Lilly Tunh

Been a while since I've posted anything, and it probably will continue that way for a bit.  Meanwhile, I encourage all three of you to come out and see me in my play: columbinus at the Raven Theatre.  Yes, it's a play about Columbine.  Yes, it's intense.  No, it's not the comedy hit of the season.  However, it does all of the things that I think theatre must do to maintain its vitality.  Which is why you should come support it.  

Thanks and see you there.

Aria "Happy" Nao

Once again, not very inventive on the titles lately.

So, I had a strange duo of occurrences last week in the same day, both calling my character into question and both via the ubiquitous and life-changing facebook:

A) The facebook has an application one can add called the "Honesty Box," which I added onto my profile for amusement purposes. It is what it sounds like: a person may place a message into your "Honesty Box" anonymously, thus freeing them of inhibitions or consequences associated with telling you things in person. The user has only a gender and a list of people who use the "Honesty Box" to go on to figure out who may have placed a given message. The user may also prompt a specific question to be honest about, such as "What do you think of my blog?" (to which I was cryptically responded "noticeably ostentatious.") As of now, it is set to the default "What do you honestly think of me?"

So, this week I received a note from a female stating the following, verbatim:

"You don't seem like a very happy person."

Um...

So, I responded (which the "Honesty Box" allows you to do to the anonymous party):

"Well, I just got out of a relationship. Little on the lonely side. Other than that, things are looking up lately. Thanks for your concern."

It's not the comment that I mind so much, it's:

1) That I'm ostensibly unhappy

2) The fact that such an innocent comment, that I'm completely able to deal with and have dialogue about, is not able to be delivered personally.

So, I'm grumpy and unapproachable. No wonder you can't say it to my face.

Which brings me to:

B) A friend wrote this note on my facebook wall the very same day:

"I was minding my own business today when all of the sudden I heard 'Yeah, I don't really care for Mike P*****.' I laughed a little inside and then I felt sorry for you. Just thought you should know..."

Um...

This friend is the type of friend who would say that sort of thing for a laugh, so I sloughed it off at first. But after I coupled it with the previous "Honesty Box" fiasco, I had to call her.

I was told that this, indeed, had happened. She was sitting in the hall at my old alma mater reading, when within a room she heard the aforementioned quote. It was a male speaking to another male, and the other male quickly changed the subject.

How I wish he hadn't...perhaps the perpetrator would have revealed himself. So, not only am I:

1) Grumpy

2) Unapproachable

BUT:

3) DISLIKED.

And, at my old school no less. Where, mind you, I was once the KOT. Once...long ago...a whole year and a half ago...

I think I've made a concerted effort over the years to be funny, jovial, adept at conversation, with the ultimate goal of being WELL-liked. But now it seems that I have achieved mostly the opposites of those goals (if my female dealings of late are any example). See the characteristics above for reference.

Though...

There is something amusing about being disliked. The very idea that if my name came up, at least one person would immediately reply "I don't really care for him," is pleasurable in an inverse sort of way. There's really no in-between there. To that person, I am how I would describe an unsavory vegetable: "I don't much care for peas."

In the same way, "You don't seem like a very happy person" must have been conceived through a series of meetings with me. I must have been a real asshole. And everyone knows that someone who treats people in an asshole-ish manner is really working something out about themselves that they don't like, so I must be unhappy.

It's all very...flattering really.

These are seemingly simple statements about me, but there's a littany of judgment passage that goes into them. In essence, I've been thought over in a very detailed way to come to these conclusions. I'm starting to think that maybe it's better than saying "Oh, Mike? Yeah, he's cool," or my absolute least favorite: "He's nice."

"Nice" people don't do anything for anybody save the opportunity for practicing small-talk...

...to use on other "nice" people.

So goddammit, I'm honestly pleased that I'm still occupying a place in a few people's minds. And no, I'm not reveling in being berated. It hurts a little when people clue you into your faults. Especially if you don't know who they are.

But it's about damn time I'm the asshole. I'm the "nice" guy to most people already.

Preach on, facebook. Identity be damned.

(P.S. Peep my madd outlining 5k1llz!!!)

Becky India-Saddles

Alright, so being out of practice, you have to give me some leeway on the whole "clever name as title" thing.  

But...I'm BACK ya'll.  I finally have a day off of work and I'm not completely exhausted, so I thought I'd scribble down some thoughts.  Here's what's new with me:

1. Single.

2. Finished an eight-day-in-a-row stretch at the Corporate Coffee Compound for the People (CCCP, for short).

3. I'M IN A SHOW!!!

That's right, folks.  Your beloved unpaid professional auditioner now is a paid professional actor again.  And we all know the difference between being a professional and an amateur: makin' dat money.  Just don't come asking me for any.  It's hard out here for a pimp.

I get to play the role of "Jock" in a Chicago premiere at Raven Theatre, columbinus.  I'll yield that it may not be the feel-good story of the post holiday season, but it's an excellent play and certainly affecting (I just read the thing, I can only imagine how it will feel on its feet).  

The caveat being that the role of "Jock" is, as the high-school archetypal nomenclature would imply, is very athletic.  I've always been a fan/player of sports, but I gotta be up front: I'm not exactly in the shape of my life right now.  I smoke a pack a day, I drink a lot of beer, and I love burgers.  And I have to take my shirt off for this thing.  No nakey-nakey for Mikey-Mikey, but I gotta look good, right?  

