ravens game on Sunday with my dad and Uncle Phil, have a few beers. And sure, while I'm here, I'll pop into the Baltimore Convention Center tomorrow morning and visit with Michael Francis Foley. That's probably why I'm so jittery, nervous, scattered, almost nauseous tonight. I can't focus. So this should be an adventure.

My cousin asked me to be her confirmation sponsor. For you non-Papists, that basically means she's going to get smeared with some oil by the bishop and that will give her the gift of the Holy Spirit. ("Whoooo, Holy Ghost, Holy Ghost! Whoooooo!") Think of it as a Bat Mitvah for Catholic kids. And I'm there as...um...a witness, a role model. I'm actually looking at it as a sort of honor, especially since it's the second go-round for me. I sponsored my sister when I was still in high school. Really, I guess a kid could do worse for role models, as long as you ignore the infrequent church attendance. I'm banking on God to do just that. I have been trying to curse people out less, after all.

I hate that freaking talking baby in the Quizno's commercial. Ugh. It was almost funny when it was a John Travolta movie...FIFTEEN YEARS AGO! Plus, whatever MS Paint-esque program they used to make the baby's mouth move looks like shit. Why didn't they just construct a horrifying, monstrous baby puppet of some sort? At least it would've had shock value; that would be something. I don't even know who voices the baby, but it sounds like the fat guy from Herman's Head. Trust me, that's not the sort of comparison you strive for as an actor. I guess if you were Horatio Sanz, it would be the proverbial dangling carrot. But he would just start laughing in the middle of the sketch and choke on the carrot. I'm not fond of Saturday Night Live, either.

One of my favorite subplots of reality television is the wide array of useless, half-assed "jobs" attributed to the contestants. I understand that you take whatever work you can find to pay the bills, especially as the Conservative Bloodsuckers find new and creative ways to funnel more and more money from the pockets of those who can least afford it. But if you're a waitress in a coffee shop, don't give me this "barista" crap. You serve coffee. You don't barist. Along those lines, you are not a "document manager". You are a file clerk, a paper pusher, a cubicle monkey. I love those contestants on the other end of the spectrum - those who embrace the absurdity and marginal nature of their work. I thought it had reached a new peak with Howie, the former male stripper and current meteorological student who yearned to be a Jedi...until he discovered that they didn't have sex so much. Then I tuned in to the season premiere of Survivor last night and discovered that one of the castaways was credited as a...magician's assistant. I have nothing to add to that. Color me impressed.

Why the hell are guys so crazy about losing their hair? I find myself flicking loose hairs off in the shower, brushing them off as they fall on my desk, running my hand across my hairline and imagining that it's getting farther away, peering at the top of my head in the mirror and making note of how much scalp is visible. Screw it. Even if my hair does fall out, that doesn't make me less of a person. I won't be less funny, less sensitive, less compassionate, less intelligent. I like my hair; it's always been thick and dark and soft. I even think it's kind of funny that I've got patches of gray. I'll miss it when I'm gone. But if anyone is shallow enough to dismiss me because I lack it, then it should be their loss. Just think of what a badass I'll be with the shiny, globular skull and thick, rich goatee. Maybe I will be less of a neurotic, jabbering sillyhead.

Probably not.

Current Music: Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - Straight to You

Kevin SMASH!

Because I'm tired and I saw this in Kate Amann's lovely LiveJournal and it looked pretty neat and therapeutic, it's time to fight back. SHUT UP!

Shut up, headache!

Shut up, sleep deprivation!

Shut up, seasonal allergies!

Shut up, stupid college researchers, who I've been talking to on the phone in chunks of fifty per day for the last week!

Shut up, MARC Camden Line train that's been late arriving late in either Laurel, DC, or both every day for the last two weeks!

Shut up, crappy Main Street Laurel, with your interminable traffic lights that are poorly timed, lane designations that shift at the drop of a hat, and moronic drivers who swerve into said lanes without signaling or waiting!

Shut up, beaten-down old car that needs a 40-dollar oil change every few months, a few hundred dollars for a new muffler, and a tank of gas every week and a half at three dollars per gallon!

Shut up, beaten-down five-year old computer that is obsolete in every way and crashes every time I log on to - or off of - the Internet! I don't want to pay hundreds of dollars for a new computer!

