An Erstwhile Reflection on "The Hobbit: The Battle of Five Armies"

I've been trying to write more since leaving my serving job. To an extent, I've been pretty successful at this. I'm ahead of pace on the second draft of a new play I'm working on - which is scary because now I have to start thinking about letting people read the thing. I've begun outlining (in my head) a new book that's part writing down a story that I think will help me grow really well and part therapy in a certain way.

Meanwhile, the Addison Recorder is blossoming in ways I couldn't have imagined before - we're posting seven to eight articles a week at the moment, and I don't see that ebbing anytime soon. There are more contributors on staff than I can immediately keep track of - anything beyond counting on my fingers is amazing, in my mind. We have business cards, and I have a mug I use at work with our website's logo - not to mention a nifty little notebook with the name of the website and my job title on the front. (Have I mentioned that I love my staff?)

Basically, the first month has worked fantastically in terms of getting shit down on paper. Were it not for a fairly sizable library fine, I'd be reading more, too. That being said, I'm always looking for more ways to boost what I'm getting down on paper. Writing is a muscle that must be worked out if it's to be any good, and I'm making efforts at writing at least for half an hour every day. With a play, novel, and website, in addition to working on small sketches and shorter works as they strike my fancy, I keep pretty close to that goal. With that being said, I like changing it up every now and then. Which is where this blog will hopefully come back into play.

Last night, I took in The Hobbit: The Battle of Five Armies. I broke down why I was anxious about seeing the film at the Recorder (insert link here) and don't really want to write a straight-forward review. Needless to say, you will get out of TBOFA what you bring into it. If you've already been let down by the movies, you'll be let down again. If these flicks are your bag, baby, then this one will reallly be your bag, baby. If you're indifferent and immune to any sense of childlike wonder, you'll probably keep doing what you're doing until your best friends makes you sit down and watch it with him. (Here's looking at you, Bean) I'll be honest and upfront - I enjoyed it. Is it as good as LOTR? Nope. Is it a fun trip through Middle-Earth? Yup. And now with 50% less bird-poop wizards!

I've been mulling a post of '10 Things I Loved/10 Things I Hated', and have ultimately settled upon the following compromise: '10 Thoughts I Have About the Movie, Speaking as a Tolkien Nerd'. I'm gonna do my best not to dive into technical/cinematic merits or demerits, because I viewed it as a giant Tolkien geek - and this movie was made to cater to folk like me. So, I'm approaching it from that angle. (This kind of post might have had a home at the Recorder, but we're honestly a little full up at the moment, and while I'm officially in charge, I think the site works best when I'm writing in smaller portions...and I've written three articles so far this week. I'm backing off there.)

Here we go...

Oh, SPOILER ALERT.

1.  The Political Geography is flawed. When Gandalf makes his return to the ruins of Dale to hold war council with Bard and Thranduil (leaders of two of the respective five armies), he discusses why the goblins and orcs would expend so much efforts and energies in trying to claim the mountain kingdom of Erebor for their own. It's essentially a geopolitical offensive by Sauron/the Necromancer to open up a wider campaign in the North - meaning Eriador at large. As Gandalf describes it, it would mean desolation in kingdoms such as Lothlorien, Rivendell, and protectorates such as the Shire and Bree. This is based largely off of a line from the Appendices of Return of the King, where Gandalf warns of what might have happened if Thorin & Co. had not reclaimed the mountain from Smaug.
   
