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My friend's sister went to China and took this photo. I knew there was a population problem over there, but this is just silly.

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Who are you?

"Who are you?" he screamed.
"No one of import. Another lover of the blade."
"I must know!"
"Get used to disappointment."

Those are now classic words written in William Goldman's "The Princess Bride". A dialogue between two expert swordsmen, Inigo Montoya and the Man in Black, while fencing that seems to hold an even more allegorical context.

Who are you? Who are any of us? This is the question that came to mind today when my friend Tiffany and I were discussing which picture she should use for her MySpace website. It's a question I have pondered often when reading vanity plates or email addresses.

It seems like such a throwaway activity, both fun and inconsequential. But what we often don't realize is that we are pigeonholing ourselves into a certain context. The license plate "CUBSFAN" belongs, obviously, to a fan of the Chicago Cubs. Grandma97@email.com must clearly address a woman whose children have had children (perhaps 97 grandchildren, or in 1997, or perhaps she herself is 97 years old). But is that it?

I am a lot of things. A son, a brother, a cousin, a nephew, an uncle, a Godfather, a grandson, a friend. I am an actor, a writer, a singer, a director, a producer, a blogger, a singing cupcake decorator. I am a Catholic, a conservative Republican, a Caucasian half-Puerto Rican, a Hoosier, an American. I am fatter than I want to be, balder than I want to be, blinder than I want to be, and shorter than I want to be. I am a college graduate and I am still learning new things all the time. I am a Cubs fan, a Colts fan, a Pacers fan, a Purdue fan. I am a dog lover, a Seinfeld enthusiast, a fan of The Shield and Scrubs. I love the Fall colors, the coziness of Winter, the freshness of Spring and the freedom of Summer. I listen to Stephen Sondheim and Paul Simon and Ben Folds. I am a guy who once ate 13 lobsters in one sitting. My favorite color is green and my favorite number is 6. I am perpetually poor and I am always rich. I am Daniel, Danny, Dan, Gil, Boo, Glodys, Larry, Dubin, Mr. Argyle, Mr. Marrero, Mr. Numero, Mrs. Moreno. I am optimistic, realistic, idealistic, and romantic. I am honest and a good liar, loving and hateful, generous and stingy, loyal and underhanded.

The thing is, I could go on all day. Any one of us could. So how can I tell Tiffany which picture is the best for her profile? Does she want to be known first as someone's friend, someone's lover, someone's daughter, someone's coach, her dog's owner? Maybe she wants to use a solo picture, but should it be funny or serious, casual or formal? I can't answer these things for her. I can't even answer them for me. Because she, like I, is so many things to so many people, she can't put one label on it. Nor can I. I'm not sure it's possible to know all the things you are.

So, who am I? Get used to disappointment.

The Downside of Fame...Getting There!

I've still got a lot to learn in this world. And I think at every age, we feel like we're going through emotions and experiences that no one has gone through ever before. On rare occasion, we're right. Very rare occasions. But most of the time, we're just going through the natural course of life.

Don't get me wrong. I don't mean to say that every life is the same. Clearly they are not. I like to think of it, however, in terms of a great big "Choose Your Own Adventure" book, with different decisions taking you to different pages with different outcomes. And it's the nuance of each individual that makes those general "endings" so different.

With that said, let me tell you where I stand. I'm 27 years old, a little overweight, balding, and stuck as a singing cupcake decorator for a pittance of a paycheck. Some days I do my job extremely well, like two days ago when five 7-10 year olds dressed in my same "Hersheyizer" outfit and we all planned a Chocolate War with Ghiradelli across the street. I had those kids eating out of the palm of my hand for over an hour, and of course my bosses see "repeat customers". Other days, I sell six cupcakes and do my best to get out of work five minutes after closing time (hasn't happened yet). But this isn't where I wanted to be.

When I was auditioning for different colleges, when auditor at Otterbein College asked me what my goals were. If I'm not mistaken, I believe I told him that I wanted to act on Broadway, work with Muppets, sing with Chanticleer, and become President of the United States. He thought I was kidding.

I have since modified these goals into one sort of umbrella goal: I want to be rich and famous. If fortune cookies hold any truth, then I may indeed achieve that goal. (My fortune once read, "One day you will become rich and famous.") But at 27, with my scalp growing in, my belt disappearing, and my cupcake job not paying enough even for rent, that goal seems no closer than the day I made it.

