The Story of Marvin Frisbee

What follows is an edited version of an email I sent to my friend Sara the other night. I use a man's full name because, as he has started his own political party, he is a public figure. I apologize in advance.

The Story of MARVIN FRISBEE

Each day as I head into work, I park my car in a shopping center parking lot where there's a 3 hour limit for customers only. Being neither a customer nor someone who will leave within 3 hours, I have always pressed my luck (I used to love that show...no whammy, STOP!) when parking there. Then, I'd cross through the lobby of a giant building which I think is a gym and come out the other side, cross two streets and then head up to the train. Likewise, on my way home, I'd walk down the steps from the train platform, cross two streets, walk through the gym lobby and out to my car.

For the past month or so, it seems every night that I walk through that lobby, be it 11:30pm or 1am, there's a man at work there. He's the night janitor. And it all began a while back when I asked him "How's it going?" or something of that nature. What struck me was that the man always responded with such enthusiasm, just the sheer joy of being alive, that I couldn't help but leave that gym lobby happy myself. Sometimes it was a passing comment about baseball, other times just a wave hello and goodbye. Sometimes he'd be far away doing something and I'd think, "There's my guy, hard at work." This janitor's appreciation for--I don't know, whatever--was infectious.

Tonight would be no different.

As I passed through the doors to leave the gym, there was the janitor, cleaning out a garbage can or something. He asked me if I had a good day and, you know what, I had. So I told him. Then I asked him how his day was...Sara, the man talked for the next 45 minutes straight. It began with a proclamation, "A couple of my weapons are being tested." Now, I don't know who this man is. He's the happy janitor. What could he mean his weapons are being tested? Did someone die and they're testing his weapons for ballistics? I don't know. But my questions were quickly answered.

The man had come up with new ideas for military weapons and had submitted these ideas to the U.S. Military. He'd just gotten a letter saying that they were going to test his weapons. The man couldn't have been prouder.

Was that the end? Hardly! The happy janitor went on to describe three weapons, two that were being tested and one that he's still working on. He said he hadn't patented them because once you do, the world could see them and he didn't want his weapons killing American boys.

He went on to tell me about a previous idea he had of an airport system that could guide more planes through ZERO visibility than we can currently guide today on a clear day. NASA, he said, drooled over it and propped it up as the perfect navigating system. He explained how it worked (I won't try to recreate the science of what he told me) and, I'll tell you, it sounded brilliant. But for some reason, the government has been doing everything they can to keep this system from ever being developed. It's called Fris-no-Vis, because that's his name, he said. Frisbee. (He may not spell it like that. There was a man in Ft. Wayne when I was growing up named Homer Frisby and he lived, precariously enough, on Lois Lane. No joke. Maybe this guy spells it like that.)

Frisbee has a friend who used to be the editor of US News and World Report. That man once asked a room full of colleagues if anyone had ever heard of "Fris-no-Vis". The crowd erupted in cheers. "And why aren't we doing anything about it?" the man asked. "Because Frisbee has to throw some money around Washington, first."

Okay, this is the point where I found out that Mr. Frisbee has been a millionaire, and lost everything, twice. The first time he lost it because his family (I think it was his wife and brother or mother and brother) had leukemia and he'd spent over $3 million in treatment over 2 decades. The second time he spent his millions on the patent for Fris-no-Vis, a mistake he apparently has vowed not to make again.

At some point or other (and at this point I was in and out, half listening and half thinking about all the people who had to hear this story--beginning with you) Frisbee told me abut his time in jail for domestic abuse. It was all a set up, you see? He'd been in a Jeep accident and it really messed him up. He began stuttering and having dizzy spells and passing out. His wife would slap him and throw hot coffee on him and say things like, "You're not the man I married" but she didn't see that he was getting better. Then one day he decided to quit his job because he was a truck mechanic or driver or something and he was afraid his wife would try to kill him and so...he quit and moved? I guess. Again, I was in and out. Anyway, he got thrown in jail for domestic battery charges that he didn't do (and damn it, Sara, I believe him) and he even had pictures of the house he apparently destroyed even though he was nowhere around at the time. And right in the center of the picture of all the mess of the things he'd destroyed--the coffee cup. The same coffee cup that she used to throw hot coffee on the man. And he said, "She thought it'd get to me and that I'd break down and admit to all these things I didn't do...but I just laughed."

