Just a thought ...

If doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is insanity, what do you call doing different things each time and expecting the same results?

Entrainment is the Enemy of Art

[NOTE:  Here's yet another draft that's been sitting around, waiting to be published. I've held back because this is pretty grumpy, even for me. I feel I should add a disclaimer to stuff like this: This isn't the final word. My opinions and attitudes are constantly evolving. This is just where I was back in June of this year. Fortunately, only about three people ever read this blog.]

Entrainment is the Enemy of Art.

Or, to put it another, William Blake-esque, "Proverbs of Hell" way, "Entertainment! Not Entrainment!"

First, a reading:

entrain²
vb (tr)

3. (Life Sciences & Allied Applications / Zoology) Zoology to adjust (an internal rhythm of an organism) so that it synchronizes with an external cycle, such as that of light and dark
entrainment n

Now, a hymn:

I want to be different, like everybody else I want to be like I want to be just like all the different people I have no further interest in being the same, because I have seen difference all around, and now I know that that's what I want I don't want to blend in and be indistinguishable, I want to be a part of the different crowd, and assert my individuality along with the others who are different like me

And to conclude, the sermon:
 
This is my "personal" blog, i.e. not the theatrte blog (whose name I'm omitting so as to avoid the Googlebots). The theatre blog has taken on a life of its own. People actually read it now, and so I'm beginning to feel that I can't be as candid as I used to. That's a sad thing for me, because it has always been a place where I can honestly say what's on my cranky, cantankerous mind. In short, the entrainment has begun. Oh, I'm not a part of the clique--and there is a theatre clique in this town. Every subculture has its cliques, its cool kids; its criminals, basket cases, jocks, brains, and princesses. But I am on the, if you will, "fringe" of the local theatre subculture. And somewhat like the little kid who noticed that the Emperor was buck-ass naked, I find myself biting my tongue at what has become an annual circle jerk-cum-theatre festival. No pun intended. People will have their fun, and people will be entertained. Of course they will, and this is good. At the same time, I can't help but roll my eyes at the complete and utter failure of yet another theatre organization to live up to its name. In this particular case, it's the "fringe" part of a particular festival whose name I'm also ommitting so as to avoid the Googlebots. Please open your Wikipedias to the entry on "Fringe theatre". Thus spaketh the crowd-source:

Fringe theatre is theatre that is not of the mainstream. The term comes from the Edinburgh Festival Fringe, which name comes from Robert Kemp, who described the unofficial companies performing at the same time as the second Edinburgh International Festival (1948) as a ‘fringe’, writing: ‘Round the fringe of official Festival drama, there seems to be more private enterprise than before’. The term has since been adopted by the Edinburgh Festival Fringe and thence by alternative theatres and alternative theatre festivals.

"Not of the mainstream." "Alternative." Granted, in this town any live theatre is the "fringe" of mainstream entertainment. But that's not the point of a fringe festival, now is it? There are some daring souls making some daring theatre, but the fringe moniker is largely innacurate, and is the sort of myopic ego-stroking that turns me off from the theataaaaah. "Look how risky we are! We have swear words and/or violence in our play!" And don't get me started on the one-person shows. Don't even get me started.

But so long as people are being entertained, what do I care? 

Yes, what do I care indeed.  Hence, posting this here rather than over there.  The fact is, I don't fucking care.  It hits me in cycles, I've observed.  I joke about how my relationship to theatre is just like Chaplin's in Limelight.  "I can't stand the sight of my own blood, but that doesn't stop it from pumping through my veins."

In my case, I can't stand the theatre, but that doesn't stop me from pontificating about it.  Or maybe, finally, I just can't stand the theatre.

Jury Duty

[NOTE: Back in March of 2010 I had jury duty.  Here are some observations from that time.]

You know what's depressing? The two long lines of people with court dates wrapping around outside. Before the day is through, I may find myself sitting in judgment on one of the people standing on line. That's heavy.

How do you get to Superior Court? What sort of crime?

*     *     *

Overheard a judge:

"It's like a Punch and Judy show around here. People beating on each other."

So that's the sort of crime that makes it to Superior Court. That and traffic cases.

It's a light day today. According the the Jury Room lady, they usually have 20-30 cases going. Today it's 5 cases in 3 courtrooms. Usually there are around 100 jurors, but only about 65 jurors showed up today. Odds are pretty good I'll get selected, but that's fine. The court is closed for Cesar Chavez Day tomorrow, which means I can go to work and get some stuff done. The average case runs 5 days, so I'll be fully done (hopefully) by next Thursday.

There are posters around the room with pictures of celebrities ranging from Camryn Manheim to "Weird" Al Yankovic under the words "Jury Service." These noted celebrities served, and we should feel proud to be among their number! Well, whatever, but it is kind of cool to know that "Weird" Al served. (Can you imagine being up on an assault charge and seeing his curly mane in the jury box?)

*     *     *

I checked in with my boss at lunchtime. The office is not burning down, contrary to her fears when I told her I wouldn't be there today.