It hasn't been a particularly easy road either. At every stop along the way there is someone telling you you're not good enough. Sure, most people realize that actors have to audition and that they often are rejected, but I'm talking about things beyond that. When I finally decided to attend Millikin University, I went in knowing that not only was I the best actor from my high school, but so was each other freshman theatre major the best actor from there's. I didn't expect to take the theatre program by storm. But I really didn't expect what I got in return.

I had done a few scenes and shows here and there, but none of the school's mainstage shows. I was being taken aside by upperclassmen and told that I was the best actor in my class. Then I'd be taken into the office of the professors and told I was awful and that I'd never make it. I read the writing on the wall but refused to believe it. I began to bide my time by writing and producing my own plays and hoping that the faculty would take notice so that I could stop that nonsense. Eventually, even that ran it's course and I transferred. One of my lasting memories of that school, aside from the great friends I made and the overpowering smell of processed soy was of the head of the Theatre Department telling me I'd never make it as an actor or singer and that I should get out of the major. He even went so far as to bet me fifty bucks that I'd make more money in ten years as a director/producer than I would as a performer. (That bet pays out on May 13th, 2008.)

I met some success, following that, at Ball State University--where I transferred to. I was immediately cast in a mainstage show and a popular comedy troupe and everything seemed to be turning around. This inconsistency is only feeding the problem. How am I supposed to believe that I'm talentless when I keep having these bouts of success?

It was a success that carried me through a rough patch right after college. After a year of compressing the springs of my brother's couch (sorry, Steve) I finally got a job that would take me to Chicago. I began working at Tony n' Tina's Wedding in August 2001 and I loved it! I was a professional actor in a major market and even began to develop my own degree of fame. I could go to the bar across the street, where everybody not only knew my name but would give me free booze and food, clear tables for the TnT cast, and let us stay after closing. We were recognized in grocery stores. I was able to avoid a few traffic tickets. I even got my name in a few papers...even out of state. This was becoming a national effort!

Then I became the show's union steward. That changed everything. Let me clear this up right now: I had always been an anti-union person. I've seen how today's unions can cut so deeply into the heart of employers. My only intention when becoming the union steward was to make sure my dues weren't being wasted.

The stewardship, and in fact, the union, carried with it major problems. This was the Hotel Employees Restaurant Employees union and we were the only theatre company as part of it. The union/show relationship came about under rather shady circumstances, but my concern was only of the present and future, not the past. However, since we were the only theatre in the HERE union, it was next to impossible to rally the troops, so to speak. Not one person in that cast ever felt they would go to work in a hotel or in a union restaurant, so their efforts would go largely unrewarded. Not so in, say, Actor's Equity where you may lose one job and find several other union acting jobs right around the corner. The system put the actors at a severe disadvantage.

To make a long story short, the management of TnTW felt threatened by the presence of an active union steward and made me pay the consequences of their fears. I've been out of the show for a year and a half and I'm still paying those consequences. Before the union, I was one of their go-to guys, and was receiving compliments left and right. Once things soured, I was out. Today, this very day, there is a cast of Tony n' Tina's Wedding "alumni" who were flown to Minnesota to be in their touring production. They've gone to Wisconsin and Oregon, among other places. But I'm not invited. Ever. Even at the suggestion of my name when they were strapped for actors to play my parts, they scoffed.

To say I don't mind is probably not the whole truth. I do mind. It bothers me that they made such stupid decisions so long ago that prevent them from giving me more money. But with things the way they are, it does NOT bother me that I am not associating myself with them.

In the nineteen months following my Tony n' tenure, I've had some small successes. I've done a children's show. I co-wrote, produced, directed, and starred in a show called Guyanetics. I've been a professional a cappella singer and now a singing cupcake decorator. But it's all scraps. Most famous guys have "made it" by the time they're my age. But I'm no Brad Pitt. I'm no Tom Cruise. At best, I hope I can compare myself to Dennis Franz or William H. Macy who were working all along before finally making names for themselves. It's not a lottery. You don't have one set of numbers for just one week. This would be like a lottery where you have your numbers and your ticket is good for every drawing until it hits or you die. And I don't plan on dying soon.