At another point, and I'm not sure when, but you have to believe me when I say the transitions in his stream of consciousness were seemless, he gave up his first name. Marvin. That's right! The man I was talking to was Marvin Frisbee. I couldn't make that up if I tried!

But I don't think he'd gotten to that point yet. No, I think he was well into the facts about the political party he's going to start. He had already told me about all the political and beaureucratic rigormarole he'd gone through with the Fris-no-Vis and his jail time. So this was his political portion. And I have to tell you, it sounded pretty good. Many of his ideas on what he'd like to do are exactly the same things that I'd want to do...but I've already got a party affiliation! The difference is that he was going to have not only a federal platform, but also a state platform for each state AND one for EACH CITY! All of the candidates have to agree to push all parts of the agenda and must never have run for any office under any other party before. Marvin Frisbee doesn't want dealmakers, damn it! And the first thing we're going to do (okay, maybe not the first) is find out what happened to all the money. Such as, the state of Illinois sold a toll road. Where'd the money go? Millenium Park (a new Chicago park) gets rented all the time. Where's the money go? It's going to fund the opera and stuff for the upper crust, but they can't find the money to fund the public transportation system which is used more often by the common working man who pays the taxes than any old opera ever was! And darn it, we're gonna declare Mexico a hostile nation because 50% of the illegal drugs in this country come from Mexico. They're exporting illegal aliens because their own government is so poor they can't afford to keep people. And we're going to produce all our own oil, but only until we can get these hydrogen cars up and running. You know how cheap it'd be to run your car on water? And, did you know Sara, because I didn't know it until Mr. Frisbee told me, that every millenium or so the poles switch. That's right, the whole planet just flips over and the north pole becomes the south pole and vice versa. But Marvin Frisbee's got plans for that and you can read about it all on his party's website, uscitizensparty.org (I checked it out. It doesn't exist. Maybe I'm missing a dash or something because I KNOW Marvin Frisbee would never lie to me! We're best friends, after all!)

He's going to open an account for that party too. And all party money going in and coming out is going to come from that one account. There will be a limit on donations of $25,000 every two years and only one single US citizen can donate at a time...no corporations! They're going to run a write in campaign and if they can just get one candidate in office, oh the ground swell there'll be because he was written in! Then, in ten years (I kid you not, this is what he said) his party will be the majority party in the US. TEN years!

There was more. Some talk about four 400 gigawatt (I think) generators with water making nuclear energy. Holes in the ozone. A land line running from the north to the south pole. There was a lot. And all while I was getting chillier and chillier standing outside 100 feet from my car.

And Marvin Frisbee is going to do all this starting on Monday. Those bastards he works for screwed up the paychecks again so he can't get his new computer until this check goes through. How's that for the man with the plan to fix our whole darn world?

Sara, I'm sorry you've had to sit through all this. I wish I could say I was sorry I did, too, but in all honesty, I kind of enjoyed it. These are the things that happen to me with more frequency than you would ever believe. I'm used to it and I'm glad I can be there to help release the steam before the whole pot blows! Marvin Frisbee may be kooky, but damn it, he had to tell someone all this stuff that was on his mind. And that someone had to be me.

Marvin Frisbee. The end? Highly unlikely.

Sometimes people need to talk. Sometimes we need to listen. And sometimes...sometimes you run into Marvin Frisbee. I hope you're not in a hurry.

Happy Birthday, Jerry Nosewater!

Today is October 28th, 2005. Tonight I celebrate a very important anniversary. It was exactly ten years ago that my first play, The Cruise of a Lifetime, premiered.

