I don't know why I don't want to go to bed, but the truth is I don't.

Happy Birthday, Kellie Powell!

Had a good night tonight. Was at the MAD house, really enjoying what goes down with calling a show in a Union house. Kind of get to hang out and do your thing, could bring in a picture or something, pretend you have a work-space. Afterwards was being romanced into Local 2 during strike. Went to an schmancy after-party in a tall building where I'm pretty sure I was all but offered another job. So, I'd say, yeah, I'm doing alright.

I remember that sound. The feeling. The flow of the ink. Everything about them. It's like coming home.

Tech day six. Day one of the projections designer not wearing a Steelers shirt.

I know that I'm not supposed to talk about this kind of thing on the internet, but, man, my feet stink.

I just heard on the radio that Iran's government is banning high speed internet access across the nation. The speed at which people are being restricted seems to be the speed that my computer currently connects to the internet. So owning my computer is a lot like living in a restrictive national environment.

The fact that the internet is being annoying on my computer is, well, annoying.

While it may be said that I associate blankets with home, let it also be said that I associate having a dog and a second fridge with success.

I have begun to shave in steps. One hair at a time.

Happy Birthday, Kirsten Bogue!

I can only help you if you're drunk.

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Eigth Level of Hell - the Malebolge!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	Very Low
Level 2 (Lustful)	Very High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	Low
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	Very Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	High
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	Moderate
Level 7 (Violent)	Very High
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	Very High
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	High

Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test

After everything that I've done in the past couple of days "Springtime for Hitler" is what is stuck in my head.

I just want to congratulate you on getting married in exactly the same way that you live.

Kelli O'Toole, you're some kind of beauty.

Happy Birthday, Emily Jane!

So I have this dream last night about a town (a foreign town) which the residents have changed the name to Sinn Féin. Sinn Féin Port to be exact. How do I know about this town? Well I'm working at a bar. I'm not sure in what capacity, but working at this bar, and the owner ends up involving me, and I take a trip and I realize that this owner (my boss) is somehow engaged in a local uprising. That they're trying to overthrow the local government and maybe even the national government. I suppose it is important to note we are not in Ireland. Also, back in the states, this same owner tells me that he has one (count them, one) barrel of oil. Of on refined crude. One. Sitting out back, or perhaps in the storage area. But, between this uprising and this single barrel of oil he feels confident that he'll be able to make political statements of a global nature. Statements that the globe will hear. "I'm so excited," he says, "I had been wanting to make this a political bar, but I didn't think that would be possible for a while." I shrug in his general direction. "There goes the sports bar." Honestly, this is a dream JR should have had.

Intermission Appetite.

I'm not sure when it happened, but I think I don't want to fully mix work and pleasure. I mean, I like it, sure, but I kind of want to put my time in and go home. What happened to me?

Woke up, took a shower. Checking my email. Look at the time! I don't think I've slept in this much in years.

I don't believe that I had ever heard the tornado sirens in Chicago. It was a sound that reminded me so deeply of home. Of flat lands and short buildings. Of the feeling of corn all around. The fact that I was on foot half way between my point of departure and my destination, was somewhat disconcerting. The rain was also bad. Though I was in no rush. I know the place where I live. I am on the second story, basically sticking out of the roof, in an apartment with large windows on three sides.

You know what the problem is with not getting a degree? You end up making photo copies all day. And not of your butt or anything.

I had to make those phone calls tonight. The ones that I really never wanted to make. The, "Hey folks, can I have some money?" phone calls. And it was rough. And I feel oddly grown up about it. And I also feel oddly useless and worthless too. I don't know if these things are connected at all, but perhaps growing up is just a slow trek to obscurity and obsceneness. The slow, dragging walk to the grave.

Not that anyone ever would, but if someone were to question me about my friendship with M.F. then I would say that the other day I came home and found this on my desktop:

Mine is a tale told in filth. In the dirt that settles into your knuckels and makes them crack. Full of sound and fury. A loud noise, that is the ringing in my ears. The tempest in the tea cup. The tale told by an idiot.

Congratulations, JR. You set a goal and you achieved it.

Thank you, Carl. That's a good one.

Three days and a piece. Croatian day, Serbian day, Lebanese day. Completion.

