Sunday, December 27, 2009

The Season In Review

A lot has happened in the past couple months. I won an Obie. I gave it back. 'Cause really, when you get past the funny sounding syllables, what's an Obie nowadays other than some funny sounding syllables? Not that I don't appreciate the premiere artistic award from the premiere forum for Asian alt-sex enthusiasts.

Me giving back the Obie, forcefully. No really, the Village Voice web site
has its own Wii (c) Thai Ladyboy
"Return Merits" game where you can beat
an Asian alt-sex worker to death with an official V-Voice Obie-shaped dildo.

Also, I passed health care reform. Don't blame me if Max Baucus and Olympia Snowe collapse drunkenly into each others' arms on your lawn. This is what happens when you insist on bi-partisanship.

Speaking of collapses, we had the stock market, the housing bubble, Fannie and Freddie, my pants, and the Giants. They're all my fault. I'm sorry. I have a hard time telling who might benefit from a hard alcohol calmative and who could make do with a cocaine pick-me-up. My pants, for instance: clearly, a pick-me-up.

Finally: mawage. I did it. She did it. We did it together. Quit thinking like that. Actually, go ahead and think like that, cause I think I know of a proper outlet...

More finally, X-Mas:
She's smiling because she just won an Obie. Then she lost it when she repeated the word "obie" back to the committee and they realized how silly sounding their "award" really is. Then she got it back again for distributing Asian alt-porn to passers-by.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Mawage: Update One Of Forever

On a personal note, I know I've been away for a little bit, but I'm doing my best to pop my head back up and get used to the new lay of the land...

Something like this.

To that end, I must report that married life is....awesome. I was even a little sick yesterday and she didn't leave me! Which means that one of our vows has already been tested and honored!

Though, the true post-wedding bliss, if I may say, is in no longer being stuck in the middle of planning a wedding.

I vow to all I hold dear that I'll never go through that again. Never, ever again.

Heh. Yup...

The Old Jokes

They never go out of style, the old jokes; they're simply retold in a different style:

"I saw you at the whorehouse," a Righteous Man accuses his Peer:
[A Righteous Man, forced to depend on food stamps] has noticed crowds of midnight shoppers once a month when benefits get renewed. While policy analysts, spotting similar crowds nationwide, have called them a sign of increased hunger, he sees idleness. “Generally, if you’re up at that hour and not working, what are you into?” he said.
"And how, exactly, did you come to see me there?" the Peer retorts...

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Checkity Check...

One, two--one, two...

Oh, this thing's still on?

I guess I should, um, say something.

(bored coughs/mic feedback...)

Sunday, November 8, 2009


Yesterday, I married the love of my life.

The love of my life.

...And we exchanged vows. There are few times when I allow myself an actual indulgence, but I feel like my wedding qualifies. Erin and I bounced ideas around, and in the end this is what I came up with for our ceremony, posted here because I'm proud of it. And I'm proud of it because I'm proud of her.

Dramatis Personae:
Erin: The Bride
Marlon: The Groom
Mavia: The Reverend


Hello, family, friends, and loved ones. We’re here tonight to celebrate the union of Erin and Marlon, who have decided that gazing at each other is nice, but that gazing outward, side-by-side, is even better.

Each of you—as friend; as family; as both—has contributed to who Erin and Marlon are as people. And the reason they’re together, and standing here before you right now, is because of who they are as people. So, if you’re wondering: the enormity of the role each of you has played in their lives—including your being here in this room with them tonight—is a big reason why they’re all dressed up and have such silly looks on their faces right now.

Who they are as people is also what lead to Erin’s idea that it might be nice to relax at night by reading aloud to each other one of her favorite childhood authors, Judy Blume. Fate being what it is, Marlon had just that day purchased an engagement ring, and the two of them had finished “Superfudge.” They cracked the cover on “Fudge-A-Mania,” which begins with the title character’s exuberant declaration…ahem…”Guess what, Pete? I’m getting married tomorrow!” (This is as far as they got that night, because Marlon, teary-eyed, leapt out of bed—greatly confusing Erin—and proposed to her then and there.)