I remember inviting people I admired to come and see it. Teachers, friends, family. Being so close to Halloween, I was up against the big costume parties, but that didn't dampen things.

I remember how it all came about, too. I was a junior in my high school's advanced theatre class, Children's Theatre, and I said, "You know, it's great that we do children's theatre, but that's not the end all be all of theatre. We should do other shows, too. An evening of one acts. A murder mystery dinner theatre." If I'd have known my words would have such a profound effect, I would have told everyone to pay me a thousand dollars. Ah well, hindsight....

As high school students we embarked on the difficult task of finding a script that was neither too "adult" nor too "dumb". We could find neither. So when our teacher suggested maybe we scrap the idea, I foolishly said, "I can write something better than any of these." That was dumb.

I spent the summer before my senior year writing, in pencil, an entire script. It had to have a lot of characters to give the most opportunities to the people in my class. It had to be funny. And it had to, by my own standards, have at least enough male characters so that I could play one. Check, check, and check.

For a high school senior's first attempt at playwriting, it wasn't too bad. Being at that rebellious age, though, I tried to push whatever limits I could. There was lots of innuendo, scantily clad girls, and just stupid inside jokes. The class loved it!

Rehearsals were at times glorious and other times terrible. I was not (am not) a very good director and I lacked the experience to do a lot of what I wanted. And the cast, myself included, wasn't all the great. But it was happening. It was MY play. MY baby. And it was going to be performed.

On the morning of Saturday, October 28th, 1995, I woke up early and went to the grocery store. I remember vividly that I was driving my Dodge Caravelle (yes, it was actually a car) down Coliseum Blvd. and listening to a Simon & Garfunkel tape. I bought a cake. I think it was a thank you cake or something.

I got to the theatre, which wasn't really a theatre but my high school cafeteria and I couldn't believe what I saw. I must have been oblivious to the idea that in the theatre, you GET THINGS DONE! I remember I had gone to the football game the night before and left a bunch of other people to set up the "stage" and the "theatre" for use the next day. I really had no idea what they were going to do. But what I saw took my breath away! It was great! There were curtains and decorations and I think there were even centerpieces on all the tables. Who had gone through all this trouble for my silly little play?

I carried a giant tray of ham from someone's car to the kitchen. It was so heavy, I remember that when I set it down my arms involuntarily floated above my head for about two minutes.

The show finally started seating and, in a somewhat anticlimactic fashion, I didn't recognize anybody waiting to get in. The preshow went on way too long. My brother joined me onstage to pretend to play the piano. My friends Kevin and Ciara, who had both graduated, both came to see the show. The show went off without much of a hitch (except the small issue of someone spilling fake champagne on the brand new piano and my choir teacher rushing up to the stage to wipe it off during the crucial murder scene). It was the greatest party I ever threw!

My friend Matt PeCongE (yes, he spelled it with three capital letters) played the now legendary Jerry Nosewater, P.I. He was phenomenal! This guy had every comic trick up his sleeve and knew just how to work a crowd and the material to milk every last laugh out of them.

*For the record, Jerry Nosewater got his name from my brother, who during the summer while I was writing the play proclaimed that the hot sauce on his chicken wings were making his "nose water". It made me laugh and the name stuck. I'm not sure where "Jerry" came from...maybe a tribute to Seinfeld.

I went on to write three more Nosewater Mysteries, all of which were performed at Millikin University. I asked some guy in one of my acting classes if he'd like to audition for the role of Nosewater. I don't know what possessed me to ask him except that I must have thought he was funny. I don't know what possessed him to audition except that maybe he wasn't getting cast in anything else, either. And so, the man who is now my best friend, Paul Lichy, became the definitive Jerry Nosewater. And I always played, including in high school, Glodys Sloshburn.