   
   I have a few problems with this line of thinking, and it bugged me for much of the movie. To begin with, the main efforts by the enemy are to unite the forces of Dol Guldur and Mount Gundabad, recast in this movie as the entrance to the kingdom of Angmar as opposed to a big fucking mountain full of goblins. Angmar is situated on the western side of the Misty Mountains, far to the north of the Ettenmoors and the portions of Arnor that make up Rhudaur. Moving it is fine...except that it makes the wars that destroyed the north kingdom a little more geographically hard to fathom. (Simply put, getting around mountains for constant warfare would be challenging for any legions, no matter who's in charge) I get that the armies of Dol Guldur would rather take an unopposed trip around Mirkwood to make their way north, and the eastern corridor is far enough away from the girdle that Lorien puts on the Anduin corridor. Granted, there is Thranduil's elven kingdom to reckon with, but as The Hobbit repeatedly shows, his is an isolationist nature - he'd probably leave any passing orc army alone if it meant holding tight to his own little forest realm.
   My chief complaint comes from the fact that it takes what is fairly straightforward in the book (Goblin 1: HOLY SHIT, GOLD. Goblin 2: YES SUCH GOLD. Goblin 1: LET US TAKE GOLD WOW. Goblin 2: YES TAKE GOLD KILL DWARVES GOOD. Goblin 1: YES WOW. Goblin 2: WOW) and turns it into an orchestrated move by two legions of orcs who probably were not all that interested in conquest anyway. Sauron, at the time, was busy rebuilding his strength, and not looking to challenge his foes. The appendices also mention that the Battle decimates the goblin armies so much that the Misty Mountain orcs essentially sit out the War of the Ring. The Hobbit movies make that argument, but they argue that the Battle is, in essence, a precursor/first salvo of the War of the Ring rather than an isolated incident, much like the Five Battles in the First Age. Turning the Battle into a geopolitical moment raises the stakes a little too high, bloating it with false importance...kind of like taking a 250 page childrens book and turning it into three epic movies.
2. The Battle Field Choreography is Brilliant. We see elves doing Elvish things, decimating legions of orcs with barrages of arrows and their sweet Elvish/Japanese swordplay. The Dwarves, whom we've never seen fighting en masse before, fight like Roman legions of old, with phalanxes that brush aside goblins like waves against a sandcastle. The orcs mob and mass and swarm like ants, much like in the books. And we see why the coming of the Eagles changes the battle as much as it does, revealing what happens when giant fucking condors are unleashed upon said ants marching in rows. It's awesome, and Peter Jackson is one of the few working directors with a capacity for staging battle on a grand scale. We never get to see why the Eagles are so seldom involved in major conflicts, but explaining that would require nearly a half-hour chunk of exposition on how the Valar relate to the world of Middle-Earth. It's also nice to see Radagast make a difference in a way that makes sense, seeking out the aid of the birds and beasts he is friends with rather than riding around on a bunny-sled. It was a nice redemptive moment, in my mind.
3. Not Enough Time is Spent Discussing the Elves' Motivations. It's not that we don't see enough Legolas-kicking-ass spectacle, but rather than several nuggets have been dropped into the films that aren't fleshed out enough. Like - oh, Legolas's mother died in Angmar? Well, what the fuck was she doing there in the first place and not in Mirkwood? Is that the underlying reason why Thranduil hides out in the woods? Because he stupidly took his wife with him when fighting Angmar? Also, he was fighting Angmar? That's news. And what was up with his face in DOS? Was it dragon-inflicted scars? Or did he take an orc-mitt to the cheek? Too many questions. Not enough answers. That's not normally a problem I have, except that these questions were not part of the original canon - if you're going to add history to what's already been recorded, at least have the graces to explain yourself.
4. Galadriel Breaking Dol Guldur. I have two thoughts about this. One - that was pretty damn awesome. Her laying bare the pits of the fortress was mentioned in the appendices (though at the end of the War of the Ring, not pre-BOFA) and the way Peter Jackson visualized it (Galadriel as Banshee/Demon War Queen we glimpse in FOTR) worked for me. I also get that she would expend a great deal of power banishing Sauron back to Mordor, and that this would tax her. After defeating a Maiar in openly declared combat, she could probably use a protracted siesta. HOWEVER, she's the most powerful elf on Earth - you'd think she would not need to pass out after casting one spell, saving Gandalf's ass, and fending off a couple of Nazgul. That concern is my second thought: they needlessly weaken her character, and in a story so utterly devoid of strong female roles that they had to invent one for the movies, you'd think that Galadriel would be able to, I dunno, lean against a wall or rock and catch her breath instead of flop onto the ground and look all pasty and exhausted. Like I said, two thoughts.
5. There's No Resolution to Saruman/Elrond Finding Out They Were Wrong. Sure, Elrond and Galadriel are shooed away by Saruman with the kick ass line "Leave Sauron to Me". But I could use maybe a little bit more to show the leader of the Istari turning to the Dark Side, so to speak. Maybe a little wink in the direction of Sauron (imagine for a second what Sauron winking looks like). I mean, we're talking about a major shift in thinking by the leader of the White Council, a complete reversal in policy. They made it out that Saruman was plotting his ascent to the throne of Middle Earth for the entire trilogy with a few key glances by Lee in AUJ, but I wanted more. Maybe a scene of Saruman watching the proceedings from a palantir in Orthanc whilst tapping his fingers together evilly? I dunno exactly what it would be, but I wanted more.
6. I Came Around to Tauriel...but again needed more. I wasn't sold on ANY part of the Elf/Dwarf love triangle in DOS between Kili, Legolas, and Tauriel. But the moments in BOFA made it work for me. It was small, it was nuanced, and the emotional work by Evangeline Lilly and Aiden Turner (Orlando Bloom needs work at playing nuance) was good enough to make me buy the tragedy. However, with Tauriel mourning over dead Kili (and sharing a little necrophiliac kiss), I wanted more than the crappy lines about "WHY DOES IT HURT TO LOVE". Maybe something about her heart being so broken that she no longer wanted to live in Middle Earth, and then Thranduil mentions that no one knows where mortal spirits rest, but that in the West, there might be something, and she says something about seeking the Havens to Valinor. You know, something that would explain why she's NOWHERE TO BE FOUND ONCE THE WAR OF THE RING STARTS. It's that simple. It solves your problem, ties up her relevancy in the plot with a neat little bow, introduces the idea of the elves' flight to the movies, and does away with the hands-down worst lines of the movies.
7. Bilbo's Role was Handled/Expanded Upon Nicely. In the book, Bilbo has nothing to do after pilfering the Arkenstone, and his decision is handled weakly - he mews uncomfortably and cringes when Thorin threatens him before sitting out the Battle of Five Armies. It would have been weak to play it that way, but would have stuck with his relative inaction for much of the previous movie. However, here, Martin Freeman makes him an active character, one whom affects the outcome of the battle in a nuanced way while still retaining the key moment of...Bilbo getting knocked unconscious and being unable to do anything for the rest of the battle. Martin Freeman's been an excellent anchor to these movies, playing a different hero than I expected - his Bilbo is cheeky, adventurous, and loyal to a T, yet the corrupting influence of the ring is shown throughout. I was sad, yet happy (work that one out), that the final shot of Freeman we get in Middle Earth is him lording over his precious. It's ominous tones of what's to come.
8. The Deaths of Major Characters were handled...well-ish. In the book, we know Thorin dies. Fili and Kili are mentioned as having died during the battle. Everyone else of note lives - and the movie sure made a spectacle of their deaths. It should hurt when a character dies - and these deaths hurt, surprisingly so at times. The death of Kili, in particular, was difficult, evoking a small memory of Adam Goldberg's demise in Saving Private Ryan. The death of Thorin was a good moment, as it showed Thorin abandoning hopes of glory and riches in favor of ridding his household/line/race of that stupid fucker Azog. His scene with Bilbo - with fine acting by Freeman and Richard Armitage, as well as dialogue lifted straight from the book, was particularly tear-jerking, producing even more tears from me than when Boromir kicked it in FOTR. This one hurt because the whole series to this point had been about their developing friendship - Bilbo pointing out the eagles with innocent excitement as he fights off the feels was what broke me. It hurts to say goodbye.
9. Alfred can go and die in a tire fire. The Master's servant was an unnecessary timeline/plot device. It's nice to know that the Laketown villagers reject him in favor of King Bard, but his actions were stupid, the comedy bits he was involved in weren't funny, and the acting and characterization were drawn on the side of a barn. I don't mind having some attempt at comic relief, but after the destruction of Laketown, the humans weren't given very much to do besides hang out in the ruins of Dale. I get that Alfred is a way to show Bard and his family doing things, but there's plenty of humans in the War of the Ring. Let us have more Billy Connolly as Dain, more bits with Thranduil, and more with the company fighting in the battle. I'm fine enough with the tantalizing bits about some Dunedain named Strider at the end. (Although I could reallllly do without Thranduil's whole "You must find his name out for yourself" line. It's terrible, awkwardly delivered (because it's terrible), and makes no sense (because it's terrible). Seriously, if I'm Legolas, I'm all like "Thanks for the quest, Dad" and I pop over to Gandalf and I'm like "So, who's this Dudedain kid I'm hearing about? Got a name? No, no, no reason, just curious, kay thanks bye."
10. Saying goodbye is hard. There's two moments where you can consciously feel PJ saying goodbye to Middle Earth. One is Bilbo's farewell to the dwarf company at the gates of Erebor - his line about tea always being at four might get framed and hung on my wall should I get my hands on a good printout. The other is the beginning of Bilbo and Gandalf's farewell, coupled with Gandalf the Grey, one of Sir Ian McKellen's finest creations, walking away on a hillside in silhouette. Both of these moments hurt because of the finality of their existence. The adventure has ended. We shall not see these characters again. We've gotten everything from them that we will get. And saying goodbye hurts. But, at the same time, the movie is serviceable, and we shall definitely return again and again. It's a good feeling.

There you have it. 

Time Enough at Last: My Life as a Waiter

 I've worked either as a waiter or in the restaurant/service industry in some capacity for around four years now. It's been a long, grueling road, one that has helped to shape my views of the industry, of human relationships, of human nature, and of exactly how far I'm willing to go in order to make a buck.

On Saturday, I will complete my last shift as a server at the restaurant I'm currently employed at. I handed in my two weeks notice early in the month, and have been saving for just such an occasion all summer long. After I walk out that door, I'll hopefully be leaving everything behind for good.

I'm still trying to unpack what all of that means.

1. I first stumbled into a job as a host while I was still working at Borders in Dayton. I was about to lose my job, be unemployed, and have no means of income beyond working on my dad's farm. As that wasn't terribly appealing to me, I applied anywhere I could find gainful employment. This was my first real lesson in the fact that a theatre and film degree can be a real hindrance when it comes to successfully getting a job. The only place where I found success was with a McCormick and Schmick's in Dayton. I accepted a position as a host. A month later, I took a second job working as a waiter at Max & Erma's, my first real serving job.

I'll be honest - I went into both jobs with a great degree of trepidation. I'd mostly heard horror stories about working as a server from my mom, who had done it for a while while young and unemployed as a teacher. It's not a forgiving profession, and hard on your feet. That was what I went into the job with - that and a knowledge that many young starving artists had worked such jobs for years. A perfect fit, I thought to myself.

When I moved to Chicago, my hosting job transferred to the McCormick's in the loop. Eventually, I moved up in the ranks to be a server. I worked hard, and was repeatedly offered to move up within the company - as a trainer (a role I accepted) and into the supervisor training program, with an eye towards becoming a manager (a role I declined, repeatedly). At my peak, I was making more money than I'd ever made in any other job I held, able to live within means that seemed comfortable. I put myself through the writing program at Second City almost entirely based upon the tips I earned at the restaurant. I made some great friends, got fed a couple times a week, and eventually was able to support myself as I continued to pursue my dreams of working as an actor, writer, and director.

And I've never hated a job more in my life.

2. Don't get me wrong. There are perks to the job. Consider:

- Loose hours. I could set my own schedule at will - only working certain lunches, certain dinners, and taking off chunks of time for auditions or events or trips. This has ranged from short notice (there's always someone looking to pick up a shift) to long term (I took the summer off last year to go back to Ohio to direct Shakespeare in the Park, and more recently worked a significantly reduced schedule as I acted in two different plays and co-wrote a sketch revue). That kind of freedom and luxury doesn't come with every job, something I acknowledge.

- Holidays. While it's required to work holidays at most restaurants, my work ethic, dedication, and performance earned me a degree of entitlement towards making my own schedule, something for which I've routinely expressed my gratitude. While I've worked Thanksgivings, New Years Eve, Easters, Valentine's Days, St. Patrick's Day, Veteran's Days, and countless other important days, I've never had to work on Christmas or on Mother's Day. In the service industry, the latter especially is no small change, though if I had worked, I'm sure I would have had a meltdown to end all meltdowns. I still don't handle Mother's Day well. Until I have kids of my own (God willing/God forgiving), I'm not sure that I will.

