Debbie and Zarah's 1st Roadtrip: Missouri

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Congrats to the boyfriend

About two years ago, we were sitting in the kitchen of the studio apartment we lived in at the time, talking about the things we wanted out of life that seemed out of reach. Among the many goals we discussed that night, comedy was of course one of them. He said he wanted a one-man show, but was afraid no one would be interested, and that it would be a lot of work trying to get the stories he would like to communicate to be told right. At the time, he wasn't accustomed to telling long stories on stage.

Two years later, after a lot of kvetching, writing, promotional material making, and open mics, Prescott was able to put his one-man show together.

Here is the write-up in TimeOut Chicago.

The image is mine, by the way :) I don't have a studio to work in or lighting equipment so I have to work with what I have: a window, a nice digital slr, and photoshop skills.

Here are some images taken that day. One of them was chosen for the piece but the other ones aren't so bad either.

I like to burn things

It's not as dark as it sounds, however it does have something to do with being a Pyro. Pyrography is art, and I'm learning how to burn into wood. Although I haven't made any large scale pieces with my burn kit yet, the process suits me for some reason. I like the thought process that goes into it, the fact it's  slow and careful, and reasonably calming. Strangely enough, there are some similarities in the process that are akin to how I handle charcoal. Which I heard was technically wrong because Zarah likes to smudge ( :p I don't give a damn, purists)

Charcoal and painting? Maybe not for a long time after this. Pyrography smells great and I might possibly be high from the burning wood.


So here's the beginning. It's all scratches from trying to acclimatize to the new process.

The next few were a little better controlled, but it was still too heavy handed

The most recent box went pretty well. A lot more detailed. 

More to come, hopefully. I'm going to try to practice making fur and feathers, maybe a realistic eye ball or something, and then work on a large scale piece. Wish me luck.

Not Sunny Side Up

When it comes to food, love costs an extra ten dollars. I had a hankering for a breakfast I didn't cook myself, so Prescott and I ate at The Golden Nugget to save around, roughly ten or more dollars by not eating at M.Henry's. M. Henry's is a far yummier alternative that could potentially stop us from ever paying off any credit card bill by luring us to consume all funds before responsibly diminishing debt.

So yeah. We went to the Golden Nugget. I don't know about you but I love eggs. A simple perfectly poached egg in the morning makes me giddy. A boiled egg, cooked so that the outside is a little firm and the inside is soft and creamy makes me want to eat five of them. The problem I have with any diner, not only the morning grease joints but also some better breakfast places, is that if I ask for my eggs fried over-medium, it always comes out over easy.

Barely cooked. Really watery.

This time, as common sense would prompt someone to determine, I asked the waitress for my eggs to be cooked over-well. In all likelihood, it should come out cooked a little longer than they usually cook it, and so might be closer to what I like to eat.

Prescott surmised that the eggs would come out all burnt and toasty. We were both wrong.

Apparently, this is what eggs cooked over-well look like:

Yes. Scrambled. (actual eggs from diner not pictured)

I ate it anyway.

Nobody's Exempt from the Learning Process

I'd like to cut and edit the truth like Fox News, so I can look like a badass on the internet. Although it would elevate my miniscule ego to more normal proportions, I'd rather share the process of progressing rather than just the results of video editing or that key glorified instant when a shot works out perfectly. The not-so glorious mistakes, that were involved beforehand, contributes to the development of that glorified instant.

Today my teammate, John Daminato stopped by along with my buddy Dave. I asked him to teach me how to jump. He not only took the time to teach but also brought up a good point. Dave said, "Well if Efren doesn't need to jump, why should we jump?" John replied, "Well not everyone can kick like Efren. So some of us need to jump."

I'll kick before I hop, but it's not a bad thing to learn something new.

Courbet

Gustave Courbet once said that, "Fine art is knowledge made visible." I sketched one of my favorite Courbet paintings, "The Wounded Man," in an attempt to start drawing again on a more frequent basis.

My version looks like a very tired male figure skater. Thank you recent olympics for providing me with the knowledge of what one looks like. Needs something shiny. Gustave Courbet would turn in his grave if this sketch was finished with glitter. So, I refrain from doing so, even though he has a faint semblance to a gaunt Elvis Presley. In which case, glitter would be suitable although still aesthetically distasteful.

Considered a genius, not only because he had the uncanny ability to realistically paint 19th century prostitute genitalia, but also due to his well maintained coiffure and Rasputin beard. That tidbit is, of course, immaterial. Like this post. Courbet was never one who wanted to please and often associated his art with anarchism. In doing so, he gained an audience.