*How Glodys Sloshburn got his peculiar name is fresh in my mind, but probably not all that interesting. During the summer of '95, my friends Curtis, Chris, and I were in "The Music Man". On our way into rehearsals each day we'd listen to a Monty Python tape I had and tried to quote it constantly. We couldn't say "Captain Gladys Stotepamphlet" with any degree of speed or accuracy, so her name became "Glodys". Then Chris played a character in the "Shipoopi" scene who would walk over to the player piano on stage and begin to play after "Tommy" would shout his line, "Start 'er up, Mr. Washburn." We imagined Chris's character, who did the actual "starting 'er up" must have been named Mr. Sloshburn. So, he became Glodys Sloshburn. I have since assumed the monniker and that is why this blog is the "Glodys Gazette".

I went back recently and watched a tape of that performance on October 28th, 1995. It saddened me that it wasn't as amazing as I had once thought it to be. But what it sparked--ten years of me continuously writing, acting, and directing my own works--IS amazing and that is why, in my own little way, I celebrate Jerry Nosewater's birthday every October 28th.

Ten years. Thank you to everyone who has ever encouraged me with kind words or by buying tickets or in whatever way. Thanks especially to the cast from that night 10 years ago and to Paul who carried on the Nosewater torch so long afterwards.

This is only the beginning.

But really, I am Destroyed!

It's a funny thing.

For years I told what I hyped to be the "Funniest Story Ever". It is a true story about four bikers, one of whom choked on a piece of food. As the years pass, my memory begins to fade as to what the actual details were...and embellishments only made the story worse, as it was the perfect story to begin with.

Several months ago I found an old email I had sent to my friend the day after this had happened. What made the email so great was that I had prefaced the "Funniest Story Ever" with another funny story of what had happened just before the FSE and then after the FSE, before the email. As a whole, the "Funniest Story Ever" and its companion piece, the "Never Trust an Actor" story, could have you on the floor gasping for your very last breath through all the laughter.

I had intended on copying and pasting my email account of these stories, word for word, into a single blog entry, but alas, they have been lost forever.

I do not know when nor how nor why I would ever have erased this email I had kept for, I think, 8 years. I just know that it is gone. And I'm sad. And that's funny.

This is probably how it was meant to be. A perfect story like the perfect song, to ring in your ear for a moment and then vanish into nothing as if it never happened at all. It will forever remain the "Funniest Story Ever", and I'll never be able to prove it.

Funny.

Have a Bad Day...It's Okay.

I have a friend at work, De'andre, and he's a very nice guy. Every day that I see him, he asks me how I am and I give him either a "Good" or a "Not bad" or a "Oh man, I'd rather be anywhere but here". I then turn his query back on him, "And how are you?" And the answer is always the same.

"The Lord blessed me this morning."

At first I was a little taken aback by this response. I suppose I'm so used to people taking the Lord's name in vain that when I hear Him praised for anything it surprises me. It also surprises me because it's not a standard "Fine" like I would expect.

In the beginning it lifted me to hear that reply. No matter what kind of a day I was having, I was reminded that it was a blessing from God just to be alive.

That was in the beginning.

After awhile it occurred to me, De'Andre's copping out! Here's a young man no more than his mid-twenties (if he's even twenty, that is) and he's already just happy to be alive. That's bullshit! Old people are just happy to be alive. Cancer sufferers are just happy to be alive. Cocaine abusers are just happy (sometimes) to be alive. Young, healthy men cannot settle for being happy simply because they are alive. They can be thankful, sure. They can praise the Lord for the sun each morning and praise him again when they head off to bed. But they'd better be doing something with that time in between.

It's okay to be angry, frustrated, sad, or tired. It's okay to have a bad day once in awhile and to complain every now and then. The key is to put positive action behind those feelings and make the world a better place.

Then you'll feel truly feel blessed every morning and all day long. And you might even find your feelings are contagious.

So, you haven't been doing anything, is that what you're telling me?

What a beautiful night.

On Wednesdays my car has to be parked on the opposite side of the street to avoid being ticketed during street sweeping. I walked outside at around 12:30am and realized that it was a beautiful night.