- Food. As a starving artist, this doesn't just fall by the wayside. I've always been able to feed myself, whether through making more tips on short notice or by eating at my place of work. As a trainer, I would often get a free dinner. And we're not talking a small meal either - we're talking full course meals that normally go for $20 or more. Plus, all the bread/clam chowder/French Fries you could eat.

- Continued Entertainment. You'd never believe some of the people who come into restaurants. It's always a gamble as to who's coming in, and many nights, there's been unexpected surprises. Ask me sometime about the time I waited on Ne-Yo, or the former baseball scout who told Kirk Gibson what pitch to expect from Dennis Eckersly in the 1988 World Series.

At the same time, there are significant drawbacks.

- Oftentimes, you're never sure about how much money you're going to make. Sure, it's nice to set expectations, but realistically, there's no way of determining what you're going to make. On any given night, I could make $150 or $15. Which is all fine and good, except that I still pay rent at the end of the month, and have electric and cable bills, and a gym membership, and so on. I don't stop paying for that just because I didn't make much money in a given week.

- If I was sick, I couldn't exactly call off work. If I missed a week of work, that's 25% of my monthly wages gone. There's no sick days. And while I could plan for some nights where I knew I was utterly and physically incapable of working, I never had the luxury of not working for an extended period of time.

- Let's be honest about two truths - it doesn't take an advanced education to become a server. And it's a job that a lot of people are drawn to because they don't have many choices. I do not mean to disparage those who do it because they love it - I've met some of the best human beings I've ever known working in the industry, kind-hearted, smart, and tremendously entertaining individuals who have an honest passion for what they do. I've also met - assholes, racists, drunks, fuck-ups, druggies, idiots, morons, con artists, thieves, addicts, wanted felons, I could keep going, really I could, but just thinking back on the number of people I've known/worked with, it gets depressing.

I don't mean to call any of them losers. They're not. They're people. Everybody fucks up at some point. It's a given. Some people just fuck up more than others and are incapable of getting it together. I've seen people working with bloodshot eyes from shooting up earlier in the day. I've worked with people who've been thrown out when the manager discovers that they've been stealing from the liquor cabinet. I've worked with people who've been fired for one indiscretion or another and responded by storming through the restaurant flipping off every guest they come in contact with.

Serving is a rough life. You work long hours, oftentimes for little pay, and with very little job security. Seriously, I've seen people get fired for fuck ups big and small, oftentimes with very little notice. Much of the time I've worked, it's been with a cloud hanging over my head that at any minute, any wrong step, I would be out on the street without so much as a formal goodbye. It's nearly impossible to do good work with that hanging over your head. And yet, you just have to truck on. Because there's no other option.

And that's not even getting into the chronic unfairness that is the job of waiting tables. You go in, and you make less than minimum wage. We're not talking a minor drop - it's at least 50% less than minimum, most of the time. You are entirely dependent upon your guests knowing what is appropriate to tip (here's a study guide - 15% for adequate service, 18% for good service, and 20% for fantastic service. You should only leave 10% or less if your server completely ignored you, returned to curse you out for having weird hair, and then set you on fire. At that point, it's probably okay to leave $2.). I don't want to say that serving has turned me into a chronic profiler, but to an extent, it did for a long while. It became a habit to say "Oh, they're __________, they're not even going to leave 10%" or "Hmm, the ___________ must have a convention, guess who's waiting tables for free tonight?" At no point is any of that okay, which is why I remind myself nightly that some guests (those from foreign cultures especially) don't understand that servers get paid like shit in America, and the only way we make any semblance of a living wage is through tips. Woe to the people who leave Bible quotes or change. Few people realize that, regardless of how much I make in a given night, I am required to tip out the bussers, bartenders, food runners, and hosts who helped the guest enjoy their experience. Because of this, it is technically possible for me to have to pay to do my job in a given night - something that's happened before.

I could rant about the woes of working a shitty job, but I'd rather do this: if I ever hear anyone disparage servers as being "greedy", "selfish", "demanding", or "ungrateful", I will say something to you. Either you've never worked as a server, you're feeling self-righteous and want to lord over people stuck in a shitty situation, or you just don't know exactly what it means to support yourself (and sometimes an entire family) through begging for tips. I'll usually assume the latter, because I believe that if everyone was forced to work as a server for one year in order to survive, the world would be a much better place.

Stepping down from my soapbox, I will again say that in spite of my woes, I did make a living wage at my restaurant for three years, and was able to support myself in the early stages of my career. There are far worse jobs I could have had, and it was only a few nights where I left wondering exactly how much I was willing to jump off the State Street bridge into the Chicago River.

3. Now, why I'm leaving...

The first thing that nearly everybody I've told about my quitting my job has said is some version of "Congratulations!" To which I say: "THANK YOU!" Because I've imagined quitting this job dozens of times over the years. Whether in a huff or carried out on the shoulders of my coworkers, the "quitting" fantasy has been especially fervent as I start to find more success in other venues of my career. To finally be in a position to act it out - well, it's weird. I've chosen to just put my three weeks in, to continue to do my job, and to leave with my pride and dignity intact. Also, I'm not really one for giant spectacles of douchebaggery. So we'll leave it at that.

The second questions I'm asked, almost without fail, is more surprising: "Where are you going?" Not as in "where are you moving to" but in "what restaurant are you working at next?" There's a trend in the industry to bounce around jobs, to move to somewhere new when the current scene gets stale/you get fired for whatever reason/new management comes in and doesn't mesh with your style. In my time, I've seen over 100 servers come and go, probably 20 hosts, 20 bartenders, 4 GMs, at least as many management staff, and any number of cooks and prep workers. (Oddly enough, the bussers have remained remarkably consistent, with little turnover) Think about your job - how many people have cycled through? I guarantee you I've worked with more people - unless you're also a server. Anyway, it's almost expected that when you quit a restaurant job, it's on short notice, and it's because you got hired at another location.

That's not my reason.

I'm quitting waiting tables entirely.

My reasons are many:

- The stress of everything I mentioned above got to a point sometime over the summer where I began to actively dread coming to work. This isn't healthy. So I acted on it.

- I've got a great job at a company where I work with great people and do meaningful work. What started as a temp job has turned into something I'm proud to be doing, even if I'm only part-time and relatively low on the totem pole. I am content.

- The biggest reason is simple: I need more time to focus on my career. I've heard that statement dozens of times before: if only I had more time, if only there were more hours in a day. Well, I'm having that thought - I moved here to pursue a career in acting, writing, and/or directing. It's trending up, but I need to be able to commit more fully to what I'm doing. Because of the nature of my job, it's gotten too hard for me to do that. So I'm quitting in order to instill more discipline in myself. Principally as a writer, at first - there are at least three big projects I'm planning on/currently working on, and a myriad number of other things I'd like to do.

By quitting the restaurant, I gain back at least twenty to twenty five hours of work a week. Add into that: the hour of transit it takes to get to and from the restaurant, the amount of down time spent loitering about downtown before a shift because there's not enough time to go home, the few hours I do get to be at home which are spent feverishly cooking dinner, showering, and rushing to work, or the amount of downtime spent after a shift cleaning, waiting for people to leave, or endlessly folding napkins. It adds up. Trust me, I did the math at one point.

I also am alleviated of the weird schedule a restaurant can inflict on you. Before I got my day job, my schedule was erratic as hell. Oftentimes I would get home at 11 or 11:30 at night, too wired to go to sleep. This would lead to a late night of watching TV or trying to get work done, which would lead to me getting out of bed on average around 12:00 pm. Healthy living indeed - no wonder so many people with alcohol problems work at restaurants. The health benefits alone extend from there - not only do I anticipate drinking less, I also plan on finally quitting smoking for once and for all. The restaurant, I've discovered, is my trigger for relapsing into smoking - nothing else makes me want to smoke so much as being there. By quitting that job, in essence, I'm quitting smoking as well, something I've tried to do before and failed at....because I have to go back to the restaurant.

With a normal schedule, relaxed hours, and freedom from one of the major stresses of my life, I will hopefully be able to commit myself fully over to working on my projects. I've recently stepped up as Editor-in-Chief of the Addison Recorder, a role which hopefully I'll be able to play with better capacity now that I'm not working three jobs all at once (I consider the Recorder a job). I will soon have a new play that I want to workshop/stage readings for/submit for performance consideration. I want to start a new sketch group. There are so many things that I want to do, but have never had time for.

