NEW BLOG NEW BLOG NEW BLOG NEW BLOG NEW BLOG NEW BLOG BLEW GOG! ETHANOORT.COM I'm phasing this bitch out. I got a spiffy, new, personalized blog that I'm very pleased with. I hope everyone will stop by, change their bookmarks. Or that Christian will change his link since his is where most of my readers most likely come from. Either way, see you over there.

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So we're OFF again. And this time it hurts the most and feels most final. Because this time it isn't abstract, inter-relationship strife; the unimportant bullshit that pushed us apart in the past. This time its an outside force. The physical manifestation of temptation. Which is why it both hurts worst and feels so final.

But it could be -and has been- argued that it was the unimportant bullshit, what manifested the temptation to begin with. Or that I didn't dance with her enough. Or ever. Or that at different times over the past year, it seems we've tried to convince ourselves we're not enough like the other. Which, to sidetrack, really reminds me of an old Colin Raye country song that I will refrain from typing up the lyrics* to, lest I take a trip down to SuperCheeseballLand.

I lived through the Week of Distance, as I now call it, that seven day span where a chasm creeps up between lovers, and one pretends they didn't put it there while the other pretends they don't notice it.

It's like the end of The Sixth Sense, where they flash back and show you all the obvious clues you overlooked. And you're like, "Oh Shit, THAT'S why she didn't talk to him at dinner...she wasn't giving him the cold shoulder, he was just DEAD." Only it's worse because its real, and it isn't a twist ending, just an ending. Its just over, even an "It's Over," to clarify. And you're left with unfinished Christmas Crafts at home. And you try to be glad at something so you're glad you hadn't ordered those limited edition Birkenstocks with Jerry Garcia's artwork printed on them yet because, they were expensive and she might have hated them anyway. And you're sad because you love her. And she's beautiful and good, and quirky and smart, and funny and she puts weird inflections on certain words and it makes you smile, and all the people who thought you were wrong for one another anyway don't matter because lots of people think lots of people are wrong for people and it doesn't change shit.

You still know all the reasons she's good. All the reason's she's good for you and you're good for one another.

And you still miss her.

It was like a dining table in some castle in the Dark Ages. Long and crowded with loud men chucking chicken bones on the floor for the dogs. Surely one of them had gotten the lead. I convinced myself of this to the point that while everyone filled out their character sheets, for costuming, I was high school cheating, checking others' papers peripherally to make sure no one else wrote down "DANIEL KAFFEE." When no one did, I did.

I was sitting in a room full of guys and I had the lead. It felt like a gay version of how it must feel to be the quarterback on a football squad. You know its a team sport, an ensemble, a group effort, but you can't help feeling a little like numero uno.

It was intimidating. But Jerry, Carl the driver from Bus Stop, was there to play the doctor, and Andrew, who played the sheriff in the same play was cast as my wise-cracking sidekick, Sam. So it was nice to see some familiar faces. Felt even better when Kathy and Missy, stage manager and prop mistress extraordinaires, respectively, who were so supportive during Glass Menagerie, walked in with the same responsibilities on this one.

Our director was the last to show. But when she finally did she brought passion, a history that includes directing in Manhattan, and pamphlets she made on the history of the marine corps and morality. She talked fast about theory, and staging, and how this thing needed to move fast and pop; and trust, she talked about trusting her, and her distaste for pigeon-toeing to an audience instead of getting up in the faces of your fellow actors. She told us we were doing this thing, basically, in the round, with a simple set of tables and chairs, clever lighting and well rehearsed choreography.

Then we read. For about two hours. Marking beats and silently judging each other's cold-read performance.

So I have this friend. Who works at this restaurant. Where they fancy themselves family-friendly. And they give coloring sheets to all the kids. And this weekend, one of the kitchen guys harmlessly doodled dicks in the mouths of three carolers. Carelessly left it next to the copier. And one of the hostesses copied it en masse and doled it out to kiddies all night.