I think this exuberance was what Margaret H. Marshall, Chief Justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Court, had in mind when she wrote: “civil marriage is at once a deeply personal commitment to another human being and a highly public celebration of the ideals of mutuality, companionship, intimacy, fidelity, and family. Because it fulfills yearnings for security, safe haven, and connection that express our common humanity, civil marriage is an esteemed institution and the decision whether and whom to marry is among life’s momentous acts of self-definition.”

By standing here before you, both Erin and Marlon happily acknowledge just how momentous your influence has been in defining them, and how happily they now define each other by this decision to marry.

MAVIA: Marlon, please repeat after me:

I, Marlon David Hurt,/ take you, Erin Maureen Koster,/ to be my wife, my partner in life and my constant friend./

I promise to:

—love you, respect you, honor you,/ and occasionally obey you, assuming you’re in the right/

—never intentionally or knowingly do you harm/

—share my hopes and my fears unconditionally and without reservation/

— hold your hand through times of health and illness,/ elation and grief,/ big smiles and little snits

—encourage and inspire you,/ and support you in all of your aspirations and endeavors/

—continue to create our wonderful life together/

—remain faithful to these vows/

For all the days remaining to me in my life.

Marlon does.

MAVIA: Erin, please repeat after me:

I, Erin Maureen Koster,/ take you, Marlon David Hurt,/ to be my husband, my partner in life and my constant friend./

I promise to:

—love you, respect you, honor you,/ and occasionally obey you, though I’ll never call it that/

—never intentionally or knowingly do you harm/

—share my hopes and fears unconditionally and without reservation/

—encourage and inspire you,/ and support you in all of your aspirations and endeavors/

—hold your hand through times of health and illness,/ elation and grief,/ times of fun and the unavoidable times of boredom./

—continue to create a wonderful life together/

—remain faithful to these vows/

For all the days remaining to me in my life.

Erin does.

MAVIA: Who has the rings? I do!

At its simplest, a ring is a symbol of continuity. It is a circle—both finite and unending. When we exchange rings, we are acknowledging that our time on this earth is limited, but that our commitment to the growth and well-being of the one we love is not.

Mavia hands Erin’s ring to Marlon.

MAVIA: (To Marlon) Marlon, please repeat after me: I give you this ring,/ an unbroken circle,/ as a daily reminder of my love for you.

Marlon places the ring on Erin’s finger.

Mavia takes out Marlon’s ring, hands it to Erin.

MAVIA: (To Erin) Erin, please repeat after me: I give you this ring,/ an unbroken circle,/ as a daily reminder of my love for you.

Erin places the ring on Marlon’s finger.

MAVIA: By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss each other!

Mar and Er make out.

MAVIA: Alright, y'all, party! Gimme a drink! Whoo!


In short....aaaaaahhhhhh! I love my new wife so much!

Okay, I should take a nap....

Sunday, November 1, 2009

La Poésie Financière

As a rule, I try to stay up-to-date on this, that, and the other—all three of which constantly occupy some sphere of the national mind—and, currently, the "that" seems to be the perpetual post-mortem of the financial crisis still laying waste to vast swaths of the American Empire.

In my most recent appearance as that bedraggled, over-educated NYC straphanger everyone knows and pretends not to be, I happened across an item in my crumpled New Yorker (see?) that reminded me of a prose-ish poem I'd written several years ago addressing just such (literal) changes in fortune.

On this blog, I rarely stray into anything as controversial as substance—though I do often grant myself the indulgence of polemicism (for instance). I'm going to break with that odd tradition and share the piece of writing in question.

I'm less the prescient type than the
postscient type, but I would say that in some gut way I got the large-scale risks of systemic opportunism right with this one.

For what it's worth. (Heh...)

L'Esprit D'Agilotte

—Haberdashers dashed across the racks as if their hats could no longer hold the brains inside their crowns—Tailors torn from collar to crotch—Cobblers, dry tongues begging for their souls—

Agilotte arrived at the agora.