SHUT UP, COMCAST! I DO NOT OWE YOU SIXTEEN DOLLARS FOR INTERNET SERVICE THAT I DID NOT RECEIVE! I WOULD RATHER BATHE IN VINEGAR AND URINAL CAKES THAN SIT THROUGH YOUR IRRITATING PHONE PROMPTS AND EXPLAIN THE SAME PROBLEM THAT I'VE ALREADY EXPLAINED TO FIVE OTHER PEOPLE IN THE LAST TWO MONTHS!

And of course, shut up, George W. Bush. You and your Junta, your cronies, consistently make life worse for hardworking, honest, regular people like myself and the people I love, and you could care less. It only took five years for your approval rating to plunge into the thirties, and that is a damned miracle. I hope you're sleeping well at night.

Whew, well I guess I feel better. It's nothing that another Friday afternoon won't cure. Oh, and I'm going to meet wrestling legend, bestselling author, liberal spokesperson, and my personal hero Mick Foley on Saturday at the Baltimore Comic Convention. Squeals of delight. There will be a story, and hopefully pictures.

Current Music: Soundgarden - Ty Cobb

"Searing Gas Pain Land?"

As some of you know, Boothe and I took a trip to Six Flags: America yesterday. Why would we want to do that? I got two free tickets when I signed up for Comcast High Speed Internet, and I'll be damned if I wasn't going to get something out of my six weeks of testicle-bunching torment. So, rebounding from a rousing night of two-man Circle of Death, Molson Canadian, and wrestling DVDs, we clambered out of the condo at 10 AM and hopped in my roaring, groaning beast of a car, bound for Largo. We made it there by 10:45, fifteen minutes after the park opened. I was unpleasantly surprised by the TEN dollar parking fee, but I eased my sorrows by making the "Don't forget, we're parked in the Itchy Lot" joke for the ninety-seventh time. The classics never die.

Now, let me back up for a second. I *love* roller coasters, and I have ever since I was in my early teens, when I got tired of holding everyone's backpacks during our trips to Kings Dominion and Busch Gardens. But there are good theme parks, and bad theme parks. I give the aforementioned my seal of approval, as well as Hershey Park. However, as it is the closest park to home, I have been to Six Flags enough times to say without equivocation that it is...not good. There are plenty of mitigating factors. The park has undergone a few theme changes in the last couple decades, from the jungle-motif Wild World to the more generic, Cal Ripken-sponsored Adventure World (nothing could beat Crocodile Cal's Outback Beach House, though), to the current Six Flags: America brand. As a result, the park's actual "theme" is something of a hodgepodge, a bunch of half-assed ideas. You have the awesome comic-themed rides in Gotham City, but there's also a Looney Tunes area for the kiddies, and for some reason a cowboy-and-pirate-type land. But isn't it called "Six Flags: America?" Well...yeah. So right inside the gates, they've thrown together a colonial village of shoppes and reste roomes and the like. What a mess. Oh, and occasionally, someone gets stabbed.

But the worst aspect of SFA is without a doubt the pervasive flaw in every park under the Six Flags Umbrella: those horrid commercials with the creepy Dancing Old Man. Seriously, whose idea was that? "I know what will make people flock to our parks! We'll dress up a woman to look like a mutated cross between Charles Nelson Reilly and Abe Vigoda, and have it show up in a colorful bus that plays that annoying Venga Boys song. The Old Man pops out of the bus, dances spastically, and lures children away in the mysterious bus. It'll be great!" Of course, the creepy bastard is plastered all over the interior of the park. Amusingly enough, my father claims that it is actually Charles Nelson Reilly. He won't accept common logic as proof to the contrary. It hurts just to think about it.