Now I have more time. And not doing them because I have no time isn't an excuse any more.

For the record, I've only saved up about $3000 to tide me over until about March or April, I figure. I still have my part time job at NCSA, but I figure that will only support me so much. There's a high percentage that I wind up taking a job as a waiter again in the future. If it comes to that, I accept it. Again, for the most part, I greatly enjoy the people I have worked with, have been treated fairly by the companies I've worked for, and have made a comfortable living. There's just so much more I want to do.

The other day, I read the familiar quote that goes something like "If you died tomorrow, what would people say you lived your life as?" I want it to be as a writer, as an artist, as someone who followed their passions, not as someone who worked part time as a waiter while half assing their career because there was never enough time.

Now, there's time enough at last.

Racing for the Cure: Running the 5K

I've had a weird relationship with running, working out, and physical exertion in general. I've always liked working outdoors, I enjoy playing sports (or at least attempting to play sports), and I've committed myself to working out with a regular schedule before. However, I've never been able to honestly describe myself as "someone who runs for pleasure". If I've ever done it before, it's in an attempt to drop weight and to get in shape. (Double whammy, if you will.)

That's changed. I'll explain in a minute.

Earlier in the year, I was inspired to do something for Mother's Day beyond my usual routine, which is to sit and mope. I've never been able to work at the restaurant because, honestly, it hurts seeing people celebrating someone they love while knowing that I can't share that feeling with my own family. Consequently, for the last two years, I've just avoided the day entirely. I'd call my family, but that would be about it.

This year, however, I wanted to make a change. Sitting around inside, essentially taking a day off from life, is all well and good, but it's done nothing to better my state of mind. If anything, it causes me to become more depressed, as I become increasingly self-aware that I'm hiding away, afraid to even step outside my door.

At the same time, I realized (this year more than ever) that I'm really not alone - there are countless other people who are in similar situations. I'm not the only one to lose a parent. I'm not the only one who's watched someone they love suffer. I'm not special. I'm part of a giant community.

After thinking on that moment, the sense of shame and desire to do something about things grew so large that I acted on another impulse I've been harboring for quite some time - to run a 5K.

5K's in Chicago - anywhere, really - are kind of like superhero/comic book movies: there's a new one coming out every weekend, it feels like. All you have to do is throw a rock in Grant Park on any given Saturday or Sunday and there's probably a race of some kind happening. They're everywhere. Running culture in Chicago is a constantly happening thing. People go out for jogs every hour on the hour in my neighborhood, bedecked in running pants/shorts, running shoes, and some sporty kind of t-shirt. It's never been my cup of tea to throw on gym clothes, plug in my headphones, and go out and run for miles and miles. It's always seemed kind of alien. For much of my life, I've adhered to Charles Barkley's philosophy of working out ("I don't run because I get tired, and I don't lift weights because they're heavy.") It's seemed the safer reaction.

In the years since graduating college, however, my level of physical fitness has - how to put this delicately... - spiraled downhill faster than Mariah Carey's career. I've put on weight, I smoked for a goodly amount of years, and I started to take escalators at train stations more and more to avoid getting out of breath. In the horribly superficial world of acting, nobody wants a mildly overweight character actor - I can't actually back this up, but I'm fairly certain my physique was starting to harm my career. (To say nothing of my long term health.)

Factoring these decisions in, I realized it was time for a change.

Which is how I happened upon the Susan G. Komen 5K Race for the Cure.

It was scheduled for Mother's Day. It was a 5K. It had a reasonable entry fee. It was for a good cause. It would get me out of the house - and hopefully out of my funk.

It's almost as if the universe was crying out for me to sign up. Which I did. Immediately.

I second guessed my decision several times. I had joined a gym slightly before my decision to join the race (or after...I can't exactly remember...). Working out was certainly physically taxing, enough so that I began to worry that I wouldn't be in good enough shape for the race. It's hard to go from 0 to 5K in about 5 weeks, although there are plans out there for those who want to do it. More to the point, my inertia (or inner "blerch") took over - there's easier things to do out there! you can always try again later! it's too much for you to handle a show, two jobs, a social life, and working out on a consistent basis! have some cake!

It wasn't exactly a struggle to get myself ready for the race - I've gone through worse things than shoving my ass onto a treadmill before, and I didn't exactly have to sacrifice much to do this. However, it was some kind of struggle.

At least the treadmills were encouraging.

And then, yesterday was race day.

Meryl Williams (a damn good writer in her own right, as well as a fellow member of the Addison Recorder) signed up to join me in the race. I was glad she did - running alone would've been hard, to say nothing of my already high level of emotional difficulty on the day. If she hadn't joined me, it certainly would have been a more draining emotional day. Having a good friend there really helped me a lot. (Memo to readers - if possible, always find a racing buddy. It makes everything better.)

For the record - those are LIGHT beers. LIGHT.

Our plans were set in stone, and we encouraged each other in the weeks leading up to the race, working out and adhering to our own personal training schedules. The day before, we carb-loaded with a dinner of fettucini, tomato sauce, hippie beef, and salads. The morning of, we took the Brown Line downtown. We wandered around the site, which had more of a carnival/festival atmosphere than I had expected. There was a survivor's tent, room for the various teams which had signed up, free food, and a live DJ with dancing. It wasn't a memorial, it was a celebration of life.

They even handed out crowns!

Which was exactly what I needed.

Then came time for the race.

Pre-race

There's something wonderful about running through the streets of Chicago. It's easy to take in the sights while walking, but there's an exhilarating feeling from speeding past city landmarks, like the Field Museum, the Congress Hotel, Millennium Park, and that diamond-shaped building from "Adventures in Babysitting". Better than riding a bus, better than simply walking, it was a reminder of how awesome it is to be alive.

We did well, considering that it was my first 5K ever. We mutually agreed to take short walking breaks as necessary - while we were racing, we weren't racing in the strictest sense of the word. We cheered each other on, and we stuck together. We ended up finishing 497th and 498th out of over 1,000 runners. While our times might not be what we wanted - we were shooting for 10 minute miles, something we missed by about 1 minute - we finished it. We accomplished that much.

It wasn't quite as emotional as I expected it to be. I was worried I would break down upon crossing the finish line, wrecked with emotion. Rather, it was hard not to keep from smiling. There was a profound sense of exhilaration. It felt great. I'm trying to find words to convey the exact feeling that swept over me - a palpable sense of relief coupled with a profound sense of self - without sounding like a douchey inspirational/motivational speaker. So I'll leave you with this: I'll never be completely free of the sense of grief I felt losing my mom. But I know she'd have been proud. More to the point, I was proud of myself for getting off my ass and doing something that benefited not only myself, but countless other people.

And that's a pretty good feeling at the end of the day.

Catching Up: An Erstwhile Explanation of Where the Hell I've Been

Hey there, world.

Remember that time I promised I'd write in here more?

Yeah, turns out I'm full of it.

Lots has happened since last I updated here. That was back in September, upon my return from Colorado and the vacation I'd needed for years. Well, turns out, right as soon as I got back, I needed a new one almost immediately.

I returned to work waiting tables as I sent out headshots and resumes anew. Meanwhile, waiting tables got so bad and depressing I nearly walked out on two separate occasions. I almost transferred restaurants rather than come back, though I resolved my difficulties (namely being a prideful bastard) and settled down. Now I'm a corporate-certified trainer, which isn't the worst gig to have - I can set my schedule on rare occasions when I'm in a show, I get to have a say in how new people are hired, and I get free food from time to time. It's no lie to say, though, that waiting tables is NOT what I want to be doing with my life.

So began the search for a day job. I applied at multiple places for ANYTHING (which turns out to be a bad idea) and ended up taking a temp gig at a company that helps high school student athletes get into colleges with scholarships and potential chances to continue playing the sports they love. This was probably the most meaningful job outside of my respective field since I graduated college, and furthermore calls to use some of my Film Studies degree. (I'll take the endzone angle over the wide shot for the lineman's highlight any day, etc.) It's a steady job, far from a 9-to-5 with benefits that many of my age group are desperately seeking, but it helps pay my bills and keeps me from working long, obsessive hours at the restaurant, which keeps me sane.

