Six weeks since my last post. That comes from a simple lack of honesty, in that what's been happening lately is, in my mind, even too personal for an anonymous blog like this one. Whenever Big Life Issues come up, I prefer to talk to friends who are more world-weary than I am. And, after these conversations, the introspective thoughts that follow would not make good blog reading. I can only rehash the same crap so many times verbally before I don't feel like writing it down. Besides, as I said, it seems a bit too personal.

Leave it at this: I've been pretty damn fucked up lately. Brooding, depressed, angry, short-tempered, clingy, and generally carrying that "adrift at sea" feeling around with me since early October. And, boy, do I hate being like that. So, to get over it, I decided to do something fun. It turned out to make me feel even more miserable for a little while, but in the good way where you know you made the attempt. And it ended great.

I read about the Fray Day event here in Washington, D.C. last month on Tequilia Mockingbird's blog, and it's been in my mind ever since. I haven't done any performing in a while (not counting my movie projects, which aren't really performing at all, but rather reading lines in front of a camera to a crew of maybe two people). I like performing, whether as a disc jockey at a wedding reception or on stage in a play somewhere (I much prefer to act in plays, but the DJ jobs always paid a lot more).

Oh, I should say more about Fray Day. Lookie here for all you need to know: http://fray.com/events/fray_day_8_dc/index.html

So this looked like a good time. Bunch of people, getting together to tell a few stories. Only rules are it must be true, must be personal, and must be less than five minutes.

As I write this, I'm cringing at that last item, but I'm getting way ahead of myself.

I decided to tell a story I wrote a few years ago about my niece's graduation. I gave the story to my friend Leandro for his Capitol of Nasty website, where I'm told it gets lots of hits (like that really means anything, since a totally lost soul looking for kiddie porn would probably stumble onto that page). Several people said it was a really good story, so I thought I'd shorten it a bit and bring it along.

Here's the story on CoN's site, where it's sat safely for over three years. This is the original version:
http://con.ca/issues/6/5/214/

But then the... other crap in my life took hold, and I started working on the most personal story I could ever tell. The more I thought about it, the more I loved it. It was horrible, and maybe too much for an average audience, but it was real and raw and I thought it would be good. So I wrote it.

No, that's not quite accurate. I wrote a very detailed outline, then I ripped it apart and put it together again, and changed things, and changed other things. I started over, then worked in some of the original material. It still wasn't right. There was no satisfaction here.

At five o'clock, I was a bit panicked. I swear I could see the story, but I couldn't put it together in time. Another day, fine, but not in one hour. Besides, maybe it was too much. Who the hell wants to hear a guy blather on about--

Man, I couldn't even finish that sentence. Okay, so I'm still fucked up about it.

At six, I pulled out the other story, started chopping it to shit, printed it, and ran out the door.

I thought forty minutes would be enough time. I forgot about the stupid slowness of D.C. drivers. Twenty in a thirty. Forty on the highway. And always in the fast lanes. I thought speeding was the problem.

I got to the Love Cafe (what a great name) at seven-ten. I didn't know what to expect. When I envisioned me reading the story, I always saw a large auditorium. Where that came from I don't know. How many cafes have large auditoriums?

The place is small, like a cafe should be. The microphone stand stood in front of a brick non-fireplace (whatever it's for) fifteen feet from the door. There's a bathroom to the right of it and a smaller sitting area behind it. For the people gathered to listen to the speakers, there were about ten places to sit. Very odd set up, and I really should draw you a picture to explain it properly.

But it doesn't matter. Hell, picture the fifties diner from Back to the Future with trendier decorations and that's good enough.

They passed around a sign up booklet. I wasn't sure what to expect or what was going to happen, so I didn't make a move to sign the book. I stood by the counter and watched the speakers.

I enjoyed all of them. Some were better than others, but they were all real, and that's the whole point of this event. This is real life and it's being filtered through the speakers' individual personalities to share the experience with you, the listener. You can't go wrong with a set up like that.

I noticed the featured speakers Bill and Julia (the lady Mockingbird) right away, sitting in what I guess are guest of honor chairs off to the side.

Sudden thought. Skip the Back to the Future comment. Remember the little place where Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks had their failed rendezvous in You've Got Mail? That's more like this place. Sorta.

