Grilled Meat

I realized as I was walking around town yesterday what it is that I've missed so much about New York City. Well, it's one of the many things I've missed about New York City:

The cacophony of good smells. You can't walk anywhere in this town without having the smell of some great cuisine wafted at you, and I've been finding myself in a constant state of mouth-watering since stepping off the subway yesterday morning.

Of course, it's also a keen reminder of the hundreds, perhaps thousands of great restaurants that I can't afford to eat in while I'm in my poverty phase.

Natch.

Long Day's Journey...

Well. This one'll likely be long, or incoherent, or both.

I'm writing on the train back to NYC, and, as I'm sure you know, I have definite mixed feelings about it.

I'm happy to be going back after five months away, but I'm not terribly happy about being out of work and having to scramble to pay rent again, after a little scrape with the IRS and some back taxes have put the kibosh on my attempts to save a couple months rent.

The bright side is that the folks for whom I worked at Time Warner seem to be interested in having me re-join them for more temp work, which would be great, and fun. I'm having lunch with a couple of my old pals there Monday, after I stop in at the beloved Laury Group agency for a visit with the new placement person. With any luck, I'll be back at work quickly, and the whole rent thing will sort itself out.

I generally love the train ride to and from Pittsburgh, but I have to say that since Amtrak has cut service on the Pennsylvanian line, it's a bit of a pain in the ass. There used to be two trains a day between New York and Pittsbugh, and now there's only one. Used to be, you could get a train at 7:20 a.m. and get in around 4:30 in the afternoon -- a very long, but very pleasant and scenic ride. Now the only train from Pittsburgh leaves at 1:20 p.m., and doesn't get in 'til nearly 11 p.m. And since I'm doing it on a Sunday, that pretty much guarantees I won't get to Kenny's apartment (where I'm staying while waiting for my sublet to leave at the end of the month) 'til nearly midnight -- subway service turns to poop late night on the weekends in NYC.

I don't know why I didn't just bite the bullet and pay the $300 for an airline ticket back in August when I still had money. I guess I just wanted the new camera too much, so now I'm paying the piper. The funny thing is that Ben, who was taking a plane back to NYC, is probably just landing as I'm writing this. And his plane left ten minutes after my train did.

There's a silver lining, though. On my last couple of train trips, the reduced service meant packed trains and an almost-assured nine-hour exposure to screaming babies. I seem to have dodged that bullet this time. This particular train is originating in Pittsburgh, so I didn't have to fight with already-ensconsed passengers for primo seating.

I'm near the restrooms, and they don't stink. You can't beat that with a stick.

1:55 p.m. -- We may be coming to our first station stop. The train is slowing to a crawl. It's either that, or we have to slow down to let some other train cross in front of us or pass us. I wonder which. In any case, we're not exactly flying along. I think I'm going to take a break for a while and recharge the battery on my camera. I also bought a book for my trip back -- the first I've bought for myself since getting that library card earlier in the summer. I must admit, the $30 non-resident fee for that card was the best investment I made. I probably read books that would have cost over $300 had I bought them for myself -- and then I'd have had to ship them home. Like I don't have enough crap to ship myself. Okay, we've been crawling along for nearly ten minutes, and we're not to a station yet. I wonder what the delay might be?

2:06 p.m. -- We just pulled in to the Greensburg, PA station, and boy there are a lot of people lined up on the platform! This train may get really crowded by the time we're really under way to New York. The threat of screaming babies still hangs over me like the Sword of Damocles.

I think I wrote earlier about having spent the morning with E.B. yesterday, trying to avoid saying my goodbyes. It was a hard parting for me because -- even though I still have no idea, really, if he would return the burgeoning feelings I have for him -- I've really grown to like him. The self-doubting pessimist in me keeps suggesting that he just wants to be friends, which, while disappointing, would be fine by me. But, truly, I want more with him. Well, I want to get to know him better, because I suspect he's a person with whom I could go deeper, emotionally.