Meanwhile, as I started racking in large amounts of restaurant money, I realized that I needed to jumpstart myself in my career, or I would slowly go insane. On a whim, I signed up for Comedy Writing classes at Second City, something I'd been intrigued about doing ever since I started watching Monty Python in middle school. Turns out that, while fun, it's a lot of hard work. (No shit, Sherlock) However, when pursued with dedication and application of lessons learned, it can be done. And done well. I've got a great sketch about an animal rescue squad in my pocket to whip out at any time, now. Look out, T.V. writing, here I come!

In addition, I've joined the gym right next to Second City. I began tiring of my appearance in the mirror, an appearance that reflected my displeased state of inertia and one that was starting to type me out of many of the theatrical roles I truthfully wanted to play. After many weeks of hard work, I'm pleased to report that I've dropped at least 8 lbs. whilst gaining muscle and am working towards reaching the best shape I've been in since my senior year of college. Which is good, because I've also signed up to run in a 5K on Mother's Day, something I've dedicated to my mother's memory. My good friend Meryl will be running it with me as well - we've got something of a shared experience in the matter of losing loved family members to cancer, something I won't go into too much detail about here. I've never run something like this before, and while it's slightly nerve-wracking, it feels like a better use of my time than simply moping about as I've done in the past.

Speaking of better use of my time, one of the many events I auditioned for last fall was a scene showcase put on by the Women's Theatre Alliance. While my partner, Leigh, and I did not reach the final showcase, my headshot was requested by a director in attendance. Passing it along, I thought little else of it, getting carried away with everything else in my life. Flash forward to about a month ago, where I had just finished telling a friend that I was growing tired of acting, of the hustle and bustle, of constantly throwing myself out there only to be met with disappointment. All I'd felt that I needed was a chance, and I was tired of not getting it. I've always believed in things happening right when they're supposed to, but this just wasn't happening. Maybe I'd never act in this city. Maybe that would be it.

And then, it happened. I got an email from the director inviting me to a cold-read audition for a new play called "The Unscathed". It took every ounce of effort in my body to reply with a cordial, professional acceptance of the invite rather than something along the lines of "OH GOD OH GOD WHAT CAN I DO I WILL DO ANYTHING ANYTHING YOU ASK JUST PLEEEEEEASE LET ME HAVE A SINGLE PART PLEEEEEEEASE?!?!" Needless to say, I was offered the part of Jim, an ex-gunslinger turned sheriff in 1880's Wyoming, and Trevor, a British cattle-drover with a ruthless streak. The show opens May 2nd, and while I'm not exactly getting paid, I could care less - the show is fun, it's impacting work, and best of all, it's a show. (And I get to wear a tin star!)

Not everything in my life is perfect. I'm still waiting tables, something I swore I'd be done with by this point in my life. I'm older now than I ever thought I'd be. My apartment's ceiling is 6'2" (which is unfortunate when you're 6'2" tall). I'm still figuring out health insurance. I don't exactly have the best of career prospects lined up. I'm still figuring out how to manage a career and love life with any success.

On the other hand, I'm young and still learning how to get better at what I do. My website (a post on the Recorder will follow sometime soon) is growing stronger all the time, with more and more recognition from all across the web. I've got a Chicago show to add to my resume. I'm making money - slowly, but surely. I have the best circle of friends any guy could ever ask for. I have been down, but I have never been out - and you will not keep me down.

Cue: Chumbawumba.

Onward and upward.

Climbing the Mountain: An Erstwhile Discovery on a Well Needed Vacation

"The mountains are calling...and I must go." - John Muir

This past week, I took my first honest-to-God, no-ulterior-motives, journey-to-a-strange land, vacation in a VERY LONG TIME. (The last trip I've taken that I would consider to be a vacation in its full principles would be a trip taken right after my freshman year of college, where my parents and I embarked to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for a week's worth of relaxing, swimming, and miniature golf, a momentous trip if anything because it was the last time that mom was not struggling with cancer at the time, and as such, was able to actually enjoy herself for a change.) Sure, I've traveled a great deal in the seven years since that trip, to destinations including London, Tampa Bay, San Francisco, Oregon, Arizona, and the little hamlet of Moscow, Idaho, but with all of those trips, there was a purpose underlying the journey that somewhat took away from the sensation of going somewhere to sit around and DO ABSOLUTELY GODDAMN NOTHING UNLESS IT SO PLEASED US. (Bachelor party, grieving, scattering of ashes, theatre, etc.) This time around, it was a plan by myself to go somewhere where I knew nobody (or as close as I could get), where I could plan out what I wanted to do, whenever I wanted to do it, with no restrictions or expectations.

I settled upon Denver, Colorado for a number of reasons. This post on the Oatmeal was a big deciding factor, and helped me to settle upon a hotel for my stay. Things to do, such as the quite wonderful Morrison Natural History Museum, were another factor. That the Reds were in town for the weekend I was looking to go helped to seal my decision in stone.

(Incidentally, on my last day of the trip, I paid a visit to the Morrison Museum, where not only did I get to meet the hotel owners, but I also got to meet Dr. Robert Bakker, a hero of my childhood. Unfortunately, as I had never seen any pictures of the man, and mostly because I've been immersed in my respective artistic fields for the last decade of my life, I HAD NO IDEA WHO IT WAS. Fortunately, I did take a picture of him, thinking he was "somebody important at the Museum". This picture will follow once I figure out which cable it is that connects my camera to my laptop. But I digress.)

What ultimately led me to my trip decision, however, was an urge within me that has been convalescing for something around twenty-five of my twenty-six years on this earth: the need to go out and see mountains.

Denver's scenic location at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains made this a particularly desirous destination in my mind. Finally, I could revel in the majesty of 14,000 foot peaks where the only purpose would be to climb them, not drive/fly over or around them. (Sorry Vandals Trip 2011, you fail on this count)

The trip was, all in all, an unquestionable success. I was able to relax, enjoy scenery, visit several attractions, explore downtown Denver, check out and sample many different breweries, and revel in the joy that comes with being a dopey, goofy tourist. However, while the trip was most certainly memorable, I'm not going to recount every single thing I did, because that would be:

a) Long-winded, tedious, and somewhat boring. Reading about someone's vacation is worse than being forced to sit through an acquaintance's endless slideshow of zoo animals doing zoo animal things.

b) Too long-winded, tedious, and somewhat boring for me to sit here and type. (While I enjoyed myself, I find that recounting endless details of my life bores even me. If you really want to know about what I did, ask me sometime. Or leave a comment below, and I'll write you up an account.

c) Irrelevant, because no new life-changing experiences happened to me, rendering such a narrative account long-winded, tedious, and somewhat boring....

....except for one thing.

On my third day in Denver, I drove to Rocky Mountain National Park, with no clear goals in mind. Sure, I wanted to do some hiking, and sure, I wanted to see some mountains. I'd heard of the Trail Ridge Road, and driving it was certainly in my mind, getting to explore what life is like at 12,000 feet. Beyond that, I only knew what I had seen briefly glancing at the park's website, figuring on doing my own investigating once I arrived.

Pulling up to the gate, I was handed a map and told that my admission fee to the park (a meager $20) would last me for up to seven days. It was at this point, driving towards the first parking lot I could find, that the significance of the park covering 58 acres began to sink in to me. I'd already suspected that there would be far more than I could ever hope to accomplish in the seven hours I'd allotted for my visit. To speak the truth, there was a sense of relief that came with looking at the map; there was so much to see that if I only picked one corner of the map, I'd be sure to see a healthy abundance of sights no matter where I decided to park my car.

The park itself was filled with countless tourists. I'm guessing (strictly ballpark) that the number of visitors who pass through the gates each day numbers in the thousands, based upon the tithing that I saw. I deposited my car in a Park 'n Ride lot, boarded a shuttle, and found myself at the Bear Lake trail head.

Bear Lake

Bear Lake is absolutely gorgeous; let me lead with that. A .5 mile trail circles the small body of water, nestled at the feet of several mountains, and winds through a thick forest of Ponderosa pines, with multiple benches to sit on and study the crystal clear waters of the lake. It wasn't the clearest body of water I'd ever seen, but I took that as a good sign; more often than not a lake in a natural setting with silty discoloration is a healthier lake than one where you can see straight to the bottom. (After all, the things that prevent you from seeing the lake bottom are living organisms; the more living organisms thriving in a lake, the healthier it is.) I circled the lake twice, once again glad that I had purchased new hiking boots two days before and broken them in on the relatively easy terrain of the Garden of the Gods outside of Colorado Springs. Yet, even though I was enjoying myself, I found the Bear Lake area too crowded for my tastes. People milled around everywhere, photographing anything that moved, including other tourists. In the back of my head, I felt claustrophobic, in spite of being this deep into the woods of the National Park. I needed space. Perhaps the popular trails weren't the way to go.

