No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction at anytime.
There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction,
a blessed unrest keeps us marching and makes us more alive than others.
-- Martha Graham to Agnes De Mille
Was || Will Be || Past Moments || Now || Notes

2002-01-24 - 9:08 a.m.

Finger-breaking, Interviews, Old Haunts, and trying to be the Best of Men.

I nearly broke someone's finger last night.

Of course, the night before, driving slowly through a snow storm, listening to the incredibly boring monologues of our hemipalegic (loss of motor skills in one hemisphere of the body due to a stroke) fight choreographer, I might well have *wanted* to break someone's fingers.

But last night was completely unintentional.

And it was the fight choreographer's fault anyway. He's the one that told us to hook our index fingers over the guard, so that we don't lose our grip on the sword and throw it into the audience. Of course that means that when the both of us involved in the fight make a mistake at the same time, and my sword goes ringing down the length of his sword and glances off the guard, that his finger, dutifully hooked over the very apparatus designed to protect it, takes a real dinger of a blow.

I told RockGirl last night that I was trying not to feel too bad, especially since he had taken that same finger guard and slammed it into my gut (leaving a lovely bruise) the night before.


You know what I hate during interviews? Those random "let's see your reasoning process at work" kind of questions. I used to work with a guy who would always ask the manhole cover question. (Question: Why are manhole covers round? Answer: Because they're very heavy, and with any other shape, if you dropped it, it could slip through the hole and crush the skull of your coworker.) The one I got the other day was this. Question: You're in a room with three switches, each of which turns on a light bulb in another room. You can do all the switch-flipping you want, and take as much time as you want, but you can only go into the room with the light bulbs once. How do you figure out which switch goes to which light. I did get to the right answer (Leave one switch flipped long enough for the bulb to heat up, then turn it off, and flip another switch. This gives you an "on" state, an "off" state, and (by feeling the off bulbs) a "just turned off" state.) but I had to get a hint. I came up with the need for the third state myself, but they told me that another sense besides vision would be needed.

I should find out today if I have a second interview tomorrow. Here's hoping.


So after the interview the other day, I hung out in Boulder, waiting for rehearsal to start. I walked up and down Pearl St. checking out my old haunts. The Walrus is still there (my car-pool buddy in the play used to get plastered there in the mid-70's so I think the Walrus will *always* be there) and the brew pub that replaced Pearls is still there. Ah, Pearls. I often lament the loss of Pearls. It was on one of our countless trips to Pearls for their "10 cent wings and dollar pitchers" nights that I renounced vegetarianism. The wings, man. I just couldn't resist the wings anymore.

I was going to sit down at a coffee shop with an iced chai and write, but the only place I could find was a Starbucks. That just didn't seem right in Boulder. So I ended up at The Oasis, which during my college days was the bio-geek hangout. I had a pint of Scarab Red, and sat at a table upstairs, writing skit ideas (Cow Place first rehearsal this Saturday) in my leather-bound, celtic-knot journal, and running lines for Lear in my head. I was often distracted by conversation from the bar ("When my band plays, we set out a tip jar. But we don't call it a tip jar. We call it the wish jar. Like we tell people that if they put money in, it'll make a wish come true. You know, like, we wish you'd give us some money.") and the Simpsons.

Eventually, I vacated a little early because the place was filling up and I felt guilty for monopolizing the space for so long without buying another beer.


You know what I love?

When RockGirl snuggles up to my chest and says, half under her breath, "My best of men".

My best of men.

Maybe someday I'll believe her.

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