I haven't hit rock bottom, yet. There were a few times when I sure felt like I had. (When judging "rock bottom", I use meals. I'm not sure which was worse: a bowl of rice with hot sauce and my last piece of cheese melted on top with a glass of water or what was left of my peanut butter and jelly on saltines and a nearby drinking fountain.) These days I'm eating rice and beans by choice. I'm only recognized at the grocery store by the cashier. I'm keeping the spedometer below the limit. And I'm auditioning like hell, waiting for my numbers to hit.

Keeping Up Appearances

I haven't got very far into this whole "blog" thing, and I'm thinking I may have gotten myself into something I wasn't ready for. Keeping up with a blog is a many faceted task.

First, you have to make sure you pay your internet bill. When you're a singing cupcake decorator like I am, this can be the most difficult part. I've got student loans, gas, electric, water, grocery, gas, public transportation, and hooker bills to pay. Where's all this money coming from? Add to that the fact that I have Comcast High Speed Internet, and we're talkin' NIGHTMARE!

I have been trying to close out my account from my previous address for over a month now. At first, I wasn't able to pay the full amount. Then, I was able and DID pay the full amount, but was unable to convince the cable company that I had. I've received bills for at least three different amounts, none of which were right. And now, with this recent encounter, I'm having to argue a bill that doesn't even have my name on it. Man, life is rough!

The second thing you need is good decision making skills. Do I right about my American Idol audition, my celebrity encounters, my Jamaican cucumber beverage, or my radio appearance? I can't decide. Normally, I am interrupted before I reach the end of the story anyway, so what does it matter?

Does anyone care that I was on Mancow's Morning Madhouse, syndicated across the US even in Los Angeles? Do you care that I spent hours upon hours creating a fictional town with a fictional mayor, fictional city councilmen, a fictional Annual Ghost Festival, and a whole list of fictional local businesses just so I could b.s. my way through about 5 minutes of radio?

Does anyone care that I became one of those people who embarrassedly went to Soldier Field and stood in line for hours waiting to audition for the number one show on television (when it airs)? Do you care that, in my opinion, it was one of the most professionally courteous auditions I've ever been to or that I got to take home an accidental souvenir?

Does anyone care that I went to a Jamaican Jerk Chicken restaurant and ordered a cucumber drink that tasted like--well, cucumbers?

Does anyone care that I saw Cubs shortstop (and back up third baseman) Nomar Garciaparra pushing a stroller down Michigan Avenue with his wife, Olympic Gold Medalist Mia Hamm? Does anyone care that as I was on the phone to tell my dad that I had just seen Nomar I brushed past Cubs pitcher Glendon Rusch?

The answer to all of these questions, likely, is no. And since no one cares, I have to think of even better things to write about. Sometimes I succeed. Most of the time, I probably don't.

Then, once I've come up with the "better things", I have to find the time. That can be difficult for me. I mean, where can I find the time in a week after 7-28 hours of decorating cupcakes and my addiction to A&E (I have a problem...but it's all worth it when you hear Bill Kurtis say "penis" without laughing about 800 times)? Then, when I do find the time and finally get ready to submit, I typically screw something up and lose about half of my post and have to recreate what was so ingenious when it came off the top of my head.

It is difficult, this "blogging". But I'll keep it up, as long as you keep reading.

Until next time...

A Deep Breath

I can take a deep breath now. It's now officially September 12th, and I can go back to my normal life.

I spent numerous hours today watching televised specials on the terror attacks of September 11th, 2001. I learned about the building and destruction of the Twin Towers. The last hour of the flight that crashed into the north tower. The story of Flight 93 that crash landed in Shanksville, PA. It's amazing how down one can get after a steady diet of this stuff.

I remember being woken up to the news that "America is under attack" and not knowing quite what that meant. I remember seeing the burning buildings on TV and hearing that Fermilab, a government scientific test area just a few miles from where I was living in Wheaton, IL, had been one of the top targets in the event of a nuclear attack. I remember worrying about my friend in New York who I had just visited about two months earlier. Nothing was clear to anybody. We didn't know if this was just the beginning of a series of attacks or the end of the world. We watched second by second as the tragedy played out on the news (which was on EVERY channel!) Seconds turned into minutes turned into hours turned into days.