Along my short meander, I had looked over the map, plotting a trip that would take me by a nearby waterfall three miles away. It seemed a walk in the woods would do me some good, though the trail looked to be crowded with dozens of others with similar intentions. Keeping my claustrophobia in mind, I allowed my mind to wander, noticing on my second lap a branching off of the trail that led upward. A signpost illuminated that it led to the Flattop Mountain trail, a 4.4 mile hike.

Glancing up at the ridges above, I mentally calculated the time I had available to me versus what I expected a 4.4 mile hike would bring me. Looking over my map, I realized that such a hike would also entail a 6,000 foot elevation rise; with limited experience of climbing things, I hastily decided that this would present no major challenge to me. Looking along the trail, I noticed that it was mostly ignored by the vast number of people milling about on the path. Blindly ambitious, I turned onto the mountain trail, my water-pack filled, my spirits high, and my gaze turned upward.

I'll interject here to reminisce briefly about my trip last year to Medford, Oregon. At the time, embroiled in my grieving process, I made a goal of my trip to climb whatever mountains I could find; there being few that I was able to discover, I settled for climbing the Upper and Lower Table Rocks at the northern end of the Rogue River Valley. Granted, these were highly cathartic climbs, but not quite what I had in mind when I first set out to conquer a mountain, much in the spirit of Christopher McCandless (without going fully "into the wild"). I needed to climb something huge, overcome the adversities it presented, as a way of conquering my own grief over my recent loss. Climbing a mountain seemed like one of the best ways to go about it; among many things I shared with my mother was her passion for nature and for vast, exotic landscapes. To climb one of the great western peaks seemed as fitting a tribute to her as I could muster.

With that in the back of my mind, I pushed up the trail.

I had barely gotten to the first fork in my climb when the doubts began to settle in. Well, not settle; more like they sucked the wind right out of me. I'll be the first to admit that I'm not in the greatest shape in the world, something which became readily apparent to me as I looked at my map and realized that in twenty minutes of climbing, I'd only gone half a mile. This first fork jutted away to the right, leading to lower elevations and more wooded areas. The mountain path turned left, rising higher into the treeline. Gritting my teeth, and taking a long pull of water, I continued upward.

By the time I reached the second, and last, fork before the top, I was dripping with sweat, horribly winded, and rethinking all of my decisions in life that had led me to this place. What a foolish thing I had done! My idea of a long, grueling hike to that point had been the half-mile walk to the grocery store and back! What was I doing? Nevertheless, I refused to be dissuaded by my own doubts and clambered onward and upward.

Dream Lake

The going was slow. There's no avoiding the subject. It took a damn long while. My natural tendency is to rush on ahead at my own pace (one reason I enjoyed vacationing by myself), and it became a challenge to remind myself that it was okay to go slowly. There was 3.5 miles of uphill trail ahead of me that would be there regardless of how fast I was going. "Slow the fuck down," I would say, panting for breath on one of the many boulders lining the path. "It's a hike, not a race." It became a rite of the trail that I would climb for 1/10th to 2/10ths of a mile, stop, park my butt on a rock, and take a drink before continuing my upward crawl. At each stop, I stopped to think about how much it really meant to me to finish the climb. Each time, I resolutely tightened my boot strings, hoisted myself to my feet, and continued upward.

Emerald Lake

The views became more and more spectacular the higher I climbed. Looking down, I could make out Bear Lake below, a tiny point the size of my palm. As the trail turned and winded its way along the side of the mountain, I passed above Dream Lake as well, and soon enough, Emerald Lake. The last was nestled into a mountain valley, fed by glacial runoff from Flattop and Hallet's Peak above me. The trees grew thinner and thinner, finally growing to no taller than my tiny rental Ford Focus, literally parked miles away from me.

As the treeline gave out, the wind picked up. I was now exiting the subalpine climate and venturing into the alpine heights of the Rockies. It was here that I had my first serious reappraisal of my climb. Down below, it had been in the high 80's, too hot for my flannel shirt that I had left in the car. Here, the temperature was in the low 60's, and I found myself shivering heavily in addition to my winded state. My breathing became labored, and I realized, with the sudden clarity of an anvil falling upon my head, that at 10,000 feet in the air, the oxygen is much, much thinner. Not as thin as it had been on Pike's Peak the day before, but still. It certainly wasn't helping my winded state any. Perhaps it would be best to turn back; it would be safer, I'd be less at risk of hypothermia, and I would have time to complete several less strenuous hikes.

Looking back down the trail, I then realized how high I had actually come. Debating internally, I felt that I had come too far to simply turn back now.  Besides, as anyone who knows me will attest, I'm stubborn as all hell. If I gave up now, I'd hate myself for the rest of the trip. Clutching my pack tighter to my chest, I pushed upward.

In this stretch, the views were absolutely gorgeous. Uncluttered by trees, the mountains stretched for miles and miles. Each turn brought a new view, and I finally understood the significance of the phrase "purple mountain's majesty", as the mountaintops were turning a marvelously velvet shade under the early noon clouds. Stopping to catch my breath became less and less of a necessary chore and more of a chance to take in the spectacular views all around me. All around me, ground squirrels and marmots were poking their heads out, wondering what all the commotion was about. Once they realized it was just an out-of-shape tourist, they retreated back into their burrows, chirping out their silent mocks.

As I stepped above the last of the reddish ferns that coated the mountainside, I realized three very important things:

1) I had only 1,500 feet to climb, but still about a mile of trail.

2) The gentle noon clouds in the sky were rapidly growing darker, and bringing with them a 55 degree wind chill.

3) I was out of water.

The last one struck home immediately. I still had a giant climb to do, and was already somewhat dehydrated, and now I was out of water. Surely, I would have to turn back. The sheer and terrible magnitude of the second point took a moment longer to sink in, but once it did, I was faced with my strongest moment of doubt yet; sudden thunderstorms develop in the Rockies almost daily, and high above the treeline, there would be no shelter from the wind. I was over-exposed, and out of water. Granted, this wasn't the highest mountain in the park, and there was a steady trickle of people on the mountain, but I hadn't seen anyone for almost an hour.

A landscape that would kill you as soon as look at you...

It might be overly vain of me to say this, but it was at that exact moment that I became aware of my own mortality. There was a chance that if I continued onward and upward, I might die on the side of the mountain. Or, at the very least, suffer the most embarrassing evacuation of all time. ("Sheesh, the bastard didn't bring enough water? He was only going 12,000 feet. What the hell's the matter with THIS guy?")

Those of you who know me know that I don't put much stock into prayer. I don't hold it against people who do, and encourage people to do whatever they feel is right for their religious beliefs. Myself, I think it's somewhat vain to ask for wisdom or guidance to questions that, most of the time, you already know the answers to yourself. Consequently, I keep people in my thoughts in times of need, or seek out advice from those close to me who can offer aid.

At that moment, however, there was nobody around me, and I honestly had no clue of what I should actually do. Turning back seemed the most logical choice, and going onward seemed a fool's hazard; I would literally be hiking into a mountaintop thunderstorm.

So I asked the one person I figured would be able to help me the most; my mom.

"Hey mom," I said out loud, not caring if the marmots heard me or not. "Been a while, I guess. But, hey, I'm here in Colorado. On a mountain. Out of water. I know you're probably busy with whatever it is that you're doing, but if you could just make the sun come out. Well, if you can do things like that, I guess. Anyway, I'd really appreciate it."

And the sun came out....

Almost as if on cue, the sun poked out from a crack between the clouds. I shit you not. (I wouldn't have included this part if it wasn't true) It didn't warm the air around me or anything, but it allowed me to see that with another forty-five minutes of climbing, I might reach the summit. The thunderclouds in the distance looked to have stopped their crawl over the mountain range.

I had a window of time to complete the climb.

"Thanks, mom." Bowing my head, I pushed upward.