Creating is a messy process. I mean, I suppose I've always known this. I've known this since kindergarten finger paints. But it's true. Creating is in a way destroying. Shiva and Brahma doing their dance. Creating out of destruction, destroying to create. The moral being, of course, that my house is a mess.

aar18tkd: Just wanted to thank you for what is continuing to be the greatest weekend of my life. Damn man, I haven't felt this good since....well....ever.

I have no idea what I cut my leg on last night.

Opening night. Fuck yeah.

Good party last night. Good times.

Double booked. Motherfucker.

Did you guys sleep with rock stars last night? You did? That's awesome.

"I'll bid eight thousand dollars." And here I am, struggling to get by. Does it make me want to be a communist? No. Does it make me wonder about things? Yes it does.

I don't know what it is about big Union houses, but I feel somewhat strange about them. Intimidated in a way. And that's weird, because I seem to be a better electrician and stage hand even than most of the ones I run into.

I have been classifying my CDs as Daytime / Nighttime CDs. Warm weather / cold weather.

It is my belief that everyone is boring on the internet.

I haven't partied this hard in a long time. But it's nice to know I still can.

Does the fact that I want another drink make me weak? Or the fact that I'm going to have one?

So, looking at the greatest albums of all time here, and I found out that the first one that I own is #51, Simon and Garfunkel's Bridge over Troubled Water. Which is followed up by #230 Queen's A Night at the Opera (which, as an album, I like more than Simon and Garfunkel's and know that I have felt in the past that I feel it is a good album, as whole). There are over a hundred albums between the top I have and the second. And I think I stole Bridge from my mother when she wasn't looking. And I was amazed to find #297. weezer (Blue Album), weezer, which, if I am honest, I think is the best album of my time, in my mind. The rest of the albums I have on the list goes as follows: #327. Jagged Little Pill, Alanis Morissette; #360. Siamese Dream, The Smashing Pumpkins; #376. (What's the Story) Morning Glory?, Oasis; #397. Rain Dogs, Tom Waits; #416. Mule Variations, Tom Waits; #487. Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, The Smashing Pumpkins. But I kind of feel like a poser on the Pumpkins ones, as, well, I was never that big of a fan, and it was just that Weidner bought them for me, telling me that I had to have them. But that still brings my total to nine. Of five hundred. A little math says I come in at 1.8% success rate. Now, my question is, does that mean I have good taste? Or bad taste? I suppose, by this measure a Beatles fan would automatically have better taste then me, but being a fan of one band vs. discernment is an argument that could be made late into the night. I did do better than I thought I was going to, honestly. And that fifty one seems higher than I would expect for my pop-influenced, almost catchy with an hint of emo tastes.

Does anyone else think that computers are going to make people insecure? I'm going to delete this. Are you sure? For real? Well, just in case, we'll store it for you incase you want to undelete. No wonder choreographers can't make up their minds.

That kind of casual sarcasm takes a certain mood. Which, in turn, takes a bit of time.

Happy Birthday, Nicole Solecki!

I don't know what to say about any of this.

EDIT: I do have something to say about this. And that is, let's get drunk and be somebody.

Happy Birthday, Matt Buckles!

Happy Birthday, Josh Preston!

Happy Birthday, Mary Ann Simblian!

Do I want to stop? No, no, I don't want to stop. I just don't know what to say.

I know that I've said this before, but I am so fucking sick of plays set in New York.

I don't know if it makes me more American, or a traitor to my class, but I really like watching NFL football on TV.

Happy Birthday, Jen (hot) Guglielmi!

I just burned the bottom of my feet on the deck outside.

I just had a dream in which JR was telling me a story about pulling up his socks and I, for the life of me, couldn't not understand what the point of this story was.

I guess there's a certain amount of notoriety in being the one that got away. The strange sort of prominence one has when the nostalgia sets in.

That storm just passed me by.

It's weird, after all of this time, to put on pants and proper shoes again.

Now that I've cut myself shaving I feel much better emotionally.

Wow, did I drink too much last night.

I think maybe the sky is bigger here.

You can go to hell. And I'll go to Texas.

I have no fucking energy. (wow, that's a pun)

Happy Birthday, Sarah Drake!