I'm not sure what it is about him that's particularly special. He's smart, of course. And funny. And I think he's incredibly handsome, but that's subjective. He's sensitive. He really feels things. And he loves his dog in the most hilarious way. He's not like a showdog parent; he's more like a rough-housing dad. Well, a dad who's kid is a dog that looks like a muppet.

2:20 p.m. -- And we just blew through Latrobe, PA, birthplace of Rolling Rock beer. The locals pronounce it LAY-trobe, but the rest of us pronounce it LAH-trobe. Go figure. People in Pittsburgh pronounce the town of North Versailles as "Ver-sails," so they're not exactly in the position to mock anyone, are they? There's a town in the middle of Pennsylvania called "Dubois" that's pronouced "du-boys." Natch.

2:38 p.m. -- Wow. We're well into our climb into the Laurel Mountains of Pennsylvania, and the countryside is just beautiful. The light -- even though it's only the first day of autumn -- is quite something, and we're passing above a river surrounded by forest. I just happened to be listening to the largo from Handel's "Xerxes" as we're passing along at what can only be described as a stately pace.

Too bad the battery's out of my camera and stuck in its charger. I don't mean this unkindly: Your loss.

3:09 p.m. -- Well, we've pulled in to Johnstown and another boatload of people got onto the train. They look like they're art of a tour group. And suddenly the "p" key on my keyboard is being recalcitrant, required a good, stiff keypunch before it'll work.

If it's not one thing, it's another, no?

3:48 p.m. -- Lawd, but we're crawling now. No wonder this trip takes 10 hours. The slow clickclick clackclack of the wheels on the tracks and the rocking of the car are lulling me to sleep. I may have to try for a nap. I'm reluctant to try for one, though, 'cuz I don't wanna sleep and then keep myself awake all night at Ken's. I have a lot to do tomorrow, so I can't afford to be up half the night.

4:30 p.m. -- We just pulled out of Altoona, PA, and the sky's become it bit overcast. I wonder if I might get rained on for my triumphant return to NYC.

Rather than take a nap, I decided to take my book and go to the dining car for a sandwich and a soda. Okay, I admit it. It was a hot dog and a soda. At least it was an all-beef hot dog.

It's really crazy to be sitting here working on the computer and not being able to pull up the internets to check our progress on a map. I've come to depend on the Google Maps page so much since I deleted the Rand McNally Streetfinder software from my computer. It worked off of a database on a CD, and the CD got cracked somehow a while back, so there was really no point in letting the program keep taking up space on the computer -- but boy it was handy when I needed to map something and the internets weren't available. Like now.

Anyway, while I was in the cafe car, we went around the famous "Horseshoe Curve." From the dining car at the back of the train, I could look out and see the engine ahead of us, going into the curve. I imagine it must have been quite a sight in the days when passenger trains were more than four or five cars long. Sadly, my fingers were all-over ketchup, so I couldn't grab the camera and snap any photos of the train going around the curve.

There was a little old lady sitting in the dining car as we were going through the curve,and she was just delighted by the whole thing. I sat there wondering if perhaps that sort of wonder at the world is something we lose during our middle years; like it's a gift we have as children, lose as adults, and regain once we come to the end of our lives. Your own mortality is something that'll bring home the joyous mystery of the universe, I would think.

There's a secret part of me, though, that is really just afraid that I'm generalizing what's basically a personal phenomena; that I'm the only one who's lost his sense of wonder, and in the general population, it's not something that's lost. I want to be continually amazed by the world, and in many respects am, but not always.

Oh, by the way: I found out why were moving so slowly.

As it turned out, some slow-moving Georgia Pacific freight traffic got in front of us as we were leaving Greensburg, PA, and we had to slow down so as not to ram it. The conductor insists that -- despite the delay, we'll make up the time later.

And now we've pulled into Tyrone, PA; a tiny little town with no proper train station -- just a tiny little shelter like you might see at a bus stop. What must it be like to live in a town like this?