I don't hold any kind of belief that my mom caused the clouds to part. It was just a fluke coincidence, of that I'm sure. However, at the time, it made me feel much better about my decision; had nothing happened, I might not have completed the climb at all, for which I would not only hate myself for the rest of the trip, but for years to come. Fortunately, I didn't have to worry about that.

Not ten minutes later, a couple passed by me. With a charitable nature, they asked if I needed any water. (They could probably tell a man about to pass out when they saw one.) Thanking them graciously, I filled my water pack to the halfway mark, took a long drink, and pushed upward again.

Nothing could stop me now. Not nature, not the elements, not my doubts, not anybody who'd ever told me that I couldn't do something. The peak was in range. I was going to climb this fucking mountain if it fucking killed me.

Which it didn't, obviously.

With a final burst of energy, I emerged onto the peak of Flattop Mountain, a broad, surreal world of broken rocks and bighorn sheep droppings. Tiny cairns of rocks outlined the suggested path, though as the mountain's name would suggest, there was nothing much to distinguish one part from another. I made my way to the center of the area, where a wooden signpost marked the end of the trail.

Sitting down next to the post, I found a fellow climber sitting there, who took my picture in all directions, offering wisdom that she'd gained through years of hiking in the Rockies. Mostly, however, we just remarked on the views.

"Nothing like this that you can see on the ground," she said.

"No," I agreed. "No, there isn't."

The glacier on Flattop Mountain

After fifteen minutes of ambling to all sides of the mountain, taking in the views of the valleys below and of the nearby glacier that fed Emerald Lake (I'd never actually gotten to walk on top of a glacier before, and with global warming being what it is, I'm glad that I did), I began to descend the trail. As might be expected, going down was a much faster endeavor, and one that I didn't have to stop many times for. As if on cue, as soon as I reached the treeline, the rains began to fall, and thunder boomed in the distance.

"Do whatever you want, mountains," I exhaled as I rushed down the mountainside. "I'm on my way down. Thanks for holding off for a bit."

I finished the descent in 1/3rd of the time it had taken me to climb Flattop Mountain. Rushing to the ranger station, I filled my water pack twice, draining it each time. I glanced at my trusty time-piece (my cell phone), and realized that it was too late to complete the two hour Trail Ridge road drive. However, at the time, I quite frankly didn't care. All I wanted was a beer and a burger somewhere. Besides, while I wouldn't be in RMNP for a good long while, it's high on my list of places to return to. Confident in the day's achievements, I bid farewell to the park, driving south to Boulder.

I don't know if there's a moral to this story per se, or if I want you to take anything from this. It would be overly corny and (in my opinion) bad writing to say to my readers to "go climb your own mountains", so I won't. The same applies to saying "stick to your goals, don't listen to your doubts, etc." That's not who I am.

I will tell you however to remember your flannels. And to bring plenty of water.

And don't be afraid to ask for help.

And don't ever feel you have to explain your pictures.

Fearful of the Dawn: An Erstwhile Reflection on the Post-Show Blues

"All the lies that you tell
I believed them so well. Take them back
Take them back to your red house
For that fearful leap into the dark"
Tom Waits

When I first started doing theatre in high school, (three shows only, doing them because my shoulder was not responding well to another semester of baseball) I did it for the pure joy of continuing to hang out with my friends, staying involved with extracurricular activities, and pursuing a year full of arts-related activities during my senior year. As shows inevitably closed, I had plenty to look forward to for my next projects (band contests, graduation, college, a trip to Europe, etc.) with no real reason to look back on the productions as hallmarks of my high school career.

Upon switching to theatre full-time in college, the feeling was more of the same. I had five good years of participating in shows to look forward to, and only rarely did a production have the full feelings of cast unity and excellence that are the signifiers of high quality artistic work. Furthermore, burdened by the high pressures of college, the closing of a show marked what would be a much-appreciated opening in my schedule, crammed full between working at the Cookie Jar and More, 15 to 18 hours of (mostly) intensive course-work, a social life predicated by involvement with the resident social theatre fraternity, and friendships and relationships that deserved a full amount of time.

And then, during my super-senior year (layman's term for a 5th year of college), a funny thing happened.

It wasn't until after finishing the first show of that year, Burning Patience, that I noticed an intense feeling in the days after closing. It struck me swiftly, almost all at once, as I walked into my apartment following strike. A pit in my stomach seemed to drop open as my body flooded with adrenaline. It was hard for me to describe at the time, and the closest I can come to compare it to is the feeling after you've followed your favorite sports team through a grueling playoffs only to witness it come to an unsatisfactory end short of winning a championship just as you've finished running a marathon while listening to a life-changing CD. All while sitting in the delivery room waiting for news of a child being born. Those feelings washed over me, dropping me right down into my chair in my living room, where I sat in silence for nearly half-an-hour, staring at nothing, my head emptied of thoughts and feelings.

I was fortunate enough to be in the busiest stretch of my burgeoning theatrical career, and so I jumped into a new project almost immediately. This caused the feeling to fade relatively quickly, but it soon popped up again with the finish of each performance, coming after The Importance of Being Earnest, Working, Blackbird, and Mother Courage. It didn't matter my involvement with the projects, ranging from acting to singing to directing to even running the light board during the last two weeks of the show. It was always the same feeling of loss, exhaustion, and depression, every time, followed by sinking into my living room chair wondering where the time had gone.

It feels trite to call it post-partum depression, but at this point in my life, that's all I can describe it as. For the sake of brevity (and the fact that I will never ever know what it's like to truly deliver a child), I've come to call this feeling "the post-show blues".

It happened to an extreme level following the conclusion of my internship at the Shakespeare Theatre of New Jersey, though that was also increased by concerns about my mother's health. (It's easier to put things in perspective when dealing with serious illnesses, things that turn out to be life or death. Oh, you might think, what's the point of worrying about not putzing around in the black-box all day when my mother is worrying about how to pay for her chemotherapy?) The same thing happened following the conclusion of my first professional show as an actor, Night of the Iguana in Cincinnati, even though it was the most grueling process I've ever been through as an actor. (Much of which was because, you know, it was my first professional show, and one that really brought me down to size on where I stood as an actor, something that in hindsight I needed desperately at that moment.) After a brief layoff (more on layoffs in a minute), I did Midsummer Night's Dream with Free Shakespeare!, a process that led to a long grueling summer marked by half-hour drives almost daily to everywhere I had to be. And I still missed it after the fact.

And now we come to the present day, where I've just finished directing As You Like It. And the post-show blues are striking again.

For a frame of reference, let me just say that this is not something I desire, nor need, any pity or sympathy for. It's the nature of the business to come to the end of a job, and I've accepted/embraced this many times in my fledgling career. Frankly, an abundance of statements like "Cheer up!" or "Aw, you poor thing" feels a little patronizing after a while, and it really doesn't do anything to lift my mood. In addition, much of it is chemical, as I tend to slip into brief depressive slips for no reason as it is. This is one of the few times that I can put a cause to the effect. I've figured out my own ways to deal with depression in my life; either embracing my introverted tendencies helps sometimes, as does seeking out friends in my own time. I'm a big boy now. I can handle the smaller problems in my life.

Now that that's out of the way, let me talk a little about what happens to me after a show closes.

There's first a moment of relief. Whew, that's over. Thought that show was going to drag on FOREVER.

It's quickly followed by a jolt of shock, like a bolt of lightning scoring a direct hit on my spine. Wait a minute. The show's over. What the hell happens now? Depending on how successful I've been at finding work/opportunities to showcase my craft, this can range from moving on to the next show to something along the lines of "Holy shit, I'm unemployed all over again!" Most people in theatre/film/performing arts go through several periods of unemployment in their lifetimes. It's a common factor. The running joke is that Actor's Equity seeks to make sure that no more than 80% of their members are unemployed at any given time. The actual number is a lot smaller than that, but you get the idea.

Once the shock has set in, it's quickly followed by panic. (You might note a resemblance to the five stages of grieving here; it's not un-similar) Holy shit, I'm unemployed. I need to find a new play NOW, or else I'm that guy who says "I'm an actor" with nothing to back it up! Fuck-nuggets!