I just went toe-to-toe on my bike with a Jewel 18-wheeler from down by the lake to my place. Pretty much give and take, but generally making the same time.

It's times like this that I feel I really am alone. And I kind of which I was closer to people so that I had a reference, so that I could know if I'm unique in this manner, or if everyone feels this way sometimes. The only problem, of course, is that if I was talking to someone right now, I wouldn't feel this way. Luckily, I'm going to feed some fish.

I just broke a free bottle of wine. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

Did I mention that I've been drinking tonight? Because I have been. This is what happens when you go see some blue grass and then come home and realize you're living with one of you best friends. It's a crazy world that we're living in.

I had a dream last night that I was the ALD on a rather large show. Not sure how I got the job, but for sure didn't want it. Somehow during tech I had left my mic open and was tapping on the thing. Annoying everyone on headset. When I apologized the LD turned to me and made the ASL sign to cut off my balls with a knife. I know this because I asked him what it meant after he did it. I, myself, wasn't about to do that with my multi-tool, but he did have a butterfly knife on him. So I said, "I'll have to borrow your blade." And that's the end of the dream.

Happy Birthday, Lyndsey Ogle!

Despite the fact that he was playing with a girl's racket, Brad beat me seven games to six. Almost a match.

This might have been the first time in my life that I've been tipped.

I like this fife-dome thing. I like being able to come in and get my shit done. I like being able to communicate as equals with other people that know what I know.

Happy Birthday, Phil Higgins!

It's pretty terrible when you're standing on the curb, waiting for the light to change, admiring the shape of a woman's body while she hails a cab and as she is stepping into the vehicle an obnoxious man leans out of a black SUV and shouts, "Hey baby, don't go with him, I'll give you a ride" and you suddenly realize you were thinking the exact same thing.

Happy Birthday, Faith White Vittitoe!

Happy Birthday, Steve Vittitoe!

I find it amusing that I'm more drunk now at home than I was all weekend away.

Ah, rum shits, how I've missed you.

Back home in that some old place. I've missed you in my life, Michelle. In ways that there aren't really words for. The subtle way, that allows you to live, but the deep running still waters.

There used to be a family here. This used to be a home.

Columbus, Ohio. Arived at last.

The silence was so loud that I didn't know how to take a step.

Emily Jane in town today. A stop in Illinois before heading across the lake and then back to Boston. Did a bit of looking around, a bit of the old chitty chat. A double feature (first time ever) and a nightcap. Even bought a grow-a-geek who is currently growing in the pool.

Happy Birthday, Monica Foskett!

Hung a show this afternoon. Tried to fly a kite. Had a small bbq. Went for a dip in the new pool. Fought with my girlfriend. I've had a full day.

Happy trails, Ryan. You take care of yourself.

I woke up this morning three times. The first time I was lying on the floor in Monica's bathroom, I made my way to her couch, where I found some sort of comforter and a pillow (an upgrade from the last time) and went back to sleep. Later was sometime around seven (I checked my dying phone) and the sun was starting to fill the room with light. The third time was 9:42am. In which I wished that it was seven again, realized that I could not turn back time, no matter the need, and began my walk of shame.

Woke up alone this morning, for the record. Though, not too surprising, as I went to sleep alone as well.

Despite this nap, I'm still pretty tired.

Happy Birthday, Michelle Preston!

I had a dream last night that I was at a bar with E. Adler and company. And somehow I ended up paying nine more dollars for my meal for some reason and told them I'd never come back. They were not very impressed. If I could remember the bar, I might not go back.

Happy Birthday, Margaret Nelson!

The more I think about Feelings with a capital F in regard to Truth with a capital T, the more it comes down to Circumstance. With a capital C.

JR and I just had a crotchety old man contest. And, while I am loathe to admit it, I think he won.

I dreamt about hitting the go button last night.

Good show that I've been working on. Rather happy with it.

What the mother fuck?

I love you, JR.

Today (yesterday): Woke up with Laura and the sun. Meeting. A bit of drafting and some video games. Staying with myself. Bike trip in the rain. Dinner (sushi) with Bret and Lisa. X-Men with Brad and Rachel and Jonathan. Drunk now.