So, I've already told you that Six Flags: America patches together pieces of several other theme parks. Still, it seems like there should be some cohesive, overriding theme that binds the various parts together. Boothe hit upon it as we disembarked from the Superman: Ride of Steel. It's a junkyard. It's painfully obvious from the high vantage points of the various roller coasters. From the dizzying heights of the Two Face: Flip Side I remarked on the highly visible storage area, complete with sheds, beer kegs, tents, and the like. But that's nothing compared to the view from atop the 90 foot drop on the Superman. It appears as though you are plunging into what was once a body of water. Now, however, it is an atomic, bright green mass of stagnance. As Boothe said, "If we fall, it's comforting to know that we'll be dissolved upon impact by flesh-eating bacteria". But the Bog of Eternal Stench was just the tip of the garbage iceberg. There was also a haphazard collection of junk scattered around a neglected field of grass between featured areas of the park. It included a length of tubing that looked like it was taken from a McDonald's PlayLand, a lonely locomotive, an empty gazebo, and best of all...and abandoned junked car that could have been a Pinto. Why? The world may never know. I won't even try to comprehend the wooden crosses and replica (I hope) skeletons that can be seen from the waiting area for the Superman ride. I can only assume it's a memorial to the immigrant laborers that died to build the coaster. Poor Canadians; they just wanted a piece of the American dream.

Beyond the pervasive urban decay decor, the core problem with Six Flags is that there just isn't enough to keep you there for a full day. They've mostly had the same shows for years; even if that's your thing, you can't sit through the Batman Stunt Show or the Looney Tunes gang singing "Funkytown" too many times. The roller coasters they have are very enjoyable; even the wooden ones are a good old-fashioned thrill. But there are only seven of them, and I have never been to Six Flags on a day that all of them were operating at the same time. Because we got to the park early, we avoided long lines until lunch and managed to catch all but the Mind Eraser while they were actually functioning. By lunch time, we were pretty satisfied. The water park is closed by this time of year, and even if it were open...well, you know. Those things are as sanitary as the restroom of a Shell station. We're not stupid or rich enough to hit the arcade. So we had some overpriced Chinese food and hit the best rides one more time, and then grabbed some funnel cake for the road. Of course, we were exhausted and dehydrated, so I pulled into a 7-Eleven and bought the most orgasmic Slurpee of my life. The final tally: Five hours at Six Flags: America. Forty dollars for food and parking. Ninety minutes round-trip. But the tickets were free, and the rides were fun, and the weather was nice for most of the day. But if anyone wants to take me to Cedar Point next year, I won't say no. I hear they are stabbing-free.

Current Music: Foghat - Slow Ride

My Canadian bride rescues me from the dying days of baseball.

You know what? I've been silent on the subject of my Baltimore Orioles for entirely too long. Yes, I said "my". The day I was born at Greater Baltimore Medical Center, Oriole Hall of Fame manager Earl Weaver was ejected from a game, as was his style. Being born and raised in Baltimore, I was destined to root for the Birds. There are pictures of me sitting in my high chair, wearing a tiny replica Jim Palmer jersey. My dad took me to my first game at Memorial Stadium when I was five. I didn't take to the team or the sport right away, but I've been draping myself in black and orange for thirteen years now, over half of my life. Sometimes it seems a lot longer. I have seen a lot of great players and moments in that time. Mike Mussina striking out fifteen Indians in the American League Championship Series. Eddie Murray returning to hit his 500th home run. That fantastic bench-clearing brawl against the hated Yankees. Cal Ripken...well, everything about Cal Ripken, especially the urban legend that his consecutive games streak was jeopardized when he was arrested for assaulting Kevin Costner after catching him in mid-coitus with Mrs. Kelly Ripken.

But those grand moments have been few and far between lately. "Dem O's" won the World Series in 1983, when I was still an infant. In my early years of fandom, they made back-to-back playoff appearances in 1996-1997. At no other time in my life have the Orioles even been to the post-season. Still, I've supported them through it all. When they let my heroes like Mussina and Rafael Palmeiro leave for greener pastures in New York, Texas, and the like, I still went to Camden Yards and shouted myself hoarse. As they populated the team with has-beens like David Segui and never-wases like Omar Daal, I tuned in to Comcast SportsNet for the first pitch. Even when the ragtag Orioles of 2001 battled to an even record late in the season, only to crash and burn with a dreadful 32 losses in their final 36 games, I gritted my teeth and hoped that I had seen the worst. But I can safely say that the second half of the 2005 baseball season has been one of my most frustrating and depressing experiences as a sports fan, and sometimes it leaves me wondering why I keep coming back.