He strode through the bright bordellos of commerce much as a vintner sniffs at the corks of emptied casks. There was no water in his walk, though, just a touch of oil: he distasted mixing. He tightened his invisible hand into a fist, then rode his well-greased purse gently along the purveyors’ path, watching their stock fall like a feather.

—Carpenters’ minds warped out of joint—Smithys’ steely resolve bent out of shape—

He turned the purpose of the grand experiment on its back and tanned it in the sun until its brown was golden. Like the emerald turtles he emulated, he understood that trolling depths is only good for drowning, and who needs dip deeper than the wish of the fountain’s settled coins? After all, shallow waters are where the beasts won’t dive, and interest only flies as far as the smell of dying will take it. This is as far as Agilotte would go. But this was far enough. Nothing shiny lie farther.

He turned the corner, still intent on the baker’s dozen, the hint of special care hanging heavy on his pursed lips.

—Bankers’ reason dispossessed—

With expansive palm outstretched, he reached the store-front, but suddenly those five fingers thumbed the dim emptiness wherein the lower depths are lost every day. Agilotte had accidentally tasted the water of those currents through which no currency flows.

Being hot and cold, but not lukewarm, he spat the water from his mouth and turned his parched lips from his palm, but there was nothing there, the fare had taken all, and Agilotte, the maker of the mark, the dollar’s dolor, was left with nothing but what he thought he had bought.

—Buyer’s capital punished—

Agilotte remarked his empty palm.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Fractaled Ruminations

As a variation on the subtitle of this blog, I took a few moments to try my hand at Apophysis, a fractal generator, and managed this:

It's a long way from this, but I still think it's pretty neat-o.

Well, these few moments have been fun but all this sunlight you guys got up here hurts my eyes; time to slink back to the darkened theater...

Added: a little more math, just to tide you over till my heralded return:

Pictured: what happens when a lens flare shows up wth all its cousins...

Saturday, October 17, 2009

How To Reappear Incompletely

A confluence of events, both professional and personal, means I will probably be updating this site even less often than usual. As in, I probably won't have anything new for you, my devoted 4-6 followers (which count, based on the inaccuracy of web tracking, may also include myself--hi, me!), until after I have mounted a five act, two theater beast of a show, and officially said goodbye to my life as a single man. The latter I'm looking forward to. The former? Not so much.

This is not goodbye. This is the promise of, um, a belated "nice to see you again." Or as those thieving bastards--also known as Led Zeppelin--put it: I can't quit you, babe, but I gotta put you down for a while.

I will be back--I promise, promise, promise--with more inanities expressed with the highest syllable count possible, most likely by the third week or so in November.

And yes, you can consider that a threat...

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

How To Disappear Completely

I'm in the middle of doing lights for this, which opens tomorrow. I would stay and chat more but I'm not doing sound right now.

I'll come up for air soon, and what a whooping inhalation it will be...

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Kimbo Slice(d)

It was very early on in the life of this blog when I made the case that Kimbo had started his decline as a fighter.

Roy Nelson obviously agrees.

I've noticed, in the time that I've been paying attention to MMA, that a pattern often asserts itself in the careers of the bigger fighters: a scrappy start with occasional losses blossoms into a string of dominating wins that takes the fighter to (or very near) the top of the profession; yet after a point, a flood of losses in which the fighter looks weirdly off his game--fights usually ended by a single, not always impressive blow to the head--finally shuffles that fighter out of the upper echelons of the sport (or out of competition entirely).

I watched it happen to Randy Couture, Chuck Liddell, Vitor Belfort, Tim Sylvia, Andrei Arlovski, Ken get the idea. (Granting that my main focus has always been on the universe of the UFC.)

I don't believe anything in Kimbo's career has qualified as distinguished. Still, for much of it he at least had his reputation as a mean dude on his side. It's gonna be harder to rock the fearsome facade after performances like this. (I mean, it's rare enough that I see someone get caught in a crucifix, but twice in two rounds? Really, dude? Didn't you remember how much it sucked when it happened the first time, like, four minutes prior?)