I have known for some time that I'm an indoor person. Not that I don't like the outdoors. I've always loved camping and swimming and all that, but if your forced me to choose which kind of person I am, an indoor person or an outdoor person, I'd have to go with indoor person.

So I stepped outside and it occurred to me: the only time I ever really get any fresh air is when I'm smoking a cigar. Did you get that? I only get fresh air when I'm smoking a cigar. It's ridiculous!

After moving my car, I come back in the house and tool around on the computer for awhile. The whole beautiful evening awaits just outside my window, but I keep it out. I'm staring at a monitor and drinking a big ol' glass of water and the crisp autumn air is just waiting, like my childhood neighbor Blake, wanting to play.

It's important to note that I'm drinking water not because I necessarily like water. It's fine, but I'm no water snob. The filter in the pitcher is about 6 months overdue for a change. The thing is, my elbows and knees have been killing me lately and I've decided it must be dehydration. So I'm drinking water.

Then I open an email from a friend I haven't spoken to in years. It asks what I've been up to lately. My standard first response is to explain that I'm a singing cupcake decorator and that I'm not happy about it and that I'd rather be doing more legitimate performing. Then I peel off a list of credentials and experiences before I realize--THIS IS MY FRIEND! I am not in a job interview. I'm not auditioning. I am catching up with a friend. So I reconsider.

I sit for a moment, figuring out what exactly it is I should be saying. Should I tell my friend what I had for dinner? About the pen I flushed down the toilet? What have I been up to? And more to the point, who am I?

(For those of you regular readers of Glodys Gazette, you may recognize a similar theme in the post titled "Who are you?" But this is a whole new thought, please keep reading.)

I begin to think, "How do I spend my time away from work?" I do Sudoku puzzles, I write a blog, I tool around on MySpace.com, and every so often I get to watch some football. The highlight of my week usually ends up being a trip to the grocery store.

I've worn the same pants today all day...before and after my shower. I made beef jerky and then ate breakfast at 4pm. I have neither the time nor the money to do many of the things I remember as being fun. I sit around moping all day because I miss my family and I hate my job this and that. But then I remember I have friends and that picks me up. And I have God. So I'm not doing to bad. But I'm not doing to much, either.

I needed a change of pace. I grabbed my glass of water and a bag of jerky and I went outside and sat on my porch and tried to fall asleep. It was wonderful. A slight breeze. The view of Mars. Everything was perfect. But I couldn't last ten minutes and I came back inside.

So what's the moral? I think the moral is that there is not a life lesson to be learned in every little thing. Sometimes you coast through life on autopilot, sometimes you man the controls yourself. Sitting under the stars with a glass of water, a bag of jerky, and my eyes closed doesn't make me a better person. Failing to last more than ten minutes doesn't make me any worse. None of it makes a better answer to "What have you been up to?" It just makes an answer.

Musical Distaste

What is your favorite kind of music?

It's almost a universal question these days, adorning internet dating sites, email forwards, and MySpace biographies everywhere. And the answer always seems to come back the same: Everything.

I don't know if it's an American problem or a global pandemic, but it seems that there is no such thing as the discerning music fan any longer. "I like everything," is the common answer with exceptions sometimes being made for country and rap. Peoples' musical tastes range from "all of it" to "an entire musical library" to "whatever". Herein lies the problem.

There is so little emphasis being put on listening to good music that very little of it is being made. From The Baha Men to Lou Bega to Fantasia to William Hung, we can't get enough of bad music. But it doesn't stop there. There is some music that we don't know is bad.

The Black Eye Peas are one example. We listen to the catchy "Let's Get it Started" (or the original "Let's Get Retarded") and we begin to tap our feet, we sing along, we want "It" to start, without even knowing what "It" is!