5:32 p.m. -- We're in some serious mountains, now. Well, serious by Pennsylvania standards. And we're finally making up some lost time by zipping along through lovely mountain passes with streams below us on the embankment and peaks above. Part of me continues to ask, "Why would someone want to live all the way out here in the boondocks?" But another part thinks it's quite something, and really quite beautiful. Must be a bitch to be caught up here in the winder, though.

It's funny to think of there being farms on a mountaintop, but they're all over the place up here. Now we're flying past field after field of dead corn stalks. It's either been a seriously dry summer up here, or it's just that the corn-growing seaon is all done. Come to think of it, it is autumn, now. I guess the season is over.

I was sitting here looking out the window and I've just come to the shocking realization that I may have left some recently-purchased porn sitting on top of the VCR in my suite at the Shadyside Inn. How embarrassing is that?!? Worse, the money I spent on it is wasted!!!

Jeebus.

6:13 p.m. -- Lewiston, PA. And another boatload of people getting on the train. Well, a train load, at any rate. At this point, I've still got around five hours to go on my trip. If we're running on time, that is.

The foreign lady across the aisle from me has been watching DVDs throughout the trip. Oh, had I been half so clever as to arrange my Netflix arrivals to coincide with my long day on the train. As I recall, on my way to Pittsburgh, I watched the better part of a whole season of The West Wing -- the fourth, I think -- while happily snuggled in my train seat. Whatever she's watching, it's making her laugh.

It's getting harder and harder to fight the urge for a nap.

I wonder what the weather is like in New York?

7:29 p.m. -- Harrisburg, PA. The train is full. Crying baby has moved in across the aisle. No joy in Mudville. The next three and a half hours will probably be tons o' fun.

The mom seems nice, at least.

9:02 p.m. -- Dog tired. And tired. Of. Talkative. Babies.

10:04 p.m. -- Philadelphia. An hour behind schedule. I'm not going to get into New York City until after 11:30, and it'll no doubt take me an hour to get to Kenny's apartment. That poor man. He's gotta be up early for work Monday morning. Hell, I need to be up early Monday morning!

There's always a bit of a delay in Philadelphia, too, because they change locomotives on the train. I'm not sure, but I think they use a diesel engine for the trip from Pittsburgh to Philly, and an electric engine into New York. I think I remember a conductor tellling me that once. Or I may be on crack.

Earlier, I thought we were going to make up time. The train was screaming along the tracks so quickly between Harrisburg and Philadelphia that the car was literally shuddering and rocking back and forth. I was getting seasick.

Now it's 10:15 p.m. and we're finally on our way.

The crazy thing about changing locomotives is that now it feels like I'm traveling in the opposite direction, because the new engine has been connected at the rear of the train.

I think there are only a couple of stops now before we hit New York, but we're still a good 1½ away, at least. Forgive me, Mr. Ken.

My New Obsession

Since I can't have E.B., I've settled on a new obsession. There's a new Gay & Lesbian network from the fine right-wing people at MTV/Viacom called "Logo." On Logo, there's a show called "Round Trip Ticket," on which a number of cute gay people travel the world and do overviews of the gay scene in various cities.

So I'm obsessed with one of the presenters, Marc Savoia. He's half-Italian/half-Australian...with an accent, and a body of death. I'm sitting here watching him do a show on Mykanos which -- thank God(s) -- has him in a speedo for most of the show. Life is good.

Or, if life isn't always good, there's always something good about it.

Running is Hard

You remember when I was having trouble sleeping (said the ostrich with his head firmly in the dirt, since it's still going on)? Well last week, I decided that I would jog home after the show to wear myself out and hopefully get a good night's sleep.

As it turned out, the run only energized me and I ended up awake until 5 a.m. -- but what I chiefly recognized about the run was what a graceless, rumbling, monster I was. My tread was heavy and leaden, my breathing awful, and I was a sweaty, nasty mess. I was a horror. It made me painfully aware of why I gave up running as a form of exercise over twenty years ago.

It put me in mind of that Friends episode where Rachel invites Phoebe to jog with her in the park, and is mortified when Phoebe's jogging style is less than elegant -- arms akimbo, legs flailing and running balls-to-the-wall wildly like a kid, just for the fun of it.