Here's hoping, for the sake of his future prosperity, that he has a good radio voice...

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

The Voice In Her Head

I helped a friend record and mix a charming and amusing inner monologue--made into an aural thought bubble through the generous use of reverb--for one of the puppet pieces in Attraktion. (The piece, appropriately, was called "In'ermingling.")

Just happy to note that it seems to have gone well...

Productivity Was Fun While It Lasted

Oh well, there go that many more hours of my life...

Monday, September 28, 2009

Roman A (Jail)Clef

Roman Polanski.

I mean, c'mon. The man has "pole" written into his name. And "roman." And "ski."

Between the Italianate leanings, the reference to a recreation reserved almost entirely for the well-to-do, and the plain ol' dick joke wagging proudly out front, how could anyone not expect a rape conviction occurring at some point in Mr. Roamin' Pole-an'-ski's life?

Which is all to say, sometimes a man is named accurately.

Just imagine, though, if the girl in question, thirty years ago, were your daughter, and the devil were upon her. Well, in this case, that would also be accurate.

May they throw away the clef...

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Cabinet Fail

This is a rather personal note, but I feel compelled: fuck the contractors who installed the office at HERE. Fuck them in the ear with uncomfortable decibel levels.

Today, while trying to plug something in to a light socket above my colleague's desk, the wall cabinets immediately to my right came removed from the drywall and fell into me, hitting me in the face, knocking my glasses off, and partially pinning me as I tried to hold them up (seeing as they were full of sensitive electronic equipment that would hardly agree with a sharp drop to the floor). Fmy life.

The staff was wonderful--people dragged the cabinets off; got water; made sure I wasn't concussed; didn't openly root for the cabinet.

But seriously, after the hoopla, my colleague and I examined what had happened, only to discover that, 1) the two fully-weighted cabinets had only been held to the wall with four screws, four!, all on the same plane, 2) these screws hadn't been anchored in any way, 3) they didn't hit any support beams, 4) they only went in an inch (touching nothing but drywall!), and that, 5) professionals can apparently get away with work that I would have been atomic-wedgied for in my high school tech classes 14 years ago.

Given this series of revelations, I am only left to ask: why exactly am I not making $45 an hour? Cause damn it looks less strenuous than how I spend my days....

Friday, September 18, 2009

A Considered Take On A Cherished American Music Genre

I'm not a fan of country music. To me, it's not country...'s flyover country.

(Short burst of mic feedback; nervous coughs in the background.)

So, in other news...

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Your Therapist Is Laughing At You

In trying to diagnose the mental state of the modern G.O.P., I find myself asking, "is it schizophrenia? Or just stupidity?"

But no, looking deeper I realize it's a bad case of under-appreciated comedic genius:

"Rep. Kevin Brady asked for an explanation of why the government-run subway system didn’t, in his view, adequately prepare for this past weekend’s rally to protest government spending and government services.


The Texas Republican on Wednesday released a letter he sent to Washington’s Metro system complaining that the taxpayer-funded subway system was unable to properly transport protesters to the rally to protest government spending and expansion"

Rep. Brady has built his epic practical joke like the best roller coasters: just when you've crested one punchline you're faced with an even bigger one:

GOP Rep Who Suggested D.C. Metro Hurt 9/12 Turnout Voted Against Metro Funding

I think my diaphragm just collapsed...

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Double Digits

According to my sitemeter, I officially logged eleven unique visits this past Sunday. This is the first time I've broken double digits in the blog's almost year long existence.

And I couldn't have done it without you. All slightly more than ten of you.

Just know that I consider you, my readers, as extended family; I hold you close enough to think of you fondly, but not so close that I have to buy you stuff.

Aw, I'm gettin' all misty...

Sunday, September 13, 2009

I Can Haz Intellectually Stimulating Artistic Reinterpretationz?