In another blog post, I made mention of Lenny Kravitz. His lyrics "I wish that I could fly/Up to the sky/ So very high/ Just like a dragonfly" seem inspired by a three year old. Likewise, Madonna hasn't written any good music in at least ten years. And I'm sorry to say it, because he's one of my favorites, but if Ben Folds wasn't such a genius on the keys, he'd have never made a single record with that voice!

So what are we to do? How about turning off the radio, unplugging the iPod, changing the channel to something other than MTV, VH1, and The OC and going out to a concert--one that doesn't feature an open guitar case and a drink minimum--and discovering what real good music is. Learn to read music. Learn to compose music. Learn to discern for yourself what really is well constructed music and what is force fed garbage. When you do, go back to your iPod and erase half of your library. Keep your Paul Simon, your Appetite for Destruction, your Norah Jones. Keep your Blues Traveler. Keep your No Doubt, but throw out any solo work Gwen Stefani has ever done. Keep one Weezer album. Throw out your Britney Spears and you Cheryl Crow and your Alien Ant Farm. Pick up a copy, any copy, of a Chanticleer album and some Aaron Copland. Make these creeps earn their fame.

Then you can have diverse tastes--heavy metal, rap, folk rock, a cappella, orchestral, opera, pop--with one common denominator. They're all good.

This just in from my grocer's freezer

In the '90s, we had President Clinton (see photo). Clinton would say one thing one day, be exposed as a liar, and say the opposite the next day. These lies were labelled "waffles" and Bill Clinton was the world's first "waffler". At a speech he gave in 1992, young Republicans in attendance sailed waffles towards the podium like Frisbees.

Nearly twelve years later, there was a new candidate making his way through the Democratic Party. His name was John Kerry (see photo). For a short time, Kerry too was a waffler. Republican strategists, perhaps Karl Rove, perhaps not, decided the whole waffle label had run its course. So they came up a new term for his lies: flip flops. Kerry voted for bills and then voted against them. He was the world's first "Flip Flopper". Non-supporters attended rallies with giant flip flops on sticks adorned with John Kerry's picture.

Apparently, a year after the end of the election, the nation's largest waffle company, Eggo, wants its political monopoly back. Just this morning, I saw a new product in my grocer's freezer. A half chocolate/half vanilla waffle called, you guessed it, a "Flip Flop". (No picture available. Click link to investigate: http://www.kelloggs.com/brand/eggo/flipflop/ ).

Now, if Fuzzy Zoeller comes up with a new method of algebra, I will know the Apocolypse is near.

Waiting, once again, for next year...

Cubs fans, rejoice!

Well, okay...don't rejoice. There wasn't much to get excited about this past season. Some were happy with the departure of ol' number 21, but what we got in return was not the "five or six great rookies" so many had hoped for. In a season once again plagued with injury, many Cubs fans are left only with the hope that we don't end up with a White Sox/Cardinals World Series.

But there is a light. Sure, the future is always as bright as your imagination lets it be, but the light I speak of comes from this season's accomplishments. I'm not talking about Derrek Lee's run for the Triple Crown or Aramis Ramirez's breakout second half. I'm talking about our record against playoff teams. Now, before you jump ahead and try to figure this one out, just read on.

Of the eight teams that made it to the playoffs this year (Padres, Cardinals, Astros, Braves, White Sox, Yankees, Red Sox, and Angels), our Cubbies played seven of them. (We didn't play the Angels.) Against those seven teams, we won 4 and split 1 season series. The Braves beat us 6-1 this season and the Yankees took all three at Yankee Stadium. But guess what? The Braves were eliminated and the Yankees have to earn five more W's before they play a National League team.

The point is, against the Padres, the Astros, and especially the Cardinals, the Cubs played some of their best baseball. They won those three season series by a total of 23-16. We beat the World Champion Boston Red Sox 2 games to 1, and we split the season series with the South Siders.

Yes, I know that when all is totaled, our record against playoff teams was 29-29 and that .500 ball is not exactly great, but I've got to grasp onto something! It is the Cubs, after all, and there wasn't much more to cling to!

Switching topics now to who I want to win the World Series....