Well, today I was out with Jason for a final day of fun at the Bloomfield ("Pittsburgh's Little Italy!") Italian Days festival, and after sending him on his way to his rehearsal, I walked back to my apartment -- a walk of about a mile or so.

During the walk, I saw about six different people out jogging, which reminded me that since my own recent experience with jogging, I've really noticed other people's jogging styles. For the most part, they're every bit as graceless as me. There was one woman who looked more like she was trundling, rather than jogging. In an odd way, she reminded me of a monster from my Dungeons and Dragons™ days, a Shambling Mound. It was this relentless plant creature that just kept on coming, no matter what you threw at it.

Needless to say, I sidestepped that chick as quickly as possible.

It's good, at least, to know that I'm not the only un-pretty runner in the world. I'll stick to biking and swimming, thanks.

Naturellement

It just figures that with only two days left in Pittsburgh, I would go out with my friend Dan to a gay bar and have an absolutely fantastic time. One that makes me rethink all the negative thoughts I have about gay bars in general. I met a bunch of nice people, there was no meat market feel to the place, and I didn't get too liquored up (I'm on a budget).

Alas, not every gay bar outing has been that easy for me -- I generally loathe them, rarely meet (or even see) anyone of any interest, or generally feel invisible in those places. None of which happened tonight.

It was just a lovely night out with my good friend, and a chance to meet some of his friends, and to oogle some eye candy.

Would that they were all that way.

Bewildered

I just can't believe that my time in Pittsburgh is rushing to an end. We only have two performances of the show remaining, and on Sunday I'll be boarding a train back to New York City.

I can't say that I'm not looking forward to it, but there are so many people I wanted to catch up with that I just never got the chance to see.

Life is crazy that way. I hope they all know that I love them. I hope that they'll forgive me.

Back to packing.

WTF!?!

Booby, Thy Name is Joe

Another night of insomnia, fretting over stuff I can't control. I shake my fist at the Gods of Love. Or maybe it's the Gods of Unrequited Love. Or both.

Anyway, this is what you look like when you can't sleep at 3 a.m. Thank God(s) that in photography, color covers a multitude of sins:

Go, Burundi!

Who says there's no hope left in the world?

Hometown Pride

You know, anyone who says Pittsburgh is an ugly little steel town just doesn't get it. Or they're not really looking very closely. Things have changed a great deal since the days when Pittsburgh was dismissed out of hand as a backwater burgh, full of blowsy, chunky steel workers who ate pierogies and drank beer all day.

Having undergone its own version of the renaissance, the little city that could has done pretty well by itself, and I think (in my own humble opinion) compares favorably with just about any other place in the world.

See what I mean?

A Christian I Can Get Behind

Those of you who know me as the Godless Infidel™ that I am may well be surprised to hear that I'm currently reading -- nay, even loving -- Ann Lamott's "Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith." Ann is my new favorite Christian -- the liberal kind that I can get embrace -- and she's turned me on to my new favorite motto:

Quelle Surprise?

Now, really, is it any wonder these things are extinct? It's not like they'd be sneaking up on prey or hiding out from predators, now is it?

Skulking in the Dark

I've been haunting the Shadyside neighborhood at night, when I can't sleep, trying to figure out how to use my camera in low light. I'm not all the way there, but look what I managed to capture by moonlight the other night:

Frozen

I've been feeling lately like my life is at a bottleneck -- just waiting for one thing to break before it's released again and able to move on its way.

I feel as though there are things I should be doing to nudge my life in the direction of the goals I want, but have no idea what those things should be. Or, rather, the doing of those things require some sort of set-up work that I'm not doing.

Does that make sense? I dunno. It's weird.

It's in times like these that I wish I believed in God, so I could pray for a little clarity. Alas, I'm left to figure it out for myself.

Name Your Fear

I've discovered a rather interesting phenomenon with the help of my dear friend, Amsy Dane.