In the great internet ecosystem, there's a certain species of web site that sustains itself not through a single authorial voice speaking from behind the firewall, but on contributions from the page's readers. Which, essentially, means these sites are the homeless dogs of the Web: beggars dependent on the scraps of amenable passersby.

The type I've been exposed to most (make of it what you will) is the pleasantly vacuous: mostly of the classification Felis LOLus, they're damp-shnozzled places like Cute Overload and Stuff On My Cat, or Haz Cheezburger's Mean Girl relatives: Texts From Last Night, FMyLife, Failblog, Engrish, etc.

And I love them all. I admit it. I love them in a way that would leave me acned and obese, had they any caloric content.

That said, this--though being of the same scavenging genus--is of a different class altogether. It's like I've been amusing myself with scrappy little terriers only to come face to maw with a mastiff.

Can I keep it? Huh? Please, can I?

The Money Meets Mouth Project (TM)

Can we start a drive urging Republican congresspeople who oppose extending government-run healthcare to the populace at large to drop their own government-run healthcare and use private insurers?

They are the party of personal responsibility, after all. I'd hate for them to tarnish that sparkling reputation...

Thursday, September 10, 2009

What Really Grinds My Gears

Sean Hannity sez, regarding teh eye-dea of government-run health care: "There's rationing, there's long lines."

Deep, slow intake of breath, looks to his shoes for help...

Who gives a fuck? When I was without health insurance--and working well over 40 hours a week, thank yew very much--I would have killed to be able to stand in a line, any line. Because at the end of that line would have a been a doctor who could have given me help for something less than the price of a used Volkswagen.

These fucking Republicans (and too many "conservative" Democrats) don't seem to get that the other option for a huge swath of the populace--most of whom work effing hard and pay plenty of fucking taxes--the other option for, well, us, is zero. No doctor. No dentist. Nothing. Nada. Treblinka. Whatever that means.

(Jesus, I just googled Treblinka and it turns out it was a German death camp. I don't remember having ever heard the name before. Not that it's entirely inappropriate in the way I used it, but dude, what the hell is your problem, associative memory? Are you twisted? Or do you just get off on wildly morbid similes?)

I will take long lines and rationing over nothing. Anything is better than nothing. The fact that this seems lost on so many people just tells me how out-of-touch most of the top earners around us are with people who work hard, but work for less.

And god help you if you come back with the argument that we should get better jobs. Just try saying that to every waiter, grocery store employee, and gas station attendant who makes your day actually fucking happen and let's count the hand prints you end up with on your face.

Um....yeah. So there.

And that, Tom, is what really grinds my gears.*

* See here.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Sketchy (Updated)

Here I go, pretending to be all artistic again.

This is a rough draft of a prop drawing a character (an art student, natch) whips up during a scene of Epic Theater Ensemble's production of Mahida's Extra Key To Heaven, opening soon at the Signature Theatre.

I'll know soon if the director goes in for it, but either way I'm rather pleased with this initial attempt.

A stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
This ebony bird did beguile my sad fancy into a smile.
Fo' realz.
--D.J. Po'

Update: Which ended up as this:

Update 2: The second one, based on this description:
"There is a wolf and a little girl with a shadow. This wolf has no shadow on the ground like the girl. They are standing before a high stone wall. At the end of a meadow. I think they have come to a place where they can go no further. Their way is blocked by a locked gate in this wall.
See the gate with a lock?
But in the tree over here, above the wolf, is a bird. A friendly white dove who has the shadow of a raven. Right here in the air above the wolf. And in the beak of the dove, she has a key. But in this shadow, the shadow of the raven, there are two more keys. Maybe even more."
I admit to being far less pleased with how this drawing turned out. To be fair, the description's a wreck--exactly the kind of thing a writer would concoct to cram all his pet themes into a single "image," while handily skirting the compositional nightmare the drawing he's describing would be in reality.

But, just for the sake of the record and as evidence that I have the guts to breathe deep and highlight my own mediocrities...breathes's that nightmare:

Wednesday, September 2, 2009


Writing metal music?

