Mr. Show alum all over the place. Very NSFW. Use headphones.

As though to prepare me for our Wild West Murder Mystery weekend that’s coming up, we staged a train robbery at our firearms workshop this weekend. I did not get to be one of the people firing. As luck would have it, I played the damsel-in-distress. Our teacher, Nick Sandys, mentioned that there should always be at least one person in a large gunfight like that who should not have a gun, as it allows the audience to connect more with the scene.

The gunshots were numbered. Certain ones had to happen before certain others, and there was an emphasis on reacting to each shot entirely rather than letting it degenerate into a clamour of explosions. I had a lot of fun ducking behind chairs, shrieking and pushing armed people in front of me. As the unarmed participant, you also add a chaos/realism factor to the firefight.

It’s strange that as one of the more strictly controlled weapons — the one that requires arguably the most concentration and safety — firearms tend to be used almost improvisationally. You fire when and where there is a clear lane. The rhythm tends to be different every time, as people react and move slightly differently wth each shot fired. You don’t fall into the same sort of movement. And that opens your mind when you’re doing other fights. Firearms thus far is closest to unarmed in its sort of loose feel.
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Over the weekend, I spent most of my time doing something rather uncharacteristic of me. I fired firearms of various makes and models. No bullets, but lots of noise and smoke. It was a lot of fun.

I have noticed that I want to entertain with my writing, so I try to make a big thing out of a little thing. I have tried hyperbole to some effect. I have tried to write funny stories, or write comedy. I am not particularly good at any of them. Maybe I have a way with words, but I am lacking a certain oomph. I don’t know what it is.

So, I am just going to catalogue some things that happened to me over the weekend instead. It may sound a little Karl Pilkington, for those who know who that is. And it’ll probably get a little maudlin like it does. The “more…” link can shield you from such things. Use it. Y’know, by not… using it.
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I got a lot to say and no time to say it. Maybe next week we can all catch up, eh?

K, love you, bye.

3:30 a.m. Not that I would know that.

The doorbell rings and I am awake in milliseconds. Before my mind can process anger or ambivalence, the house is shuddering as some somnambulent juggernaut launches an assault on my front door.

I have no friends foolish enough (nor in college enough) to wake me up after bar time in such a fashion and expect a response. Something is clearly rotten in the state of Denmark. I pull on my robe as the walls reverberate with sound. This beast is growing impatient.

Knowing my mere hands will be insufficient to thwart its savage aims, I reach for a weapon. Devotees will recall that I do not have the standard sporting equipment to which most men would cleave in this practice. Over the baseball bat, the hockey stick or the humble broom, I choose my girlfriend’s broadsword.

Thus armed, I descend the stair and cautiously peer through the windows in the top of my front door. In response to the intruder, the porch light glows but reveals nothing. “A prank, perhaps?” my curmudgeonly brain asserts and alerts the righteous ire portions of the brain to begin preparations for a vocal tirade which would change the colors of the painted walls.

I open the door to discover a Lilliputian. Her pixie-cut dark hair and large, penitent eyes belie her military bearing and armament. Against the back of my leg, I feel my grip relax on the sword hilt.

“Yes, officer?” My voice is remarkably articulate in the night air.

“I have some bad news,” she squeaks. I blink at her through the glass of the screen door for a moment. Clare has commented more than once that I seemingly transform into a maniac of supervillain proportions while I sleep. In her absence, has that Tyler Durden been unleashed? The heavily armed fairy continues:

“Well, I suppose the good news is that your car was the least damaged.”

When it becomes clear that her subtlety is deflected by the Kevlar of my delirious and sleepy stupor she attempts a different tact.

“There was an accident. A car struck several parked cars on this street. You should probably come have a look.”

“Certainly. Let me just put this away and get my shoes.”

For the first time, the uniformed leprechaun notices that I, too, am armed. She needlessly encourages me to leave the weapon behind, and then leads me to the scene of the accident.

Other neighbors stand nearby the twisted remnants of what was once their cars. They nod solemnly at me as I pass. As we approach my car, I see the driver’s side turn signal had been extinguished for good by a side swipe, like a dead eye under a scar on the face of a general. My now Cyclopean car stares forward stoically while I inspect its undercarriage for further damage.

My Vietnamese neighbor explains how her dog had awakened her in a frenzy of barks after the cataclysmic sound of rending metal had terrified it. I put on a limply sympathetic face, as my cheek muscles refuse to adhere to the social aspect of the scene, and return the flashlight she had handed me.

I sway like an oak in a heavy wind as the officer hands me an accident report slip and explains my rights. The driver was uninsured — civil suit — call for information — report further damage — owner drunk — car possibly stolen. It becomes a grocery list in my mind, hastily scribbled on notebook paper. When her eyes probe my face for recognition, I mumble and nod assent.