Football games were postponed because the players didn't want to "play". Nobody minded because we didn't want to gather in large groups anyway. President Bush stood atop the rubble in New York and vowed that we'd get these guys and then threw out the first pitch of the World Series in Yankee Stadium--a perfect strike! There was concern all over about shopping malls, theme parks, national monuments. Where were they going to strike next? And who were "they"?

Sometime after the attacks, I wrote a poem. I knew that someday down the road I would be asked "Where were you when...". It read:

"Sleeper"
Sleeping alone
No telephone to disturb me.
Visions of sugar plums--
Yes, sugar plums, or something better.
Do you think I remember that?
Drive around town
Peaceful, isn't it, for a Tuesday?
Crisp late summer air
Seems to be the only thing
Holding up these strange, fallen faces.
"Good morning!" hit like
A ton of bricks
Didn't it?
Awake!
To the rapid knocking alarm
Hundreds of miles from
The hands who set it.
Then the news.
Where was I when it hit?
Asleep.

The whole thing was insane. Like walking around in a zombie movie where there's nothing but a bunch of dazed people walking around. Every day seemed like a memorial service. Just one week ago...just ten days ago...three weeks...a month...six months.... But nobody can ever forget it, can they? It is sad. And whenever even the slightest crime was committed afterwards, it felt like a major violation. How could you do something like this after something like that?

But there is more to memorialization than just remembering and being sad. "Patriot Day", as it has been termed by some, is not about sadness. It's about hope. It's about inspiration. But mostly, it's about love. For so many who lost their lives that day did not die for selfish reasons, but because they so loved others. Police and fireman--and lay victims--who rescued others, complete strangers, from the Trade Center and the Pentagon. And let's never forget those on Flight 93 who took their own lives and spared all others. These heroes may not have been thinking in grandiose terms of God and Country, but they loved their families and loved their fellow man so much that they knew they'd have to go through hell to get to Heaven. They showed their love.

So I ask myself: If I were to die in five minutes, what would I do? I can't call everybody I know and tell them I love them...there's no time! I can only live in those five minutes in a way that unquestionably proves my love for God and family, country and mankind. And if I make it through that five minutes, I have only the option to continue.

I expect to live a lot longer. So if the question is, "if I were to die in five minutes, what would I do?" I say reverse that. Expect to live only for five more minutes and count each one as a blessing. If you live longer, it is only because you should live and love as if each minute were your last! There's no going back to your normal life. Not after this. There is only going to a life of love.

So get started.

Dreams and gum

Dreams are like a piece of gum:
You chew it up to get all the flavor and sometimes you spit it out, sometimes you swallow it although you know it's not food, sometimes you stick it behind your ear until a more appropriate time to chew it comes along, and sometimes you blow the biggest bubble the world has ever seen!

What's next? The "Whimpering White Guys?"

“On Aug. 4, the NCAA said it would ban American Indian images and nicknames by school representatives at postseason tournaments starting in February. Mascots will not be allowed to perform at tournament games, and band members and cheerleaders will be barred from using Indian images on their uniforms beginning in 2008.
The decision prohibits schools with American Indian mascots from hosting future NCAA postseason events. Schools that have already been awarded postseason tournaments would have to cover any Indian depiction in their sports venues.” –AP

That’s the long and the short of it—and it’s a bunch of bulls**t. There are 18 mascots that the NCAA is focusing on with this, and only about half, it seems, are in division I-A. The Florida State Seminoles, the Utah Utes, and the Central Michigan Chippewas have all been exonerated and are allowed to keep their mascots.

I’ve done some looking. Out of the 119 division I-A schools, we’re talking about only five more schools. (I think.) Illinois has the “Fighting Illini”. San Diego State has the “Aztecs”. Arkansas State and Louisiana-Monroe both have “Indians”. And then the NCAA pointed their gaze at Hawaii, whose mascot is the “Warriors”. (News to me! I thought they were the Rainbows.) But how does the NCAA decide that “Warriors” are an “American Indian” mascot? Aren’t the American soldiers in Iraq, Afghanistan, and in WWII Germany also “Warriors”? My American Heritage College Dictionary (which I bought and was NOT given as a book loan, thank you) defines a warrior as “one who is engaged in or experienced in battle.” I’d say all 18 of these schools, then, by virtue of this very conflict are “Warriors”.