Can you live without these things? The short answer is yes. Do you want to? The short answer is, again, yes. Then the question remains, why don't you? And the short (and simple) answer there is: I don't know.

Then people will be like, "Goddamn, your paperwork is beautiful." And then I'll be like, "That's because I'm beautiful."

I have been lifting shit since seven thirty this morning.

Had a dream last night that I was doing some arts and crafts in a room in which Katie Mattieson taught an Eclecisity class. And I was evangelized there. This guy started talking about the great Pisces. I'm pretty sure he meant God (in the Christian sense) and I was wondering about the whole fish thing. Maybe a snake? We ended up talking about hippies a bit and then one of his pupils failed the old, "Could God make a rock so big he couldn't pick it up?"

Sword fight tonight. Many years in the making. And, somehow, the best thing that could have happened.

The boy are back in town. And it seems he has brought Irish Spring.

I don't know how many girls have fallen asleep in that piece of furniture, but it's never a good sign.

I wish I had a banana right now.

Sometimes wishes do come true. I never thought I'd say this, but thank you, Starbucks. I'm still not going to buy anything from you, though.

I was at a bar tonight and some Modest Mouse came on the juke box. And I missed you badly. I miss that feeling of together-ness. Of driving around and sitting around and smoking a bowl. And talking, really talking. Knowing we talked about something, and that it meant something. Even if it meant nothing. And no matter what tomorrow brought if it had to be fought then we would fight it and if it had to be celebrated then we would celebrate. And now, sometimes (like tonight) I get the feeling like I'm fighting myself and drinking alone.

You know that sort of obnoxious tie? Lets make some pants out of that.

Manifest '06: We Were Rocked Like A Hurricane
Manifest '06: Fuck this, let's go to a bar
Manifest '06: Art knows no weather, but we sure do

This is not to say that it wasn't good. It was. Or that it wasn't thoughtful. It was. The problem being there's no good reason to eat pie alone, and, well, there you have it.

After watching a dance or two on this video I have come to believe two things:

	1.	Columbia dancers (and therefore their dances) are weird as hell.
	2.	There seems to come a point in most dancer's life when they don't need a lighting designer.

I find it interesting that the greatest danger I pose to myself on any given day is the danger of spilling messy food onto my clothing.

I was working in Evanston today. And, for those that know my feelings about Evanston I will just leave it at that. But I'm going to the theatre that I've never been to, somehow associated with Northwestern, as if Northwestern didn't have enough theatres. But I'm with Laura Hamm and we're looking for parking. I think I see something, I turn into this drive and I'm backing out. Laura says, "You have a biker." To which I, of course, stop. Just stop. The ass-end of my truck sticking right out in the middle of the street, easily blocking the path of this bike. And, somehow, I think this is appropriate behavior. I think this is courteous. I don't think this for very long. I realize this was the worst possible response. I could have backed up fully and then out of the way of the bike. I could have pulled forward. I could have realized the error of my ways in even owning a motor vehicle and set it on fire, immediately immolating the machine, which would have gotten it out of the way of the bike. But I did none of these things. I sat, finally catching sight of her as she biked away from the far side of my truck. And I shouted my apologizes out the window, to which Laura laughed at me. Some things, I guess, you can't take back.

Dreamt of being tortured last night. Of trying to kill with a fork. Of failing.

This is why there are unions.

The funny thing I've found is that when you can do it all the time you don't do it as much.

I faced me demons, alright. I faced them all night. Alone.