Possibly my groggy state and her continued attention strangely heightens the moment, but I think she is flirting with me. Impressed with my torn robe, monosyllabic grunts and inappropriate wielding of ancient weaponry, no doubt. I yawningly complain of work in the morning and meander back into my house, where my subconscious creates fictional stresses to distract me from sleeping.

8a.m. I know because I am late for work.

I stumble to my car and see a pile of parts swept up to the curb in front of my wheel. Still standing watch, my car glances at me with its good eye, before resigning itself to a hard day in the sun. A different neighbor watches as I shuffle some of the debris away from my driving lane.

She introduces herself and reiterates all the important information. With my thanks and goodbyes she retreats into her house and watches me start up the engine. Then, two war buddies, aged and injured, my car and I plod our way to work.

Corporate Cannibal from Grace Jones’ new album, Hurricane.

As I watched it, two of my friends sent me this craigslist job posting, saying I would fit the profile perfectly: Nemesis.

Combine it with the Dr. Horrible link below, and my destiny becomes clear.

Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog, Act 1 is now live. And my life is that much brighter.

Today, in the Potbelly line, my friend and ex-boss Travis asked me about the upcoming change in location for Clare and me. Would we be staying together? How would that work? I answered honestly that I did not know. I know we are not breaking up, but the future is anyone’s guess. Then I heard him say, “Well, does she matter to you?*” Travis is not a man known for his tact, but this question was straightforward in a way I did not expect.

My mind’s eye immediately turned to my mental Batcave. Campily decorated computers tickered out tape, buttons flashed and gears turned. Thinking happened. I never considered the question seriously. I mean, of COURSE she matters to me. But as I always must, I wanted to mull over all meanings. Is my life — in the rational, mundane, day-to-day sense — really effected? Beyond having to do my own household chores, will I really notice a change?

Despite myself, the short time we still have together in the next few months has mostly been spent at separate workstations, plugging away at personal projects or pastimes. I get up and go to work. When I come home, we hem and haw over what to have for dinner and what to watch while eating. That will rapidly become internal monologue.

So, in the Spartan industrial sense, I guess… no, she doesn’t matter that much. We have both always said that romantics though we may be, it would be silly to say we could not live without one another. We could. We prefer not to. When she’s gone we will both adjust. One could say, she does not matter.

But no! I won’t say that about this woman who has been my most perfect companion for the past 6 years, who has borne my idiosyncracies and pushed me to become a man of whom even a cynic like me can be proud. She doesn’t MATTER? How can someone even ask that?

Asking whether something matters, what does that even mean? Does acting in theater really matter? No, but I love doing it. Does Clare matter? No but I love doing… you get the idea. What kind of question is that?

Even in the darkest moments of men complaining, I have never heard the most jaded man say (in any seriousness) that his woman does not matter. A car, a career, even the world at large: these things can be dismissed. But no man could say that his woman (his partner, his spouse, whatever) does not matter. Clare matters to me very much, regardless of my ability to live a life without her.

All these things churned in my mind, as my forehead knitted my eyebrows into sweaters. I shook from my rumination long enough to see Travis looking at me expectantly.

“Or is it just the school thing?” Travis prompted.

“Sorry, what?” I asked.

“I said, ‘What, is she mad at you? Or is it just the school thing?'”

“Oh. I thought you said… No. It’s just the school thing.”

We gave our landlady a written confirmation that we are moving out in September. We did that at 1:30p.m. on the 1st, when we paid our rent. Yesterday, between the hours of 5 and 7, she showed the house to 10 different interested buyers, and we saw at least two more stop by the sign and jot down the number.

Clare had cleaned the place to a stellar extent. Even I was impressed when I walked in. She had also framed the posters from my previous shows and my certificate recognizing my proficiency in quarterstaff. The place looked clean, spacious, well-lit and homey. And it was then that I realized how much I am going to miss it.
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Last night, after almost a year of anticipation, I received a set of DVDs from my second workshop in Vegas. Naturally, I hastened to play the videos and see how I fared. I knew that I had passed and that many of my friends had heaped praise on my performances, but I wanted to see for myself. I did well. I say that with appropriate sincerity. If I thought I had been of higher or lower quality than simply above average (within my groups of peers) I would have said. I could use the boost. No. I did well.

As with the previous year, I will put the videos up on youtube so other people can put in their two cents. My enthusiasm made me show some of my co-workers my videos. They watched mainly to be supportive. These videos, I think, are not particularly impressive to “outsiders.” For one, they are filmed versions of theater fights, so they don’t seem particularly fast. For another, they are staged without much flair, just blank stages.
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