I'm one of those people who's not too quick to talk about the things that are bothering him; I tend to bottle things up, and they affect me in interesting ways. I'm not talking about things like anger, which I don't think I have a lot of trouble expressing, for the most part. I mean the things that worry me -- that (see where this is going?) keep me up at night and prevent me from getting any sort of restful sleep.

I'm worrying a lot lately about going back to New York and being unemployed. Specifically, about not having as much in savings has I had hoped to, and wondering where October's rent is going to come from. There's nothing I hate more in all the world than being late in paying my rent... okay, maybe I hate genocide and prejudice and wanton disregard for personal liberties a lot more, but they're not part of my everyday world. I'm just saying.

Anywho, Ms. Amsy has reinforced something for me that I've long know and rarely give credit to: Namely, that talking about one's fears -- actually sitting down with someone and saying out loud the thing that you fear most -- actually robs those things of much of their power.

Sitting at breakfast with Amsy, having her throw tons of thoughts and solutions and questions at me, gave me a most precious gift. It put everything in perspective. And best of all?

I slept nine hours last night.

Life Upon the Wicked Stage

I like this photo in theory, though in execution it sucks ass (the photographer apparently has some seriously goddamned palsied hands):

Bon Chance, Sam

Most every Equity contracts (that is, contracts under which union stage actors work) have what's called a "more remunerative employment" clause. To you and me, that means if I'm working on a show and some other theater comes along and offers me a better paying gig, the theater for which I'm working is obligated to let me out of my contract without penalty so I can take the new gig.

As an actor, that's a priceless benefit, since having to buy ourselves out of time remaining on a contract with a producer could, easily, ruin most of us financially. Most of us are living from paycheck to paycheck and wondering where next month's rent is coming from. Or maybe I'm projecting.

The point of all this is that Sam Tsoutsouvas -- beloved member of the HENRY cast -- got a rather incredible offer to play the lead in an Off-Broadway play about Ezra Pound. Not surprisingly, he accepted the part. Had I been in his position, I'd have dropped us like a hot potato.

Sam left this past Sunday, so we've been having extra rehearsals to get his replacement up to speed. Thankfully, the replacement is Martin Giles, who's already in the cast, playing "Ordolf." Marty's a fine actor, so in that respect he's a great choice to replace Sam. But his moving to a new role of course necessitates finding a replacement for him, which means getting two actors up to speed instead of one. It's a logic, I must admit, that's lost on me.

The extra rehearsals haven't really helped with my sleep patterns. Actually, they've had no effect on my sleep patterns, other than that when I'm laying awake staring at the ceiling, I'm twice as tired as I was when I was just living my life and doing the show. For the last couple of days it's been like being back at the beginning of the summer -- doing one show while rehearsing another -- only without the overlap fee.

Replacing Marty is Bobby Zinsmeister, a local actor I don't know, but I'm certainly enjoying as he's fitting himself into the show. The poor guy did last night's rehearsal feeling like crap; apparently he's got some kind of flu-bug. It's a measure of his commitment that everyone else around him was phoning it in, and he was going full bore.

So congratulations to Marty, a hearty big welcome to Bobby, but mostly:

Break a leg, Sam!

PS: Here's what Patrick Jordan thinks of the whole thing:

PPS: Kidding.

Insomnia

I hate not being able to sleep.

And I haven't been sleeping much lately. I've been lucky to get three or four hours a night, with maybe a half-hour catnap during the day.

It's not like I've had more on my mind than usual. Only the usual suspects -- money, career, love -- are rearing their heads as I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. I get a lot of cleaning done in the apartment, so that's nice.

It puts me in mind of that Shakespeare quote I used as evidence of my advancing age:

Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,
And where care lodges, sleep will never lie;
But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign

I'm left wondering which of these cares is the one that's driving sleep away.

Last Saturday, Toni and her husband Brendon came to see the show, and the subject of my insomnia came up over drinks afterward. Toni suffers from it herself, but Brendon is immune. He said the sanest thing I've ever heard about worry (I'm paraphrasing, but this is essentially the idea), "Whatever's worrying you is still going to be there in the morning, so why not put it aside and allow yourself some rest?"