Use half steps.

This has been your latest public service announcement from LLC, EPA.

(Oh, and milk. Snort milk. For strength.)

Tuesday, September 1, 2009


I haven't had a lot to say in the last week, I realize. Seems like I could use a little...motivation! A cat hanging from a tree limb is pretty weak tea, though, especially against the rut I'm in. No, I need a shot of awesome that I can mainline...

Image Credits: I supplied the moral perversity; these guys facilitated the rending of the social fabric.


Dunno about you, but I feel ready to face the world again...

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Tuesday Night Clogging

Cat weblogging. Catblogging. ...Clogging!

Pet blogging (plogging?) is standard practice among several of my favorite internuts. It is not that I've resisted the call to inject my felines into the national debate, it just never occurred to me that their images could be helpful in the pursuit of peace and understanding between the peoples of the world.

And they most certainly are not. But I finally realized I can force their damp little shnozzles on the nations of the earth anyway.


Oscar! He's blurry because he's in motion. Where's he moving, you ask? Why...

Right here! Aiiieeee!

Hm...I really don't recall mail-ordering for an Eliza.
I don't have that strong a sadomasochistic streak.

And besides, isn't there a law against sending explosive
substances through the postal system?

True to form, Eliza exploded the final helping of salmon my love prepared for a dinner party all over the kitchen floor by nudging the baking dish from its resting place on the stove. I really shouldn't have signed for that package...

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Sound And Fury...

...Signifying, um, something! Because order from chaos is the alchemy performed by the callused but careful hand of the subgenre known as noise metal.

How do I know this? Because that hand has touched me. But not in a way that made me call for an adult (I have gangsta rap for that).

Using feedback and other sounds Deep In Vein has generated during our various recording sessions for the upcoming new album (more on this soon!)--as well as a few choice samples culled from (best evar)--I put together a little something:

Letting this play softly in the background while you go about your business is actually rather soothing, it turns out; you can easily concentrate on whatever task is at hand and leave your subconscious to frolic through the peaks and valleys of the arhythmic sonic landscape.

It's kinda like Chet Baker for the tattooed, heavily bearded set...

Friday, August 21, 2009

Why I Love Her

If you've ever wondered, well, wonder no more. This is the question posed by a routine Facebook quiz:
17. Would you go out to eat with George W. Bush?
And this is my love's answer:
I would. I would pick his brain. It would not take too long. Then I'd try to cut him.
Isn't she just the sweetest thing you could ever hope to meet?

44: The Deformering

Eugene Robinson rightly concludes:
"Here's the least surprising news of the week: Americans are souring on the Democratic Party. The wonder is that it's taken so long for public opinion to curdle. There's nothing agreeable about watching a determined attempt to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory."
Observing the process up to this point, I would say the exact same thing, except with more exclamation marks, OMGZ, references to strange smells, and quotations from Proust.

There are some balls that desperately need to be kicked in this evolving situation, and most of them reside in Max Baucus's pants.

Notice I say "most" when the maximum number of balls possible in Max Baucus's pants--anatomically speaking--is two (2). By saying "most," have I forgotten all the hours from my youth locked in the bathroom confirming and reconfirming these two simple facts of the male physique? No, I remember those hours well. I say "most" because no one else on the left side of the aisle seems able to prove his--or her--possession of such apparently rare and precious stones.

Not that it's a mystery where the Dem's shriveled orbs of courage (-5 vs. Expected Attacks) have disappeared to. See that candy-colored music box over on the Republican side of the aisle? The one playing the chintzy, nursing home remix of "Sabotage" on repeat? They're in there, right next to a pack of C Street Foundation brand condoms ("hushed-up, for his pleasure") and Larry Craig's bathroom pass.

Still don't see it? It's that box right there, the one unceremoniously shoved under Chuck Grassley's desk, its spherical contents left undisturbed by the Finance Committee member since he clearly has more than he needs...