Sure, the losing sucks. In my more fatalistic moments, I've wondered if my home team will ever win another championship in my lifetime. But when the O's burst out of the gate in first place in April, and stayed there for two whole months, I allowed myself to enjoy it, with a little caution along the way. For the first time in recent memory, the Orioles were winning. Fans, reporters, other players were all talking about them! My team! The Yankees and even the Red Sox were looking up from behind. As soon as it came, it was all gone, though. Injuries and inconsistency caught the Birds, and they fell hard. In a month and a half, they've gone from first to near-worst, with no signs of recovery. It eventually cost the manager, Lee Mazzilli, his job. That sucks for him, but someone always takes the fall, and he was about as interesting as the soap scum I just scrubbed off of my bathtub. Oh well.

No, the worst part is the actions of a select few players who are giving Baltimore a bad name. If you watch Conan O'Brien with any frequency, you know that star first baseman and Viagra pitchman Rafael Palmeiro tested positive for steroids back in May, although he wasn't suspended until after he notched his 3,000th career hit in August. When I first heard about it, I was just stunned. I spent my adolescent years claiming him as my favorite player, and was glad to see him return to the Orioles at the end of his career, at a time when he was setting records and cementing his place in the Hall of Fame. I defended and trusted him in March, as he pointed defiantly, stared down a Congressional panel and declared that he had "never used steroids...period". I wanted to believe that it was a technicality or a misunderstanding, even as Raffy made flimsy excuses about confidentiality agreements and mistaken ingredients in health supplements. I held on to my last shreds of hope as he said, amid wild speculation, that the truth would come out soon. In the end, that was all I wanted. Even if he was guilty, I would have forgiven him - most people would have - if he had just spoken candidly, honestly. No rehearsed written statements, "no comments", or flimsy lawyerese and double-talk. But I'm still waiting. Meanwhile, he just keeps digging himself deeper, attracting more scorn and jokes by resorting to earplugs to block out the jeers of a relatively sparse and apathetic Toronto crowd...the only road fans he faced before shutting down for the season with a knee injury. Is it his knee that is hurting, or his fragile ego? Well, you know what the public is going to say. I can't say I disagree with them. Rafael Palmeiro is out of second chances with me.

However, ol' Raffy is a boy scout compared to the flushed, bloated nightmare that is Sidney Ponson. The Orioles signed the righty pitcher as a seventeen year old in his native Aruba, and stuck by him for ten years as he struggled to develop into a major league quality pitcher. They didn't even give up in 1996, when he collected his first DUI while pitching for their minor league team in Frederick. So when all of that patience seemed to pay off with a 17-win season in 2003, the Birds rewarded Ponson with a three-year contract worth over 22 million dollars. They were confident that he would finally be the star pitcher to take the team to the next level. How did he respond to this newfound responsibility? Simple. He showed up in the spring weighing in at 260 pounds, and sputtered his way to an abysmal 3 win, 12 loss first half of 2004. He turned things around in the second half, winning 8 of 11 decisions, but it was too little, too late. The O's were way out of contention. Still, it seemed to set the right tone for 2005.

However, 2005 began with the Sidster in an Aruban prison after he caused a drunken ruckus on a beach and ended up punching a judge. If you haven't noticed yet, Sidney likes his beer. A lot. It seems to cause all of his problems; it's funny how that works. Ponson was apologetic, and he and the team did their best to put the incident behind them...for a few weeks, until he hurt his pitching hand in an altercation with a rowdy fan in a Fort Lauderdale restaurant. To Sid's credit, he was not the aggressor, but he still had to realize that he was under a microscope more than ever. With this in mind, he went out at got pulled over for his second DUI, which was also his second criminal offense in a month. Maybe you can see where this is going. As the Orioles went from first to worst, the constant was horrible, embarrassing pitching from Sidney Ponson. It was no wonder...his alcohol-fueled exploits were common knowledge to Baltimoreans. I myself was regaled with one such tale from my high school English teacher, a fierce party animal of a woman who apparently got into a shouting match with Sir Sidney in a local bar. "I no talk to you no more!", she kept telling us in her best Aruban accent. Class act, that Sidney.