At first I snorted and thought to myself, "Oh, right. Easy for you to say." But now I'm thinking.

Is it really that easy? Is anything really allowed to be that easy?

If it's so, I'm going to be both infinitely relieved and a little disappointed. I'm a creature who has a love/hate relationship with complexity, and that shit is way too simple.

I was out impossibly late with E.B. Monday night, getting a drink. He suggested, since he's commencing on a five day binge of working, rehearsing, cleaning, packing and moving, that we have breakfast Tuesday morning, to which, foolishly, I agreed. Because of course I didn't fall asleep 'til 4 a.m., and was awake at 8 a.m. to meet him at 9.

I doubt that my looking like ass warmed over really helped in my campaign to make him love me, but what the heck. I always enjoy him. He's a great guy. Sweet too.

I shan't dwell on it too long, or I'm going to mourn the lost opportunity and get all sad.

Fie on that, say I. Fie!

Wow!

Look! A picture of me that doesn't make me wanna yakk:

Oh, Come On.

Who didn't see this coming?

WASHINGTON (Reuters) -- Companies with ties to the Bush White House and the former head of FEMA are clinching some of the administration's first disaster relief and reconstruction contracts in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

At least two major corporate clients of lobbyist Joe Allbaugh, President Bush's former campaign manager and a former head of the Federal Emergency Management Agency, have already been tapped to start recovery work along the battered Gulf Coast.

One is Shaw Group Inc. and the other is Halliburton Co. subsidiary Kellogg Brown and Root. Vice President Dick Cheney is a former head of Halliburton.

The problem with getting to really know people -- rather than just working extra hard to maintain your fantasies of what they're like -- is that you actually get to know them.

I've mentioned this guy that I've met recently -- I've decided to call him E.B. Well, the more I get to know E.B., the more I like him. He's kind, he's sweet, he's smart, and -- the universe decided to taunt me by having me arrive at his apartment just as he was finishing dressing -- makes my mouth dry up when he's shirtless. No, really. I had to do my best not to stare slack-jawed.

Alas, my nascent efforts at not gilding the lilly have also made me realize he's got an angry streak (which fuels his sense of humor), he's stubborn, he has what I think are painfully ill-informed views on abortion, he's rabidly non-political in an age when I can't conceive of anyone being so, and he has extraordinarily questionable taste in musical theater. No, really. Phantom of the Opera?

So it's both good and bad, this seeing clearly thing. Well, it's both good and good, but a little painful.

Here's another bit of progress I'm making in my continual campaign to become a less self-obsessed person:

I've actually managed to survive the realization that E.B. likes me, but just "as a friend." Usually, the prospect of staying friends with people who've rejected me romantically is too painful to deal with, so I end up dropping them out of my life. I'm like a spoiled little kid at a candy counter who can't have the Reece's Pieces, so stomps off without buying any candy at all.

Actually, that metaphor sucked, but you know what I mean.

I'm okay with the fact that E.B. just wants to be friends. I mean, it would be utter foolishness to not want to have such a great guy as a friend, right? Having another sweet, warm-hearted person in my life can only be good.

I continue to flower. Go me.

Hmmm... perhaps being so gung ho about not being self-obsessed is a little self-obsessive.

Fantasies

Sometimes I amaze myself at how seriously I take my fantasies.

Take, for instance, the long-held fantasy I've had about winning the lottery and buying the old McCook Mansion on Fifth Avenue in Pittsburgh. It had formerly been an apartment building -- host mostly to Carnegie Mellon music and drama students; Albert Brooks lived in the building when he attended CMU -- but was severely damaged by a fire in February 2004. On every trip back to Pittsburgh since that fire, I've dreamed of coming up with the two million dollars required to buy the house and the adjacent house and restore it to it's ridiculously opulent and wasteful single-family state, and share it with my friends and family. Mostly I thought about sharing it with the Lagemæ and Mr. Ken.

A nice daydream, I always thought.