There's a tendency I've noticed in myself to linger after the show with cast members, be it in the theatre space itself or at the official/unofficial party afterwards. One might call this the denial phase, but I'm more fond of calling it "embracing the moment". I find a greater sense of awareness that after spending so much of my time with a certain group of people for so long on so personal and revealing a task that the working relationship between the artists has (if you're doing it right, and that is just my opinion-not-a-fact) evolved into a makeshift sort of family. Unfortunately, this doesn't set in for me until the very last fucking night. Consequently, there's only so much time for the hugging and the gift-giving and the laughing before this collective of people departs. Which will happen. And once they do, it sinks in that this select group of people will never be in the same room/space/bar at one time ever again. It's lost to history.

Alas, when the time comes, it arrives like a hammer blow. Everyone starts to leave, sensing that the party is over, the curtain has come down, or it's last call and, while you don't have to go home, you can't stay here. One last round of hugs and promises to keep in touch and then it's into the car. The drive home is a time for silence, reflection, and appreciation of what doing something like theatre means to you. And I don't mean questions like "Why do I do theatre" but more so "Wow, there's really nothing else I would have rather done this summer" or maybe "I just got to experience something that I didn't think I'd be getting for at least five years: the chance to get paid for directing a show" or even "So many people don't want this to end...they don't even know 1/10th of how I feel!" Questions like that, mostly founded in nostalgia and irrationality that make perfect sense given the time and circumstances.

And then comes the pit in the stomach, the black hole in my soul, the melodramatic post-show blues.

I find that my energy is lessened, through either exhaustion or a self-induced sense of despondency. The day after closing, I tend to sleep in until a semi-ridiculous hour (barring returning to my day job...which I didn't), eating junk food, staying up far later than I should, and going about what work I need to do rather lethargically. This lasts for around 24 hours, and is followed by a refocusing of efforts on things that are important, but don't really relate to my career (again, unless I'm in a show immediately following, in which case REHEARSAL REHEARSAL REHEARSAL) such as checking the status for my day job, cleaning my room/apartment/house, or taking a trip somewhere as a reward for months of playing around in the park. (This is how it might look to outsiders, but the truth is that theatre takes up a lot of time and energy and I don't always make time for "me-time" during the rehearsal process or while running the show. That's to be expected, though; how often do you 9 to 5er's actually take a vacation?) This process lasts longer, with an interminable end date. Eventually, though, it wears off as I come to a realization that I have to make every single time:

I'm depressed because I'm no longer doing what I love on a daily basis, and want to do it again.

I don't know why it works like that, but that's something that I emotionally and mentally have to understand with the passing of each show. Once I come to that understanding, my choices are simple: wallow in misery or get out there and look for the next opportunity, be it acting, writing, taking classes, or simply attending a friend's show.

And once I get to that point, I'm fine. I might have to listen to a lot of Tom Waits before I get there, and may or may not eat an entire cheese pizza, but I get there. And then it's time to start the whole thing over again, beginning with that first audition.

And if that's the exchange I have to make for getting to tell stories that nobody else can tell, for getting to start conversations, to change the way people see the world, to move people, to violate people, to shake them to their core, then it seems a small price to pay.

Because I love doing theatre.

And that's how I know that I don't need your pity. Because there's nothing to pity. I'm doing what I love.

Boo-yah.

An Erstwhile Summer: Reminescing About Life in Dayton

More often than not, I'm happiest about money when I'm not only able to balance my checking account at the end of each month, with all of my (granted, minute) bills paid, but with enough left over to kick back at the end of a hard day's work with friends at a local bar, enjoy a few beverages, and then depart safely for home with a moderately filled tank of gas.

This summer seems to have been stretching my ability to do all of that while balancing my back accounts. Not so much because of my income, which is understandably lessened, but more so because of my desire to hang out at the Trolley Stop in downtown Dayton with my growing litany of friends and acquaintances that I've made during my summer stay here.

Last night, at a going-away party for my dear friend Chris Shea (also my boss, technically, though only for one more week), someone remarked that a mutual friend of ours probably met me at Trolley because "[I'm] always there." I will state right off the back that this is one of those things that might sound like a derogatory statement, but is something I chose to take as a compliment. The arts scene in Dayton, while relatively small compared to the confines of the Windy City, is vibrant and strong, and more often than not localized in the free-styling Oregon District on 5th Street. As the featured director of the summer offering of a (very) popular theatre company, I felt at the start of the summer that it would behoove me to make a strong impression in the artistic community of Dayton, if for nothing else than to "Spread the Words" (the company's motto) about As You Like It. In addition, it's always nice to make new friends, and the opportunity to forge new relationships in my second home away from home (Chicago-strong, although I'll get to that in a second) is too good to pass up.

Especially when there's beer involved.

I didn't count on making quite so many friends and acquaintances this summer as I ended up doing, something that greatly surprised me. My prior experience with Free Shakespeare! was exciting, though my social circle from that summer barely extended beyond my cast mates and a few other individuals on the fringes of the company. This year, it's become impossible for me to walk into, say, Trolley Stop, without recognizing multiple people loitering in the bar area or on the patio.

(A brief side note here: The Patio at Trolley Stop is my favorite bar setting in the world, hands down. I've been to English pubs, a Mexican cantina, numerous bars in Chicago (including places like Hopleaf, which are amazing), New York City, and all across the country. Nowhere has the same relaxed atmosphere that the patio of Trolley does. The drinks are nothing that you can't get anywhere else, but nothing tastes quite so good as a pint of Bell's Oberon, downed on a breezy summer evening under an umbrella, the small rock fountain trickling gently against the mason-wrought façade, electric Christmas lights trickling down the walls like currents of light. There's a convivial sense of comradeship that happens on this patio, and more often than not, you're not alone in this setting; what makes this patio work is that it's still enjoyable even if you are drinking alone, waiting for friends to show up. No other bar has provided the same sense of relaxation as that which I've felt at Trolley. I realize that this is an ode to a bar that serves cheap beer and cheaper eats, but I'm allowed to wax poetic on whatever I want. Sue me. Coming up next, an ode to bacon. Take that,  motha-fuckas!)

Needless to say, the opportunity to jump back into the theatre world - as a paid director, no less! - has been incredible. To be able to pinpoint and carry out my artistic vision, as represented by an incredibly talented cast, has rejuvenated my artistic sensibilities that were being dogged down by a mixture of life's demands, fate, and happenstance. I'm proud of the work that I've done, of the growth that the cast has shown, and by the audience's response to it (which has been overwhelmingly favorable).

Alas, all good things must come to an end...the show ends this Sunday at 7:00 Eastern Standard Time, and with it, my time in Dayton (for the summer, but I'll get to that, too) draws to a close, as the Windy City beckons. Already, I'm turning my attentions towards the fall, with submissions for companies wheeling around again. I've long wanted to take classes to improve my array of talents (lesser though they may be) and am looking strongly at early registration for Second City improv classes, with the hope being to broaden my ability to work quickly and confidently on my feet with world class training. In addition, I have a writing project that I've been rolling around in my brain for the last several months that I'm hoping to start penning around September/October, once I'm back in the swing of things in the city. Look for more information on that in about two month's time. I'll drop a hint that it's a break from the Atlantea series that I've already been working on, though my budding fantasy series remains dear to my heart. Expect good things!

And now, I would like to disclose a brief comment about my future plans, which have been slightly....well, turbulent, for the last month or so. Given that Chris Shea is moving to Seattle, and taking the Free Shakespeare! brand with him (rightfully so, that baby's a GOLD MINE, Shea! You hold onto that shit!), there is an opening for Shakespeare in Dayton. More to the point, it is an opening that hundreds (literally, hundreds) of people are asking to be filled by professional artists in the area. I can't say too much at this time, but I will say that while I'm moving back to Chicago for the foreseeable future (with somewhat broader plans beyond that), I'm somewhat involved with creating a home for freelancing artists such as myself to create work in Dayton and still be compensated for their efforts. Every stop I've made on my bizarre journey of a life has told me of the importance of keeping your artistic options open and numerous, and this new-fangled endeavor (if there is one! *wave of mystery washes over all) would be such a chance to bring outside artists (like me!) to Dayton.

If that wasn't redundant/confusing/irrelevant, then know this: if I've learned nothing else this summer, it's that I'm good at what I do, that I like to be good at what I do, and I'd like to keep doing good work when I can do it.

As You Like It closes this Sunday at the Antioch College Amphitheatre in Yellow Springs, Ohio. Bring your friends and Spread the Words!