I fucking hate running.  Running is the worst thing in the world.  Every few months I'll get a fire under my ass and I'll jog a couple of miles.  When I lived just off of Addison in Wrigleyville, I'd set a goal to run down to Fullerton and back.  Not bad, right?  I'd get to Fullerton and be absolutely exhausted.  Then what am I supposed to do, take the fucking train back?  Oh no.  I've got far too much pride for all that.  So I'd run back.  Thats the problem: running back.  When you get tired from running, you're in the middle of fucking nowhere and you still have to get home somehow.  I never feel like I'm getting anywhere when I'm running.  And fuck treadmills, for that matter.  At least running in town I get to see some pretty homes.  I can watch TV in my own home, thank you very much.

But now I have no choice.  I either have to join a gym or run.  The latter is far cheaper.  

I had a good go of it, though.  One can't survive on a completely sedentary lifestyle forever.  I'll miss you, Mickey-Ds.  I thought this was the year for us and Monopoly to find each other in the night, but we will never know now that I have to move on.  Goodbye...

...

...readers.  I'm done.  

What?  I'm not quitting beer or cigarettes.  The running and the McDonald's are enough for one day.

J. Ignatius "Iggy" Ling

Boy acting's hard.

I just spent four hours at the local coffee shop memorizing lines...and I'm not done yet.  I guess memorizing is never actually done, but I've got at least another half act to memorize.  Play's only an hour or so but I still have a little less than half the lines in it.  Which, of course, is good for raising-of-profile purposes.  Bad for the actual memorizing of.  Good thing I'm a quick study...even though I've had the script for going on two weeks (Hey, I kinda got thrown into the process.  Give me a break). 

Though I can pat myself on the back for the work I've accomplished, I can punch myself in the face repeatedly for the things to do.  Laurel resting was never my forte (pronounced "fort," not "four-tay."  Then of course, I sound like the idiot when I say it right).  I've already done a "shit I gotta do list" this week, so I'll refrain from doing that again for fear of your "close-window" clicking potential.

But, I haven't done 'em.  I just...I get really tired. 

Okay, I'm not really paying attention to this post right now.  Gotta be honest.  I'm pretty scatterbrained at the moment...I think I should let the five of you reading this right now know that you're all essentially the guinea pigs of my world at the moment.  I started this blog because I am trying to write.  At least, to pretend I am anyway.  I'm trying to figure out how to power through my laziness level and put words to page, and consistently posting and updating a blog seems like the best way to do it.

I do have ideas, you know.  I have plays I want to write, novels to lay out.  I just...maybe undiagnosed ADD?  Sure.  I should be so lucky for an excuse.  

You know that 82% of Americans dream of writing a book one day?  82%.  I wonder if the same amount actually thinks they can put together two to three hundred pages of text about one subject, let alone a fiction piece, let alone that it would be coherent enough for anyone to actually read the damn thing, let alone that anyone would actually publish it...after all of that, I'd say less than 5% could actually do it.  And I'm including all book genres, fiction and non-fiction.  And I'm not necessarily including myself in that 5%, but I gotta be in the 80th percentile or better.  

Gar...I think that I'm having an identity crisis about just being an actor.  I've always felt slightly devalued in the artistic realm because what I do is so fleeting, so intangible.  Dancers might feel the same way, but they have their physical training to show their aptitude.  Writers have books; painters have paintings.  I'm trying to show you how I feel for a living.  And you're supposed to pay me.

I've definitely romanticized about being a writer of some kind most of all...

My Top 5 Romanticized Professions (That I don't necessarily have a desire to do):

1. Journalist

2. Fiction Author

3. University Department Chairman

4. Choreographer

5. Shop Owner

I think I fancy myself some kind of ambulance-driving, lion-hunting, Key West-dwelling, self-pointing shotgun-wielding neo-Hemingway or something.  It's quite easy to forget, however, that he was also pretty good at writing.  I always picture journalists and writers flying all over the world and...I don't now...doing stuff.  For...writing.  

The work I do is so private most of the time.  The hour or so of stage time I happen to get has about 10 hours of rehearsal and memorization behind it.  I won't lie...it's rewarding when I get the chuckle or the big laugh or the big gasp.  But the idea that it's just talent is pervasive and often belittling.  Just because you can't see my brushstrokes doesn't mean I haven't put them on the painting.  

What the hell am I getting at...I'm trying to write because I'm a creative soul and I want to create as much as I possibly can.  But...the respect end has to come too.  I can look over this entire post and pick at my grammatical and hyperbolic trends (too many parenthetical asides, ellipses, and a penchant for hyphenation not withstanding).  I can't just look at it as a blog.

The character in the play I'm working on seems preoccupied with the idea that "there has to be something else."  I empathize...he's a lot like me.  Probably why I was cast.  Anyway, I feel like this has to be something else, and so do I.  I said it already; I'm not a laurel-rester.  I work best with a full plate.  So I have to keep doing what I'm doing until I figure out why it's not working and fix it.  

And nobody can clean a full plate like this guy.