Until I got word that the mansion had been sold, and that the dream was never going to come true. And I have to tell you, it's a wee bit unsettling how that news affected me. I was really sad about it! I was taken aback by how sad that made me; maybe sad isn't the right word. But that it had any sort of gloomy effect on me at all is a little unsettling to me.

What's most unsettling, though, is that this isn't a particularly unusual occurrence with me. Worse, I do it with people -- I let the fantasies of what I'd like our relationships to be -- impossible idylls that others can never live up to -- rule my thoughts about others (particularly men in whom I start to develop an interest), and invariably end up disappointed when those people don't either (a) live up to my expectations or (b) show the temerity to have their own take on the way things should go.

I'm mostly reminded of this because of a couple episodes recently in which I've thought the world of a guy, been really attracted to him and interested in pursuing it further, only to discover that he doesn't feel the same way. My heart breaks a little each time it happens.

Hell, it breaks a lot.

The thing is, I'm doing my best to keep myself from following this pattern each time I meet someone interesting. And I'm doing my best to not those thousand little heartbreaks make me hard-hearted for all the wrong reasons.

Sometimes, though, in the face of the ugly old world, it's hard to maintain one's natural optimism. The good and bad thing about day-dreamers is that they're alsoresilientt (read: fickle); I've already found a new house (albeit not a mansion) over which I can obsess.

So if you happen to be sitting by your radio at 7 pm on September 12, I've been drafted by Pittsburgh Irish & Classical's Artistic Director, Andrew Paul to join him as a guest on WQED's Monday evening broadcast live from Pittsburgh's Cultural District.

I was surprised he asked me, but he did remind me that I've appeared in half the shows this season, and it's not like we weren't just joking in the dressing room about this season being "Schulzfest '05." So if he was going to ask an actor along to talk about the company, I guess I'm as good a choice as any.

You can get more information here -- and even, I suspect, if you're nowhere near Pittsburgh, listen live on the web. That's 7 pm Eastern time, for you folks in the US, or Greenwich Mean -5:00 for the rest of the world. 'Cuz, you know, I have so many loyal readers in Australia.

Reviews

I'm not entirely sure what to make of it, but for what it's worth, here it is.

Another reason...

...to believe that I may, indeed, be getting old.

I'm delighting in my latest download from the iTunes store: Carole King's The Living Room Tour album. My only beef is that she does some of my favorite songs as part of a medley, "Take Good Care of My Baby / It Might As Well Rain Until September / Go Away Little Girl / I'm Into Something Good / Hey Girl / One Fine Day / Will You Love Me Tomorrow."

I mean, why don't I get the whole shebang on "I'm Into Something Good" or "One Fine Day" or "Will You Love Me Tomorrow?" I love those songs. But then again, I got twenty-two songs, all of which are great, so I should keep my damn trap shut.

Do you believe that Carole King is in her sixties? That doesn't seem possible to me. I remember having a copy of Tapestry on vinyl, for god's sake -- and I think I bought it myself; it wasn't a hand-me-down from one of my brothers and sisters. It was, in fact, the second album I ever bought with my own money. The first, god help me, was Tom T. Hall's In Search of a Song.

That was definitely the influence of my older brothers and sisters. To this day, I have a secret fondness for classic country music that I can't acknowledge. I'll deny it if you bring it up in company.

At least I think this finally exonerates me from Kevin's insistence that I'm a "fucking hipster."

I hope.

In any case, Carole King sounds great. Her voice still hits me the way it did the first time I listened to Tapestry. And for some reason, I still feel naughty listening to "Smackwater Jack." Now that I'm older, I don't see what it was about that song that made me feel like I should be turning down the volume lest my mother hear.

Ah, that old Catholic guilt. It's hard to shake.

The Frighteners

I came home from the show tonight to discover that The Frighteners was on the Sci Fi channel. I have to say, I think Peter Jackson's follow up to Heavenly Creatures really got a bum rush. It's a fun movie, and the special effects were really great for the time. Okay, maybe Michael J. Fox isn't the greatest actor of all time, but I think he's great in this one.