Tonight is the first cast read through of A few Good Men.

Maybe two months or so ago I waited on a family on a Friday night and they were delightful people. Mentioned they were going out to Stamford after dinner to see a production of Oliver.

OH, then at Curtain Call, I asked. Yes, yes. The father knew Lou from way back. I told him I'd worked in a couple plays out there and to tell Lou hello for me.

Yesterday, that father, Luke, is his name, walked up to me in a dead restaurant and prefaced with, "You probably don't remember me but..."

I stopped him, Yes, I remember, you sat at That table, you went to see Oliver.

Yes. Well, he spoke to Lou, who spoke highly of me. And he went out for A Few Good Men. And was offered the role of Colonel Jessup. So Luke will be the Jack Nicholson to my Tom Cruise. Crazy.

This one's going to be crazy.

Its December and that means lots of parties on the mezzanine at work, which means big bucks; and it also means that it's been a goddamn year since last December.

Wednesday I worked a party upstairs, and by "party" I mean a group of people, not a shindig, because this one was a funeral. I hate after-death get-togethers. It means someone close to the dead has got to arrange for penne ala vodka and chicken marsala for forty, it means they've got to pay the man when the plates are all cleared.

I had to stand behind the buffet line with my hands behind my back watching mourners spoon food in case tongs slid into the stuffed sole tray. I tried guessing what the dead person was like by averaging the appearance of his friends and family. I say "His" because a lot of them were big, thick, heavily tattooed men who looked like they'd worked construction or drove or fixed rigs with "him" for a lot of loyal years. There was also a woman whose black dress hardly hid the panther tattoo on one of her tits. I imagine he was weathered, leathery, and hard. Sausage hands that swallowed up the cigarettes that did him in. Maybe it was cancer. Even with nothing to go on the chance of cancer is always pretty good.

Another reason I assume "he", is because the only person to remind Nina and I that -sure we wanted to get out of there, but it was better than wanting a loved one back from the dead- was a middle-aged wife-looking woman who sobbed inconsolably during coffee and condolences.

Tonight, as fate would have it, it was another buffet. Salmon and Chicken Verona this time. This time, a wedding. I've only been to one wedding. I don't even remember whose. I think the son of a friend of the family. I wore grey Wranglers and grey Ropers and a white cowboy hat, a buckle the size of a tea saucer. It was one of those weddings. A wedding where no one takes off their ten gallons in the church. One where afterwards the dishes are styrofoam, one of the sides is baked beans, and where whether ignored or -more often- unnoticed, the smell of horse shit is always in the air.

Tonight's was full of young women in tight slacks and high heels, all either already married or telling all the guests that they'll be invited to their rehearsal dinner come Summer. Boyfriends slugging beers behind them.

There was a slide show and everyone tinked glasses and gave speeches and tried to be both funny and poignant. One woman made the bride and groom take off their shoes and exchange one of each and sit back to back and answer questions by holding up the correct shoe. Questions like, "Who wants kids first?" and "Who will sleep more on the Honeymoon?" "Who spends more time in front of the mirror?" They weren't allowed to go back to their table until they'd unknowingly agreed on five. It was cute. I was smiling. But I'd also had five kid cups of beer by then.

Weddings. Funerals. I think next week there is a baby shower.

The circle of life on the Brewhouse mezzanine.

It may be of interest to a few of my friends, that, in celebration of my maturing palette, the one I'm oh so proud of that suddenly enjoys cheeses like feta, and vegetables with questionable textures, I drank my first full cup of coffee about two weeks ago. And have enjoyed them on a regular basis at work, and -once in a cafe- ever since.

Coffee fits quite nicely into my Things-I-Like-Because-They-Taste-Like-the-Earth-and-Dirt Category. Things that taste like they have a weathered history with man and nature. Like tea, and potatoes, and marijuana.

I took it a step further last night, had a cappuccino for the first time. It was a divine foamy-milk cinnamony dream.