So what is a baseball club to do? To their credit, they tried to make him someone else's problem...and came tantalizingly close. A potential trade to the San Diego Padres was vetoed by the other man in the deal, Padres veteran Phil Nevin. Don't get me started on that. Instead, Sid was still our problem as a calf injury mercifully landed him on the disabled list. Without his pesky pitching dates to worry about, our hero had ample time to get pulled over on I-95 just outside of Baltimore at 2 A.M. for his second DUI this year. That's three strikes overall, if you're counting. Well, fool me...umm...I won't get fooled again. The Baltimore Orioles at long last invoked the little-used morals clause in the standard player contract to void the remaining year and 13 million dollars left on Ponson's deal. We are free...sort of.

You see, the Players' Association has filed a grievance, claiming that the Orioles released Big Boy without "just cause". The sickening thing is that they will win the grievance. No one has ever successfully used the morals clause - it's been tried in reaction to players with cocaine addictions, a healthy appetite for prostitutes, you name it. Their union is just too powerful. You would think that endangering his own life and the lives of others and being a public nuisance and a criminal, and an embarrassment to a proud organization and city, as well as drinking himself into terrible shape for an athlete, would be "just cause". It's always good to know where the priorities of the MLBPA lie. No wonder my uncle has given up on baseball.
Maybe I should, too.

But there is a light at the end of the tunnel for me. I am not nearly cool or masculine enough to deny that I watch reality television. The show that captivates me these days is Rock Star INXS, where some ghoulish washed-up Aussie rockers set about the task of replacing their lead singer on worldwide television, seeing as how he only committed suicide last DECADE. But I just can't get enough of these cutting-edge twentysomethings and thirtysomethings performing glorified karaoke of rock's greatest hits, from the Rolling Stones to Foreigner to the Killers. There's one contestant in particular who...how can I say this...

I'm in love. Her name is Suzie McNeil, and she's an adorable blond pixie from Toronto. She has battled all the way to the final four, and is unquestionably the underdog, considering where she started in the competition. At one point, she was finishing on the outskirts of the fan voting so often that she fashioned herself a nifty hat that read, "Queen of the Bottom Three". But in recent weeks she has vaulted to the forefront with energetic renditions of "Start Me Up" and "Bohemian Rhapsody". So really, what more do you need? All I have to do is figure out how to get her to marry me. It's a perfect scenario, really. She is cute, has a great sense of her own fashion (complete with nose ring), and can serenade me with REM and Queen. Plus, my sister approves of her. Best of all, I could finally take asylum in beautiful, Bushless Canada. What more could you want?

See, I've got plenty of good ideas. It's just my execution that is lacking...

Current Music: Suzie McNeil - Losing My Religion

Where am I?

I had a pretty restful, enjoyable weekend in the balmy resort locale of Chestertown. Good people, great weather, good eats, good watchin'. I wouldn't exactly recommend The Brothers Grimm, unless watching children being devoured by spider-horses and Ginger-mud men is your idea of fun. If so, I won't dare judge you. Freak. It's good to see that some things never change. Michael Moore is still holding down the fort, Dale hasn't aged, the dining hall is full of barely edible tripe. Most importantly, I'm still squatting in Middle Hall. No one bats an eyelash any more.
I also realized a few things this weekend. Most prominently, I really take my car for granted. I've only been a motorist for twenty months or so, but I really have taken a shine to the notion of controlling my own destiny...in the Mid-Atlantic, when I can spare the gas money. However, gas money being an obvious concern this weekend, I clung to the undercarriage of Mikey's Corolla Love Wagon and rode it across the Bay Bridge. It seemed like a good idea until I started jonesing for some Subway and had no means of obtaining it. I wasn't crazy about walking to Proc's or Arby's either. That's right...I was so hungry, I ate at ARBY'S. So expenses be damned, next time I will take my rickety golden steed by the reins and ride that nag until it drops. I'll hit up O'Connor's, too, and visit my friend Bob Mooney, a.k.a. Javier Lopez.
Realization the second is that I am still in a constant state of flux and transition in my life. This is nothing new, really. I have been out of college for a year and a half, but I'm still finding my way back there a lot. It's a place of comfort for me, with all its memories and familiarities, but I go back to see the people. Although it's sobering to realize that of my closest friends, only three are left at WAC, they are still important enough to me to justify going back on free weekends. At the same time, I still feel strong ties to home as well. Obviously, my grandmother's condition is a major factor. It's also that I just don't like being alone. This condo is almost always empty on the weekends, and I'll be damned if I'm staying here and throwing myself a Lord of the Rings Trilogy Party. So, this essentially means that I'm living in one place, but spending most weekends in one of two other places. Everyone I really care about is scattered across Maryland, and essentially, so am I. Nothing about my life feels settled, which is exactly where I was in January...August of '04...you get the idea. I'm sure it's not just me. The mid-twenties (ack) suck for most people, right?
So what do I do to battle the melancholy? Write, dammit. Dale commissioned me to write a short scene for his Duchamp Redux performances, and it was a great sort of feeling. I've been pretty lacking in self-motivation, so it was a novel sort of surprise to be challenged: "Write something." It was what I needed. So if finally plopping down and churning out a new play means that I have to be horse-whipped by a good friend, I hope one or more of you won't mind picking up the slack. If you want to see my short play "Hyperbole", though, you will just have to come down to C-town and check out Duchamp Redux, September 29-30 and October 1. All proceeds go to the Red Cross, so it's even serving a humanitarian purpose. And who knows? Maybe I've got something else up my sleeve. Wink wink.