How is Michael J. Fox these days, anyway? Has his Parkinson's disease gotten worse or better? Does that sort of thing ever get better? I miss him. He should work more. Or, failing that, he should have a long and healthy life.

Where Care Lodges

This is how I know I'm getting old:

Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,
And where care lodges, sleep will never lie;
But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign

Wm. Shakespeare

Romeo & Juliet
Act 2, Scene 3

Why hasn't anyone told me about the Canadian TV series "Slings & Arrows?"

It's playing on The Sundance Channel, and I'm completely in love with it. It happens that a couple of actors that I love, Rachel McAdams and Luke Kirby, did the show before they were famous. Not, actually, that Luke Kirby is famous -- he was in Mambo Italiano last year -- but Rachel McAdams went on to do The Notebook and other big hollywood films.

It's about the backstage craziness at a Canadian theater festival -- and I have it on good authority that it's a satire of the famous Shaw Festival. A Canadian friend who's worked at the festival suggests it's pretty dead on.

In any case, it's hilarious, and you should check it out while it's still on the Sundance Channel in the US.

Some things...

...defy description. This rocks.

I'm really afraid I've fallen. Too quickly.

Chewtoy of the Gods

So I've met this guy that I think is great. We've spent a lot of time together, talking. We've had cocktails on a couple of occasions. We've stumbled around the neighborhood at 4 a.m., walking his dog and solving the world's problems. And I've kissed him.

But I still can't figure out if he's really into me, or just looking for a new friend.

Why, I wonder, is it so hard for me to ask that question outright?

Of course I would meet this really great man right before I have to go back to New York City. I am the chew toy of the gods, my friends.

PS: His dog is delightful. She looks like a muppet, only a slightly mentally unbalanced one with impossible-to-photograph devil eyes. All hail Bess, Demon Goddess of Mirth and Sweetness.

All Things Explained

Here is why I love Molly Ivins, who seems, to me, the lone voice of sanity deep in the heart of Bush Country:

"Earlier this month, Treasury Secretary John Snow observed, 'The fruits of strong economic growth are not spreading equally.' Yo. Phillip Swagel of the conservative American Enterprise Institute explains: 'The gains from the recovery haven't really filtered down. The gains have gone to owners of capital and not to workers.'"

What does one say to Mssrs. Snow & Swagel?

"No shit, Sherlock."

Celebrating Labor

Yesterday, I celebrated the Labor movement by getting drunk.

This was, I think, given the way capitalists and entrepreneurs have used liquor as one of their tools for keeping the working man down in the past, entirely apropos.

The fact that I did it by imbibing over a bottle and a half of fancy imported wine should not detract from my well-meaning salute.

I attended a party at the home of Lizardina -- our sound designer -- and her housemate, Mr. Thumb. Mr. Thumb is a grilling madman, if I may say so, and fire-broils an excellent burger. He also happens to be a PhD student in biomedical engineering, which means not only is he fierce in the extreme on the grill, he's a lot smarter than I can ever hope to be. So I drank his wine.

The delicious and delightful Patti squired me to this party. It was good to see her, as I've missed her since she left town after The Underpants closed. It's never good to go too long without your female friends flipping you off. It just helps to correct the course of the karmic ship of life.

Many of my favorite people ended up gathered in one place. Among them, the delightful Sheila M., of whom I don't see nearly enough. It got me to thinking that maintaining friendships with people you don't get to see very often -- whether they're in another city or just too busy in the same one you're inhabiting -- can be a form of labor itself. It's really hard work. In that regard, I've been spending a little more energy on my friends lately; I had a fantastic evening with the Lagemae on Sunday night. The only problem is that the more people I think of that I want to catch up with, the more people I think of that I want to catch up with! I haven't seen Toni in an age, and George and Marcy and RJ and Ange and Dean... I can't keep up. These people are gonna think I don't love them anymore.

My other observation for the day is that not having a car in Pittsburgh just plain sucks.

It was a grand day, nonetheless. And I made one new friend who will never be upset with me for not spending enough time with him; he'll happily take what I can give. Meet Max Shepherd: