Welcome to March--belated I know. I've let my work fall of the wagon in a fashion akin to the worst, most Damning fate of perennial computer fav The Oregon Trail. The oscars came and went in a sea of inexorable politics and globalization: Gays and Indians tangoing down the red carpet, forming some sort of Worldly Voltron and waggling it's multi-tiered member in our oh-so-earnestly voyeuristic faces.
In short: Slumdog is great, raw, and just a smidge overrated--and Mickey Rourke was robbed. Oh and the blind-eye to The Dark Knight's technical achievements is appalling to say the least, and eye-gougingly vexing to say the most.
The ceremony was kind of old-school in way with the homo-erotic/Tony Award-Winning Dance numbers, bare-bones recession-cognizant fare, but I felt something missing: lust. During the awards I couldn't help but notice a going-through-the-motions w/r/t many of the films, and a lack of honesty intermittently promulgated by the likes of works like The Wrestler. My point is if we're to scale the Ceremony itself back for these tough economic times then let's reassess the Salient qualities in Story in Character that's supposed to be the foundation of this whole shebang in the fist place. I'm speaking ideologically now and it's even boring me. You have to understand the searing pathos/shame I feel watching this shit, because I should be there, not out of ego, but I know, I know I'm beyond capable and my work could be a very pronounced proponent of the medium. And when it comes down to it: I want to help people, I want to entertain the living shit out of them, and make a very tangible human connection. I want people to feel less lonely, less shitty about themselves, their misdirected lives, whatever. It's hard for me regardless.
After the Oscars I contracted a stye in my left eye: it's still here...kind of. For a majority of last week I looked like a very handsome, in-shape Sloth from The Goonies. In tandem with working 8/9 days due to a tourist-y maelstrom called Restaurant Week here in Chicago I allowed myself to get very stressed out and behind in my work. My other anchor was my lovely Girlfriend's birthday, and mastering the learning curve of her present: audiophile turntable. She was very pleased and we're very happy. But there's something missing, maybe not missing, but quiescent in a way that should not fucking be quiescent: creative-amnesiac-pitfalls in tandem with way too much unused creative energy in some sort of fugue state. In short, by ignoring my work I'm quasi-neglecting the salient personality traits catalyzing us falling in love in the first place.
And Maudlin-aire: In a defiantly weak undercurrent I've seen complacency rear its nettlesome visage and whispered sweet nothings in my ear w/r/t forgoing all this craziness and moving on with my life via some restaurateur/bar related omnipresence. I just threw up in my mouth typing this. Spurring this on too, I'm waiting on a third interview for a second-job in a soon-to-open very trendy and vaunted restaurant in Chicago's Pilsen neighborhood. Why does this matter: well, it'll be a good opportunity, but openings take time and you can see how tenuous my gossamer-wrapped psyche is with too-much-day-job-ness.
My Second City class (the penultimate class of the program) starts next Monday and it couldn't come any sooner. I need an anchor very badly right now. In other news I received a call from very nice gentleman looking to start an adjunct sketch-comedy troupe for his D.C. faction right here in Chicago....
That's it: no special ending today. I'm going to eat some hard-boiled eggs.
No comments:
Post a Comment