Dreamt again last night. Holding up the Super Bowl. Or other some such sporting event. Me and a partner, who was a girl. Very Pulp Fiction, except without the honey bunny bit. So I take off in one direction and she in another. And we're firing shots into the air and people are milling their way to the exits. And now I've got a bag and a gun and I'm saying put your money in the bag. I don't need your wallets, just your money. And I head back inside the building at some point, and it's very Dance Center at this point and there are these rich old white men and they don't want to give me anything and this one wife is like, "Harold, put your money in the bag." And he doesn't. And I shoot him. At this point I know it's on. I know there's no going back. So I'm out of patience, I need enough money to flee and forever. So give it to me, now. No? Bam! And so on. I shoot a lot of people. And I'm back in a stadium, and it's really real, and I still have my back full of money and wallets but I'm pointing my fingers like a gun. And bang, and bang, and bang. No one is interested anymore. Except one guy, who lunges at me, and I point my fingers at him, and bang. And he falls on me, and he's dying. He's pretending to die. I don't know, I have a real gun again, and the lighting seems more sinister. And I'm shooting anyone that gets too close. There are bodies piling up (but not really). Eventually everyone is out, out, out. And it's just me and the one guy. I thank him for playing along. And he says it wouldn't be much fun if no one did. Then this woman comes up to me, who I think is someone I know from real life at Columbia. And she's going to shoot me. She has a real gun. And I'm really scared. What is this, consequences for my actions? In a dream? This isn't Robert Jordan. And somehow I'm sneaking away, and there are kitchen knifes. My (JR's) kitchen knives. I brought them over. Did I mention that I live across the hall from this Stadium / Dance Center? Did I mention that it's not a real event but we're filming? Well it is. And shooting is over. And we're joking around, but this girl really wants to kill me. So I pick up a knife and I figure, hey, I'll get her first. And I say, "Hey" and she turns and I thrust into the space to the right of her body. Now here is where she's supposed to pretend that she's been stabbed and fall to the ground. Instead she looks at me like I'm an idiot and throws one of the knives at me, which lodges itself in my right calf. And it hurts. Which I express vocally. At which time Kelli O'Toole's voice appears on the scene. "Are you okay? Are you dead? What happened?" And I'm embarrassed. I brought real knives onto the set. "Yeah, it was my fault." She comes over, brings some first aid, cleans me up and hands me my knives. It's time to go. As I'm walking out with my box full of knives I pass Gib (who I suppose was working somewhere) who has a mohawk that is black and curly, and, honestly, I don't think could exist in the real world, what with physics and all. He shoots me an impish grin and says, "You know you fucked up, right?" Alarm. And I'm out.

Eat something, you son of a bitch. Do something with your life.

I had a crazy dream last night. This time I was the Christ figure. I'm not sure what prompted me, but in a very Robert Jordan sort of way I was heading off into the desert to battle the dark one. A serious mix of fantasy literature as well as Christian dogma. I end up at a compound of some kind. A homecoming of sorts. You know, "Thanks for all your help in life, I'm off to fight the devil." Before this point in the dream I had already parted with my disciples, which I suppose I had, 'cause I remember telling them that I was going where they could not follow. As I was saying goodbye to the adults a man named John came up to me and told me that he was coming with me. I asked him for his reasons and he said that the fact that he was going was reason enough. I accepted this as the will of God and we made our way to say goodbye to the children. I got myself involved in a basketball game, somehow. Ended up testing my faith by not knowing who was on what team and just passing to whomever seemed right. And seemed covered, as well, but made the shot none the less. I counseled a rebellious youth not to chest bump people while playing the game. And I ended up with offers of things to bring with me. I had been planning on stripping out of my contemporary clothes and going with the turban and robe and sandals. Bringing nothing but my faith and now John with me into the desert. I ended up with a care trunk and a porter to carry it. As I was about to set off into that sunny unknown I awoke.

This is where I would email KP and tell her that I think the reason that it is so hard to connect these days is because it is so easy to get in touch. So easy to interact with someone and say nothing. And these non-connections are the things that keep us in front of our computer at night thinking we're all alone. However, I am told I am on KP hiatus.

Leave your house, Josh.

Happy Birthday, Katie Matteson!

Happy Birthday, Ryan Hietpas!

The problem with doing your own thing is that you aren't really able to do someone else's thing. Also, maybe, that you want someone else to do your thing, and you get offended that they do their own thing. And that sucks.

Happy Birthday, Petey Radamacher!

So I wake up this morning in a rush, run outside to find the my truck is gone. Construction. So I make my way to the impound, where I am sure it is. It is not there. And, what's more, there isn't even a tow order for it. Shit. So I make my way back to Wriglyville and find that it had simply been moved across the street. Good.

I hate feeling this way. I don't know why it starts and I still haven't figured out what to do once it gets started.

Back in town and off to a meeting in the middle of the night that I said I would drive to without my truck. Why, you may ask. Poor planning. Feeling weird in my own skin.