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Health Care Deform

I go away for a week, expecting that on my return I will be greeted with the socialist utopia my comrades and I worked so hard to usher in this past election day. Or, barring that, at least a forced confinement to a dirty hospital bed before being given an unneeded root canal sans anesthetic. Just because it's free.

But no. Instead, I find this:

Protest Fail
see more Fail Blog

...which is about as intelligently argued as this.

Rebuttal, anyone? Oh, well thank you, Rep. Frank.

Friday, August 14, 2009

How To Tickle An Autodidact

Sneak a fingertip between his frets and yell out a chord name.

I have so many musical concoctions whose structures I can't even begin to describe properly. This site promises endless hours of elated "huhs!" and "so that's what I was playing?!"

Woe be the neighbors...

In From The Wild

My love and I are back from not-New York City and I have the poison ivy rash to prove it. I'd tell you where, but that would mean describing this wonderful, concealed little spot we two found in the underbru--okay, it's on my forearm.

And now, pictures! (Click 'em to big 'em.)

Right over there is not New York.

Doing my best Viking funeral impression.

Chillin' by the swimmin' hole.

A big goddamn spider, also chillin' by the swimmin' hole.

This may surprise some, but this is actually a picture of the surface of the sun. I know, I know; "where's all the fire?" you ask. Believe me, on the day in question this landscape was close to combustion. I know this because so were we.

Cooling off by a stream...

...and making a friend. Admittedly, this "friend" was trying to figure out if I was
edible, but hey, I'm a beggar not a chooser. Besides, I
am edible.

Another friend, this one thankfully uninterested in the question of my edibility.

Finally, after our allotted number of mosquito bites and allergic reactions, my love and I waved a slow-motion goodbye to this:

...and hopped the train back to civilization. It was, in the end, a very nice vacation.

That way home...

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Getting Wood

My love and I are trekking into the deep, dark woods of what might be New Jersey or is probably just an outer edge of New York State, but is--most certainly and most importantly--not New York City.

For a whole week, no less. That's, like, seven days in NYC time.

If any of you get bored while I'm off wrestling mosquitoes, I recommend opening this in your browser and turning on the little flash player at the top to provide some background tunes, then going and clicking on every single link provided by this guy. Good stuff.

Y'all play nice now. Or, if you don't, at least try to keep any spilled blood off the rug.

It's a bitch to get vital fluids off that thing...

Monday, August 3, 2009

Los Grumildos, A Review

If I learned anything from the presidency of George W. Bush, it's that sometimes you have to go above the filter and take your message straight to the people. Cut out the middlemen of elitist reviewers from fancy Northeastern publications! Let the People decide for themselves!

And then let them write down what they think in a little black book that you can, in turn, leaf through over a glass of Pisco with your new Peruvian friends. Of course.

So, after taking your medium above the media, then having people use a separate medium to share their thoughts on the quality of your medium--could there be a more concisely worked referendum?--what, you ask, do the People have to say for themselves?

"Delightfully grotesque. Excellent lighting."
-- Very Discerning Anonymous Theatergoer

I do so enjoy a friendly pat on my ars...

Sunday, August 2, 2009

Gone, Baby, Gone (Updated)

My love is out of town.

I miss her.



Update: Okay, she's back.

Saturday, August 1, 2009

The Man With The Pan

Ever since we lost the "Also" From Juneau I've been exhibiting withdrawal symptoms. They say an effective therapy for former addicts is to give them something to do with their hands. Well, my love and I bought a digital camera.

And it has panorama.

The trembling has lessened considerably.

Hey, it's better for my health than suboxone or, god help me, finger painting...

DIV In The Park

Just a reminder: Deep In Vein plays Tomkins Square Park today, around 1 or 2pm, as part of the Unquiet Riot festival.

It's a short set, about 15 minutes, but there should be plenty of people and plenty of food and drink. Get buzzed on our noise then on a neighboring establishment's brews!