This is a question I've gotten ever since the Cubs were eliminated from contention. But my answer is the same: The Chicago Cubs. That's who I want. I also want a million dollars, a full time job, and a cure for cancer.

"Don't tell me you're one of those Cubs fans that can't root for the White Sox?" some say.

Okay...I won't tell you that. But let me ask this. If the White Sox were from, say, Canton, Ohio, why would I root for them over any other team in this post season? They're NOT my team and the word "Chicago" on the jersey doesn't make them so.

That being said, there is something to be said about the excitement that comes into town when a team goes into the post season. I lived just outside of Indianapolis when the Pacers made the NBA Finals in 2000. I love the Pacers (long live Reggie Miller!) and the whole town, as small as it now seems, was ELECTRIC! I lived in Tampa the year the Ravens won the Super Bowl (in Tampa, 2001) and even though our local team wasn't in it, there was a certain charge about it.

But my favorite of these stories comes from 2003. The Cubs made it to the playoffs and I lived only about two blocks south of Wrigley Field. Cubs fans filled the streets! People were drinking, dancing, waving flags (square into my nose--ouch)...even the garbage strike was lifted for the surrounding area so that Wrigleyville wasn't a giant waste can. Every time I left my apartment, some random stranger was asking me about the Cubs: What's the score? Did you see the game? Got tickets? And the White Sox were on the verge of the playoffs, too. Cubs fans at Wrigley Field during the final days of the season were seen carrying White Sox signs, hoping our South Side Rivals would make it to the playoffs, too. And then I talked to some White Sox fans and what I thought I'd learned about Sox fans earlier that season was reaffirmed: They hate us! They were angry that the Cubs were going to playoffs, whether they made it or not. Their disdain for the Cubs is as passionate as my love for them!

Still, I was taught to "Cheer for our team and not against the other," something that I think is fundamental in the core of Cubs fans. If the White Sox win, I'll be 20 feet behind (but not on) the bandwagon, saying "Good for you!" I will enjoy the spark of excitement that comes from the postseason. I will congratulate my South Side friends on the end of their long suffering. And when all is said and done, whether the White Sox win or lose, I'll smile.

Next year is closer than you think!

Who killed whom?

Here are three shots from the Florida Everglades where a python swallowed a 6 foot alligator, which caused the python's stomach to rupture and, apparently, blew off its head. Mother Nature...she is mysterious!

Life Sudoku and Oosik

Well it's been a rough week. Not by worldly standards or anything like that. It's been a rough week for me...a guy who's used to having two or three days off from work in a week. Today is the last of a six day week I've worked as a Hersheyizer. It's not hard work, but it's not the kind of thing you want to do six days straight, either. And even though it'll be 6 days straight, it was broken up so that I still have three days off each week. Ugh! I am beat like a rented mule and am not making any more money to show for it.

The thing is, standing for seven hours straight and dealing with the stupid comments and questions of my customers is exhausting! For some reason, people seem to think that I get to eat as much chocolate that I want. "You must love your job," they say. I don't.

I've got customers asking if we have any kind of To Go containers for their bakery items. You would think that any kind of walk up bake shop would have to have some way to take the items out of the building. You would think that, but then, you have more sense than my customers.

People think that free samples are some sort of government mandate (thank you Democratic Party for creating a nanny state). Here's a hint: 90% of free samples are GARBAGE! They are items that we can't sell because they don't look right or because they're past their expiration date or for any number of reasons that would normally make you not want them. That's not just my store, that's EVERYWHERE! *Note: I give out a free cupcake every half an hour. There's nothing at all wrong with them and they're actually better than the ones you'll buy. That's our way of getting you to buy more expensive items. Haha!

I had a woman come in two days in a row to get her child a free birthday cupcake. The first day she told me the daughter's birthday was the following day, and I gave her one thinking she wouldn't be back again. (We get a lot of tourist traffic.) Boy was I wrong. She came in the next day and wanted her free cupcake. I gave her one. But I would have liked to have told her she was a cheap bastard and made her buy one. It's a dollar fifty, you cheap ass!