Maybe it's not so controversial now, with the advent of Reality TV and photos of naked famous people on the Huffington Post, but Courbet's work is still beautiful to some. Check it out.

Practice Session: Saturday, Feb 27th

I've gotten into the habit of not setting a practice time. Instead, I make sure I practice at least one thing every day for no given amount of time; whether it's ten minutes or three hours. As long as I'm practicing it right, it makes up for the hours I would spend practicing something wrong over and over again.

This runout is far from perfect. I got real stupid on a few balls and had to work harder to fix it in order to run out. Baby steps.

I don't know if this is the where my friend Dave swears a lot. At least I didn't tape him yelling out the word "Commies" which happened at Whole Foods the last time we ate sushi there. It tickles me, but not everyone likes to listen to stories about communists.

Push

Obviously, I didn’t want to come out in the first place if it took forever just to get born. It took the help of a village witchdoctor, herbal remedies, and uterine massages in order for my parents to conceive after six years of infertility. It took my mom nearly two days to give birth to me, and, as the story goes, a nurse placed her palms over my mother’s eyes because she was afraid my mom was pushing so hard that her eyes would come out of their sockets. After a roundabout search for the local doctor, who was found inebriated on a nearby curbside, one of my uncles brought him to the hospital where he performed a Cesarean. He seemed to have quickly sobered up and gained focus after several of my family members issued a traditional death threat. All of this was done with the intention of forcing me out of the womb.

Ever since then, I’ve always needed some kind of push to get anything done. On a more positive note, although it’s done with a dour look of reluctance, I like getting things done and I’m able to do it well if I want to. The hard part is wanting to, mainly because I have difficulty being enthused about life to begin with.

About two weeks ago, after playing terribly at an APA match, I started to feel a strange pain right by my heart above my rib cage. That night it was difficult to breathe. Each intake of breath gave me a stabbing pain. I couldn’t get up from bed without it feeling like gravity was pulling my left lung apart.

After spending three days vegetating about the house, my boyfriend Prescott rubbed me with some Icy Hot (poor guy patiently rubbed it around my breasts for what seemed like an eternity), taped a heating pad on my ribs, kissed my forehead, and forcibly drove me to the Emergency Room. The doctors performed x-rays, blood tests for clots, EKGs, but couldn’t find anything wrong so they sent me home with a prescription for an anti-inflammatory and I was bed ridden for about a week.

As much as I like staying home alone, I hate when I’m instructed to stay at home alone to do nothing. My phone had died the previous month, so I was cut off from people in general. I spent the first day destroying my brain cells with Facebook video games; the next day I researched possible self-employment opportunities, since making money is the only part of a job I seem to enjoy; the morning of the third day I broke down in the shower due to not finding any self-employment opportunities. Prescott was soaping his hair next to me. I told him he was insensitive. He said it’s hard to tell when someone is crying in the shower. I wonder. He then held me in his arms and suggested that I could use more Icy Hot.

In retrospect, although the events of the first few days sound closer to misery than uplifting self-discovery, isolation and having time to think was actually good for me.

My friend Sandy wrote me an email:

you're not a failure.  you're a gifted human being who just needs to figure out that life is only what you make it, nobody else cares. really. nobody else knows what goes on  inside of you except you and the more honest and open you are about it, the more things will happen for you.  but i am the last person you should be taking advice from. i do know some stuff, even if I cannot always follow the same advice. maybe the things you value are not like the rest.  so nurture those things so that you can live up to people's expectations.  besides, too young to be worried about failing. 

talk soon, whoa! where the hell did that come from. hey, want to take roadtrip to AZ and watch spring training baseball at the end of March?

Road trip suggestion aside, Prescott said something similar but suggested I start writing a blog just so that I have some sort of outlet. He said, “You have trouble talking to people, you’re shy, but I think you’re smart and funny. You’re multi-talented. Start writing. See where it goes. Maybe you’ll feel better.”

So, I’m writing to document the process of actually "trying." It’s a way to be honest and open. The plan is, to do what I like doing (and things I should do) but to push myself to do it a little better.

Art

Pool

Chess

Linguistics

Cooking

Etc…

Who knows or cares really? I know I’m not getting paid, but maybe something good will come out of it. And if nothing, at the very least, I could be proud of the fact I started a blog that didn’t repost blogs so that I can write a paragraph long commentary about the reposted blog.

Cheers.