The fact is, nobody chose these mascots to make fun of American Indians (or ANY people, animals, plants, or miscellaneous things). They were chosen to instill school (and area) pride. To give a noble identity to a collective group of people…namely students, alumni, and faculty of that school. And, perhaps, they were even chosen to instill fear in their opponents. But this is not to say that ANYONE should take offense!

There are much more rampant violations, in my view, that should be taken care of. First of all, the lack of creativity: Yes, there are two “Indians” out of 119 schools, but there are three “Eagles”, three “Cougars”, three “Huskies”, four “Bulldogs”, four “Wildcats”, and FIVE “Tigers”. There are also multiple “Broncos”, “Bulls”, “Panthers”, “Falcons”, “Cardinals” (and a “Cardinal”, but that’s a tree), and “Owls”. There are “Bears” and “Bruins” and those are different from “Golden Bears”. Those are just some of the animals! There are also “Golden Flashes”, “Golden Eagles”, “Golden Gophers”, “Golden Knights”, “Golden Panthers”, and the “Golden Hurricane”. How about some originality?

In the wake of the current disaster, I can’t imagine that “Indians” is more offensive than “Golden Hurricane” (or just plain old “Hurricane”). Or “Cyclones”, or “Crimson Tide”, or “Green Wave”. Better get rid of those, too!

Syracuse dropped the “-men” from “Orangemen” and now they’re just “Orange”. I guess they didn’t want to offend any actual orange men. But I went to Millikin University and I can speak first hand, there is no pride in being a color. (Don’t read that wrong. Let me restate that.) We were the “Big Blue”. But there’s nothing to rally around. No tangible object. Just the color Blue. Sky blue? Navy blue? Baby blue? No…just “Big Blue”. And being blue blew. North Texas is the “Mean Green”. At least they have some sort of bird on their logo to rally around, but still doesn’t “Mean” put “Green” in a negative light. Maybe we should ban the color green!

It’s getting silly now, you think? Not any sillier than where it started. A color can’t be offended and a natural disaster can’t tell you how it hurts inside. I’m sure there are some that think these poor animals are being exploited, too (seriously, five “Tigers”?). But let’s focus on the people, for they’re the ones that make the NCAA work.

Okay, so there are 18 American Indian mascots (I’m assuming through all divisions). But what about the rest of the people? There are “Scarlet Knights” and “Black Knights” and “Golden Knights”. Should Elton John and Anthony Hopkins be offended?

There are “Blue Raiders” and “Red Raiders”. There are two “Spartans” and two “Trojans”, so maybe the people of Sparta and Troy (actually, one is the “Troy Trojans”) might like to file a complaint.

There are two “Rebels”. And I’m not talking about James Dean Rebels—I’m talking about cowboy hat, shoot ‘em up Rebels. One set of Rebels can be found in Mississippi, and though no one likes to admit it, the Confederate States of America is still a part of their heritage. And last I check, Las Vegas, Nevada wasn’t a part of the Confederacy.

There are two “Cowboys”. Surely those real life cowboys don’t like to be portrayed with lassoes and pistols, and five o’clock shadow all the time. Better get rid of them.
There are “Vandals”, which refers to the Germanic Tribe that overran Gaul, Spain, parts of Africa, and Rome over 1500 years ago! Terrible people. And “Pirates”. Not any specific “Pirate” but the run of the mill, looting, pillaging, raping, and killing pirates. Can’t have that!
There are “Midshipmen”, “Cornhuskers”, “Boilermakers”, “Miners”, “Sooners”, “Mountaineers”, “Volunteers”, “Cavaliers”, and “Commodores”.

There are “Buckeyes” (that’s another plant) and “Hoosiers” (people from Indiana), and “Hokies” (which I thought was a manpowered carpet sweeper). I’ll bet they get overlooked. And I don’t suppose anyone bothered to ask if “Ragin Cajuns” was offensive, either.

My recommendation: These schools—ALL OF THEM—need to boycott the NCAA. Let the Association work for them and not the other way around. These schools have their own identities, their own long standing traditions, be it the Akron “Zips”, the Maryland “Terrapins”, or the North Carolina “Tar Heels”. They have to fight this moronic abuse of power and this politically correct divisiveness now before they’ve lost themselves. Fight it like the “Fighting Irish”…because really, who likes fighting more than those Irish?