There was a chef who asked me how we tempered our chocolate. I told him I wasn't a chef and I didn't know. I wanted to tell him to take a frigging class. I'm not a culinary experts. I just slap frosting and toppings on a cupcake. (And the next time someone asks me how we temper our chocolate, I'm prepared to answer, "By insulting it's mother." That'll teach him.)

It's not all bad. I did meet a little old lady with a nice necklace that I inquired about. "It's Scrimshaw on oosik." Scrimshaw is the type of painting on the oosik. Oosik, for those like me who are not in the know, is the petrified penis bone of certain animals. In this particular case, it was that of a walrus. Glad I asked. Hearing the words "petrified walrus penis" come out of this woman's mouth made my month.

But life hasn't been all work, work, work. I have also become dangerously addicted to Sudoku. No (mom) that's not some sort of designer drug. It's a number puzzle game usually found in the newspaper next to the jumble or crossword. (I get mine from www.websudoku.com.) In Sudoku, you have to fit each digit, 1-9, in each row, each column, and each 3x3 square just once. Unlike a crossword puzzle, you are not subjected to sometimes obscure or purposely misleading clues. There's only one way to solve each puzzle and, if you're good, you can do one in 8 minutes to a half an hour. I've gotten pretty good. Depending on the difficulty of the puzzle (and the free time I have with which to focus on completing it) I can do them in 8-35 minutes. Not bad.

And I've learned something about life from Sudoku. See, in Sudoku, you don't just figure out where numbers go, you figure out where numbers cannot go. There's only one right answer and sometimes you have to ask indirect questions to find it. Applied to life, there's only one way that your life will end up. And sometimes it's not about where you are and what you're doing...sometimes it's about where you're NOT and what you're NOT doing. I thought about it this way. Here I am in Chicago (okay, Evanston). I've got a job where the pay is lousy. I can't pay my bills. I certainly can't splurge on extravagancies. I've got no love life and barely any social life at all. Maybe this isn't the right arrangement of numbers to figure out my life Sudoku. Maybe I need to get out of this city. I could move to New York. I'm not making any money and somehow I'm still alive. Maybe I can make no money and stay alive in New York, where the opportunities are even more bountiful. Or maybe I need to find a new line of work. Perhaps the acting business isn't what I was meant to do. (Not that I have anything else in mind.) Maybe I need to start looking for love in all the right places. Who knows? And when I find that I've got the numbers in all the right places, I'll win!

We'll see. In the meantime, I'll keep filling in my life Sudoku with pencil and, as my friend Ryan says, keep my ass to the grindstone.

Dark Chocolate

Odd jobs. Free time. Money troubles. These are supposed to be the characteristics of someone who is unemployed. But I'm not unemployed. I'm a singing cupcake decorator, damn it! So why do these all apply to me?

As a singing cupcake decorator (official title: "Hersheyizer") at the Hershey Company, Chicago, I have experienced a whole new wave of dismay. I make more money than the other retail associates because I can sing. And I work more hours because there are fewer of us Hersheyizers. But I cannot make ends meet.

It's not as if being able to sing while decorating a cupcake is some really important job. But you wouldn't know that by the expectations laid upon me. On my days off, I am often called and asked to fill in for someone else or technical questions regarding the sound system or some such. That's right, I'm unofficially "on-call" for Hersheyizing!

Don't get me wrong. I do enjoy what I do. I like most of the customers and my coworkers. I do get to eat the occasional mistake. I'm even treated (no pun intended) right. It is not as bad as my old job as a traveling salt salesman. It's not as futile as the summer job I had sweeping a junkyard. But I dream of a day when I have both the time and the money to do something fun--besides work--again.

*Coming soon: What NOT to say to a Hersheyizer, the dangerous addiction of Sudoku, my mortal enemies--BankOne and Comcast....