I ran across to McDonalds for lunch. I'm fairly certain they haven't changed the grease in their fryer since the OJ Simpson trial. Fried food typically tastes ... well, fried. But it's a BAD sign when fried food all tastes the same. I mean the McNuggets taste like the french fries taste like whatever else they fry. There's an H. Salt Fish and Chips in the valley that has that problem. The hush puppies taste like fish and the fish taste like fries, etc. More accurately, everything tastes like a pastiche of everything. So I have a bit of the ol' "McBrick" going on right now. (Gah ... even the coke was flat. How does that happen with a fountain drink?)

Outside the courthouse is a plaque commemorating the start of Billy Graham's career as a street preacher on the corner of Hill and Washington. I tried to take a picture of the plaque for dad, but the writing doesn't register on my camera phone.

So I'm waiting again. It looks like the first batch of jurors they called were about half of us, so I suppose if they call for more (and don't settle the cases before trial -- a definite possibility) I will most likely get called up in the next batch.

*     *     *

I'll be back on Thursday morning for more jury selection. A few observations:

1. Court reporters are saints. I hope they are well compensated for the non-stop, straining to hear mumblers, catching every word WORK.

2. People are freaking cagey when answering questions in court. We've been well trained by TV and film.

JUDGE "So you work in real estate?"

JUROR "Yes."

...

JUDGE "Tell me a little about that."

...

JUROR "I work in real estate."

That's an exaggeration, and not a real conversation that I heard today, but you get the idea.

3. Jury duty is like taking out the garbage. No one wants to do it, but avoiding it isn't really an option.

I don't think I'll get away with live blogging on Thursday, so I'll share my thoughts after I get home. Assuming I'm not chosen for the jury, that is. If I'm chosen I have to swear some sort of blood oath to not talk about anything until after the verdict is answered.

[Sure enough, I was chosen for a jury.  It was a case involving indecent exposure.  In the end, we the jury found that it was likely to have occurred, but the evidence presented did not prove the defendant guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.  So, innocent was the verdict and the guy walked.]

And What Have I Learned?

[NOTE: Originally published on Facebook on 1/18/2011.]

On the eve of my thirty-sixth birthday, I am reminded of the immortal words of Marsellus Wallace:

"Night of the fight, you might feel a slight sting. That's pride fuckin' with you. Fuck pride! Pride only hurts, it never helps. You fight through that shit."

The past year has been interesting. Wonderful, fulfilling, devastating, frustrating and ultimately triumphant. Life is a learning process. Here are a few things I've learned:

1) Jump feet first into the horrible. Dirt washes off and scars add character. Living with anxiety and indecision in the face of the great unknown is not a life worth living. It's better to rip the band-aid off; to roll-up your sleeves and dive into the stinky. It's the only way to get to the root of what's ailing you. Deferring judgment only works so long -- and ultimately doesn't work at all!

2) Tried and true "got your back" friends are priceless. Taking the time to work at creating those relationships is incredibly important. Having a cohort. "Cohort" derives from Latin and means "from the same garden." The people you grow up with define you, challenge you, make you a better person. I could not be happier with the garden I'm in (and I look forward to growing old with you people.)

3) Again I am reminded of what should be the obvious: Communicate. Compare notes. Don't let someone convince you of another's guilt without verifying it for yourself. Don't jump to conclusions without extending the same benefit of a doubt you'd hope people would extend to you. Count to ten. Breathe. Communicate.

4) It is TOO DAMN EASY to hide from what you KNOW you're supposed to be doing. It's easy to find yourself in a cul de sac, driving in circles, kidding yourself that you're getting somewhere while the scenery never changes. "Cul de sac" is French. It means "bottom of the bag," and refers to a literal dead end. You (and by "you" I mean "I") have to to assess where you are, where you've been, and (perhaps most importantly) where the hell you're planning on going. You know that old Lennon quote, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans?" Well, there's "making" plans, and there's following through on the execution of those plans.

When I first got my license, I thought it was a funny joke to occasionally "freak out" behind the wheel and scream, "WHAT AM I DOING?!?" As if I had suddenly forgotten how to drive. Every now and then, I think it's important to freak out a little and scream to yourself, "WHAT AM I DOING?!?" If you wake yourself up to discover you're doing donuts in a dead end, it's time to change direction.

5) I miss my dog. A lot. Life is precious, memories are important, and it's okay to be hurt. Being hurt means you felt something to begin with.

6) FUCK PRIDE. Like Mr. Wallace says, it only hurts, never helps. I'm not saying don't be proud of your accomplishments, I'm saying don't be obstinate. Or to quote someone who doesn't drop the f-bomb:

Arjuna is to do the best he knows
In order to pass beyond that best to better.
How can we prescribe our neighbors to be perfect
When it is so hard to know our own heart?
The pacifist must respect Arjuna
Arjuna must respect the pacifist.
Both are going toward the same goal
If they are really sincere.
There's an underlying solidarity between them
Which can be expressed:
Each one follows without compromise the path upon which he finds himself.
For we can only help others to do their duty
By doing what we ourselves believe to be right.
It is the one supremely social act.

[-- "Sojourn of Arjuna," by Future Man of Bela Fleck and the Flecktones.]

Concentrate on your work, do your best, and bend like the reed, grasshopper.

7) My greatest strength is my relationship with Pamela. She's the "got your back friend" to end all. She's a strong, determined woman who inspires me to get off my ass and do what I do. I'm a lucky guy.

So there you go. Thirty-five years in the bag! I can't wait to see what thirty-six has in store ...