Current Music: Brad - The Day Brings

Go blog yourself.

That's right; I'm writing a blog entry to complain about blogs. Figure that out. Look, I have no problems with blogs in and of themselves. I think it's great that anyone and everyone can get their own digital soapbox to talk about whatever happens to be on their minds. Politics, sports, pop culture, that fried egg you had for breakfast...it's your prerogative. If you're someone who fashions yourself to be a writer, as I am, there are few better resources available to get instant feedback, even if it is from a handful of friends. It can be a different way to stay in touch with your buddies and/or family members, or to just get a good discussion going. That's wonderful. Express yourself however you like. Express...hmm.

Speaking of Express, as I just did in a completely accidental-at-first-but-now-it's-just-terrible transition, this summer the Washington Post Express started running a "Blog Log" in its LookOut section. For those fortunate enough to not slog through the Metro area each day, the Express is a free mini-paper that is published on weekdays by the Washington Post. LookOut is an Entertainment section of sorts, with comics, celebrity fooferaw, fashion tips, and more. So now you know, and knowing is half the battle. The "Blog Log", as you might imagine, scours blogs all across the Internet and mines them for a half-dozen or so quote-worthy snippets to be published daily. How do you get that kind of job, I wonder? And can it possibly pay any less than my current one? Chances are, it does. This is professional writing we're talking about.

Anyhow, many of these quotes are innocuous, and some are even worth a chuckle. There's nothing about a snarky pot-shot at Tom Cruise or a cynical shake of the head at "Borf", the local graffiti virtuoso, that is going to get a rise out of me. But more and more, the sentences that are published seem designed to be incendiary. It's showcasing the worst of blogging; ill-informed, mouthy yahoos who will say anything to get a reaction. A few weeks back, Express published a quote from a blogger who suggested that Cindy Sheehan should be violently attacked. As if that wasn't enough, it turned out the blogger in question was fifteen years old! Way to do your homework, guys. A minor, someone who isn't even old enough to go to war, suggests that a grieving mother who is searching for honest answers and a peaceful resolution should meet a gruesome demise...what good can come from publishing this garbage to a wide audience? It just blows my mind that a nationally known newspaper, or a branch of it, would publish the dribblings of the masses, particularly in cases when it serves little purpose other than fanning the flames of hatred, intolerance, and ignorance.

Ultimately, I have no problems with freedom of speech, not even as it runs rampant on the World Wide Web. The really great thing about blogs, above and beyond everything I've already mentioned, is that I don't have to read anything that Johnny Blogger in Stone Mountain, Georgia says. It's just floating out there, being ignored by me, just like my entries about drinking Jagermeister and missing my train are free to be ignored by Johnny. The Express is just taking this crap and throwing it in my face, pretending that it's something that is worth repeating and pondering. You all know the old saying about opinions and assholes, so there's no need to repeat it. I just wish we didn't have to be reminded in the first place.

Current Music: Weird Al Yankovic - Everything You Know Is Wrong