Friday, July 31, 2009

Welcome (Back) To The Machines

Okay, I confess: earlier today I engaged in a shameless act of self-pleasure. It had been a long time, though, such a long time since I'd indulged myself, that I thought "why not? What's the harm? Everyone does it! Why are my palms sweaty?" And after my equivocating, I cast a furtive eye over each shoulder, opened my web browser, rubbed my grubby hands together, and--for the first time in many months, months, I tell you!--I did a vanity google.

I wouldn't be admitting to this sordid act so openly if I hadn't discovered something funny: how is it that I never saw this while Machines x7 was still up and running?

There are so many layers of awesome here--a veritable deep-fried artichoke blossom of "heh, neat"-ness--that I'm not sure where to begin. First, I guess, would be that I reviewed theater for this site for well over a year back in 2005-06 and still maintain a deep respect for the fine folk I met there.

Second, I continue to hazard, would be that I am mentioned as a major force behind the production. Mr. Coyle, whom I do not think I've ever met, writes:
The real stars of this production are machine designers Steven and Billy Blaise Dufala, Technical Director Derek Cook and Marlon Hurt, the Master Electrician. Creating a stage-world of working contraptions and low-tech gadgets is not easy, and their creativity is often staggering.
Dude, did you catch that? I effing staggered someone! Often! I am the Master Electrician...of the synapses in your mind!


Artichoke leaf number three, sadly, is that I think Mr. Coyle is very wrong in his assessment of my impact on the piece. Yes, Steven and Billy deserve the kudos he hands them, but Derek--not to diminish his significant contributions--simply assembled the mass of lumber dumped on our doorstep into a pre-designed set and, other than the house lights, I did nothing fancier than make sure everything turned on. That hardly makes us the "stars" of anything except utilitarian fetishists. Not what I would call an aesthetically refined crowd, they.

I'm also disappointed that he knocked the idea of the show being "deeply profound." Granted, in certain contexts words like "deep" and "profound" rank up there, in my opinion, with made-up words like "frustrational." When used to describe the quality or content of a work of art, "deep" and "profound" have essentially zero meaning. What they indicate, though, is that thought went into the project. With Machines x7, this is a fair assertion: it never smacked anyone over the head, but the entire exercise was a meditation on American militarism in the age of Bush. Our paranoia, our overcompensation, our propensity to turn into a mirror image of the monsters we're fighting--all of this was quietly addressed by Trey, Geoff, and Quinn. One just had to stop laughing long enough to examine why one was really laughing to begin with.

Not that Mr. Coyle was laughing, or necessarily should have been. To each his own. But for me that's the heart of this tasty thistle. I didn't realize it, but I've honestly missed slinging hash with fellow opinion-mongers like my former colleagues at I used to find such calisthenics so brutally rewarding. (Scroll toward the bottom to find my piece.)

I may be the Master Electrician in question, but when I think about disagreeing with someone whom I have every reason to respect--and the kind of multi-layered awesome such a disagreement reawakens in me--well, consider me staggered.


Los Grumildos...Now In Panorama-Vision!

As promised, a few pics of my accidental light design for Los Grumildos at HERE Arts Center.

I would note that while the show is apparently a pleasure to human eyes, the low light and saturated reds make this exhibit hard on our digital counterparts. Ah, les yeux mécaniques! Le sigh....

And yes, there are panoramas. Oh, are there ever!

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

A Word From Beyond The Veil

Well, beyond the veil that separates a person forced to cram a 39-hour work week into three days from his more free time-enabled counterparts, anyway.

The upshot of the insane hours--but not quite insane enough to qualify for a thorazine drip; for that, catch me after HERE's CultureMart this coming January--is that I inadvertently ended up doing the light design for the North American premiere of Los Grumildos.

I'll post pics tomorrow. Most likely in panorama format. As the prophecy of...squints at panorama post time stamp...two days ago foretold, the panorama-ing begins!


I am such a dork.

Sunday, July 26, 2009


New digital camera. This one has panorama.

I'm gonna get good at this. At which point, everyone within 180* of me needs to watch out. For the moment, only cats and houseplants are at risk.

This won't end well, I can feel it...