the awesome/terrifying freedom

out here, somewhere, figuring it all out.

fantasia is real, and connected, always. because of this, she can sing bad notes, she can stumble and be technically imperfect, but never at cost to her credibility. when she sings 'i believe,' you know that she does, no matter how sappy the sentiment. she's the only person who can pull off self reflexive and blatantly illustrative gestures without being hokey. i voted about 30 times for her.

poor diana. girl blew her voice out singing the first number. if she was competing against justin guarini, she'da had it. but you could see as she sang the words 'you almost had it all' that she was talking to herself. she's 16. she'll be fine.

it's amazing how domestically inclined i feel, in this, the golden era of my gayness. reading about the gay weddings, i feel that yes, it's something that i want. and having gone to several non-gay weddings in the past year, and having cried at every one of them, boy do i want to get married. to someone who wears the same size as me. because really i just want a bigger wardrobe and cheaper rent. and a roommate who i can boink. and all those presents. naw, i'm not so cynical. maybe what i want is that part of the struggle to be over - those 'going out to the bar hoping i'm hot enough for someone hot to want to go home with me and then hoping that maybe after we screw around there will be some infinitesimal chance that we'll have a conversation that reveals intelligence or skill beyond that required to extract an orgasm from the human male' struggles. i would much rather have the 'who's going to cook dinner tonight because i have to pick up your dry cleaning' struggles. and maybe it will be easier to pursue the bigger stuggles, the 'how the hell am i going to carve myself a career in the arts' struggles when the 'will somebody please do me? now?' struggles are over.

jasmine, aka 'i love my jazzy,' is gone, finally. tamyra and latoya should get together and form the 'robotic black female belter's club.' they could be merged into one super villan called lamyra that shatters your bones with stratospheric tones, ice cold personality, and (courtesy of tamyra) a 'tudey neck swivel. apparently tamyra wrote a bunch of the songs on her new album, and co-wrote the single that this year's 'winner' will sing. in yesterday's times, simon predicts that diana digarmo will win - and if the song is a belty ballad, there is a good chance that he's right. latoya says the song is called 'believe' and that she was able to write it because she's been where the finalists are now. um, well, not quite tamyra. girl needs to be reminded america liked nikki mckibbin a little bit better.

i have been busy.

and lazy.

here's what i've been up to:

i directed a play, which did very well and got a great review. i feel sadness, loss, pride, disappointment.

i've been eating a lot of novelty candy. those black and white m&ms. reverse oreos. reverse reese's cups. white chocolate reese's cups. white chocolate almond joy. for some reason white chocolate is all the rage lately.

i went to the red carpet premiere of 'new york minute.' which was truly horrifying. those girls are not human, they are gelflings. they are not of this earth. they are full grown women, who, through the wonders of science combined with the advertising axoim that 'smaller is cuter,' have been shrunken down to 1/3rd the size of a regular human. they also require the puppeteering skills of eight technicians from the jim henson creature shop to coordinate head movements, eye blinks, and gestures to simulate life, thought, emotion.

i laughed harder than i ever have during snl at 'debbie downer.'

i predicted that latoya would get booted as soon as jasmine burst into tears. girl needs to join the non equity tour of miss saigon and get the hell off my teevee. latoya was cold, but deserved a shot at the top prize.

i wonder if happiness is a choice, or a chemical. i think i've said that before. i think about it a lot. i think it's fundamentally chemical, and that perhaps your brain can be trained to release this chemical at will. how does that happen? how can i learn that? why do some people just wake up happy? all the fucking time? why the hell can't that be me? i need to train my brain.

i wonder, after the show has closed, what it is i'm going to do with my life, what paths will open up? be blocked? i've sold my soul and become permanent. will i be in a cubicle for the rest of my life? will my blog become a sad chronicle of one man's spiraling journey away from art into regret? i am filled with self doubt and insecurity. i feel the distant yet present hand of death reaching out for me, telling me 'don't struggle so much joe! get a promotion! make more money! get more cool stuff! you live in the best city in the world! wouldn't it be great if you could enjoy it more?' maybe the secret to life and you know, actually living it is to force yourself into beneficial struggles. like going to the gym, lifting weights will make you sore but will eventually make you a sexy mofo. so maybe i just need to accept the insecurities as the inevitable byproduct of my status as a fledgling director, struggling actor, and partially soul-less office worker, and force myself into the next struggle with aplomb and discipline. i just have to decide. what next? what next?

i been living on the mcdonald's dollar menu for two months so i could get an ipod. i finally get it and realize shortly thereafter that the commercials are a lie. no one with an ipod dances like that. because you are the only person who can hear the music. it's a lovely idea, and an attractive one, but if you picture yourself as one of those jammin' silhouettes, prepare for disappoinment. i tried it once, but i had to lock the door first, and i only did it for a second, for fear of my roommate coming home. and it felt mildly stupid. it's fun, sure, but carries the same guilt and fear of discovery as masturbation without that whole, you know, orgasm thing. apple should work on that.

my dad flew into town to see the show. as a gift, he gave me and the playwright each a copy of 'eats, shoots and leaves: the zero tolerance approach to punctuation.' it was the perfect gift for the two of us who have fashioned an entire philosophy of acting and drama based on punctuation. now in my world, capitalization does not count as punctuation. i'm indifferent to capitalization. my dad exchanged some emails with an african american activist woman (she created, who also does not use capitol letters. he asked her why. she said it was because she found the rules of capitalization arbitrary. my dad asked me if this was why i don't use capitals. no, that's not why. i don't use capitols because lower case is cuter. like the olsen twins. they are lower case humans. i also hate the quotation mark. i prefer the single quote. it does the job. why say "why," when you can say 'why?'

i've been playing 'grand theft auto.' i find the game very therapeutic. i don't even follow the story. i just get in a car and drive around for an hour like i used to do at home when i needed to just let go and think. perhaps as game graphics become more and more photorealistic we will get a whole series of therapy games like 'walking on the beach,' 'blowing a dandelion,' and 'sitting on the couch popping bubble wrap.'

sorry i've been gone so long. i'm a terrible communicator. i'm almost thirty years old and still so amazingly fucked up. and lazy. i've been busy too, but that's no excuse.

john dolan, are you still out there? i have to say, that without your musings, thoughts, i've felt alone in the blogosphere. miss you bud.

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  • 5: the man of genius

  • 4: blunders & absurdities

  • 3: conservative after dinner

  • 2: what lies below

  • 1: where there is no path

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