So I'm still feeling all fucked up because I didn't finish the story I wanted to tell, in addition to feeling fucked up about the subject of the story itself, and also thinking I look like disheveled crap. Then I realize that no one is reading their stories. It's all free form story-telling. One guy had a Palm he read notes off of, and Bill used an index card, but my story is not only typed on six pages, it's not memorized.

Sure, I could have winged it, but it would've been, "This girl at a party told me her boyfriend cheated on her and then I went home." My story wasn't so much about the actions of the characters as it was what I thought about those actions. My attempt at a Fitzgerald story, honestly.

I enjoyed Bill's story "Mom and Dad Will Find Out!" a nice childhood adventure story, with a moral and good laughs. Bill has great presence and speaks like an experienced stand up comic (with social value), and told his tale well.

Julia told her story about the stupid bank clerk making fun of West Ver-ginny types. I remembered the story from her blog. While I haven't read the entire Mockingbird canon, I've read a good deal of it. Julia told the story better than I remembered, and without even a single index card.

By the way, I've been reading Julia's blog since January or thereabouts, so obviously I've come to admire and like her quite a bit (if you read her stories and don't fall in love with her, you must be something of an ass (or a plagarist)). Hearing her talk is something you should see, if you can (and if you can see hearing someone). She once posted a comment about liking to speak in front of people and you can tell that she does. Remember the bit about blog entries sounding that much better when read by the writers themselves? It's true.

Very soon after Julia read, the hostess, Tiffany, had run out of names on the sign up list and started calling out people to tell their stories. After seeing the energetic performances of all the other speakers, I decided to give this one a pass. Sure, I had high hopes of participating, but I was still feeling pretty unsure of myself, and decided to wait.

Then people who had already spoken got up and told more stories. Even Bill winged another one (he apologized for its lack of structure, but Tiffany yelled for him to skip the apologies and get to it). Bill's second story sounded like he had it planned all along, and I didn't think I could compete with that, either.

Man, I'm so negative about myself lately. Ah, well. It will pass.

And that was it. No more takers. Tiffany called for readers. She pointed at one woman who said she "had nothing today." Or that's what it sounded like she said.

I thought of that opening bit from the Butthole Surfers "Locust Abortion Technician" album. "Well, son, a funny thing about regret is, it's better to regret something you have done, than to regret something you haven't done."

I had to complete the end of the line in my head: "And if you see your mom this weekend, be sure and tell her, 'SATAN!'"

After that, I spoke up. It's very egotistical to say this, but I like to think I surprised myself more than anyone else by doing so. I'm not even sure what I mean by that line.

My memory always gets hazy when trying to remember what I said in these kinds of situations. I have a fine photographic memory of other people and events, but sometimes I get so nervous that mental recorder gets fucked up where my own actions are concerned.

Fortunately, I had my little digital audio recorder going in my pocket, so I don't have to care about my faulty internal workings.

Tiffany: "So, um... I'll take any--"

Me: "I have one, uh.... I did bring a story, but I didn't know it had to be memorized."

Tiffany: "It doesn't have to be memorized."

Me: "Seriously? Aw, crap. I woulda said something a while ago. "

(Inaudible comment from someone nearby.)

Me: "No, I mean, like, written out."

Tiffany hands me the microphone.

Me: "Thank you. I've been thinking for the last few minutes maybe I can memorize it quickly and... no. Heh. So it might not be as organic as any of the other nice stories tonight."

Tiffany told me to talk more directly into the microphone. Even after all the years of DJ-ing, I still can't not say "Sibilance" in true Tom Hanks/Wayne's World sketch mode when holding a mic, so I did.

And then I went into the story, and I totally froze up.

I heard my freshman year speech class teacher in my head. "Be confident. Don't read each individual word. Glance at your notes occasionally and keep making eye contact with your audience. Listen to them and respond to them. Don't just run them over with your words."

Although I did fine in speech class, I would have received all failing marks tonight. The few times I got laughs, I talked right over them. I was not listening. I was just reading. The room was the sea and the pages were my lifeboat. My mouth got really, really dry. And no kidding here, my ears popped, but only the left one stayed that way, so it sounded like I was, in fact, partially underwater. And I couldn't stop shaking.

Standing up there, I thought of the last few weeks and how my self-confidence has been totally turned to shit. How cocky and sure of myself I had been for so long before that. Being out there. Center of attention. Anything for a laugh.

And now I couldn't stand up in front of twenty people and tell a story that I'd read many times before. A story several of my on-line literary friends complimented when there was no reason to do so. This was a calm, safe, non-judgemental group and I was with familiar material. I should have been fine. But I was not.

They say a man needs to get his ass kicked once in a while to gain perspective. While reading a short story in public doesn't compare to a black eye or a dislocated jaw, it did the job.

The only thoughts I remember about the actual reading are that a few times I read words incorrectly and didn't go back and fix them ("conventional conversation" came out as "conversational conversation") and I randomly skipped whole paragraphs when I thought the pace was getting too slow. I guess a better way to say that is when I thought I was boring the shit out of people.

I mentioned earlier the three rules for stories on Fray Day. I was cool with the first two, but I blew the last one, that the "story should be less than five minutes." I cut a few pages out of the original story (I don't smoke anymore, so that whole bit went out, in addition to some of the other stuff that was really only experimental filler), but it wasn't enough. I knew it wasn't enough. You can't read five and a half pages in five minutes. But because I spent so much time on that other story and not on reconstructing this one, I ran long.

But I didn't know how long until I checked my recorder. I couldn't listen to the actual reading of the story (hell no, not yet), but I could skip to the end.

I thought that maybe I had run on for seven minutes. Or eight. I checked the time code for my reading.

Thirteen minutes and twenty seconds.

Thirteen-twenty.

Man, what a dick.

I'm glad I wasn't watching a clock. If I had been, I'd have ripped out pages three and four and skipped right to the end.

So, after thirteen minutes and twenty-two or so seconds, I tossed the pages into my backpack and said thanks to the applause. The inventor of applause should be given a big plaque and maybe a continent. Even though I had less than happy thoughts about my performance, the applause felt good. Whether it was social inclusion or remembrance of applause past or... who knows. It felt good.

I bought an iced tea right away and went back to standing in my previous spot.

I spent too much time criticizing myself to pay close attention to the next speaker, but I did enjoy her story. She was a very experienced storyteller.

I really liked the total lack of competition in the room. Some people were better at speaking than others, sure, but there was no feeling of comparison. That this wasn't as good as that or he really stands out above the others but let's let the others talk anyway. It was a bunch of strangers acting as friends, sharing stories. If only that kind of support was around in all areas of life.

Julia told a second story, this time about her grandfather. I had also read this story on her site and would swear she had memorized it verbatim. Didn't matter. She told it better than anyone else could have, even the reader's mouth in your own head.

And it was a fitting end to the evening.

The expected mingling at the end was fairly brief. It was nice people saying nice things to each other in a way that makes hardened cynics think the world isn't that bad a place after all. Obviously, I had to at least say hello to Julia, so I made my way toward her.

This post is already getting longer than I thought it would, but what the fuck, I'm digressing, 'cause I want to.

Being a huge Saturday Night Live fan, I've read every book I could find on the subject. I remember reading in the 1986 Saturday Night book that what many writers and performers found appealing about SNL was that it was the only show where you could, and I think this is a quote, "take the moment to reflect on the moment," that that was what the performers should always do. It was LIVE, and the script was only a guideline. If it felt right, say it. Flubbed line, bad prop, odd reaction. Didn't matter. It happened, so comment on it.

That may not have any relation to what I'm thinking here, but it seems to apply. As I was writing the last few paragraphs, I had one of those fantastic flash-forwards where you can pretty much see the future.

This is nothing spiritual. This is just the way it is. I posit this "reality to be," and you can come back and tell me if I'm wrong. It's like this:

In the next day or two, Julia's going to write about Fray Day on her blog.

(Like you didn't know this yourself.)

People will comment on it. Several will say "I wish I coulda been there." Someone might even ask for a copy of the tape.

(Wait. Was it taped? I was so spaced out I forgot to look, but I think someone mentioned a video camera.)

I've posted maybe two comments on Julia's site. And I fully planned to post a comment telling everyone that, yes, she was great and, yes, you shoulda been there.

But now I'm thinking I'll include a link to the story you're reading now.

I haven't yet done any of this yet. Right now, her most recent post is about the upcoming Fray day event.

Since mine is a fairly new blog and I've had all of three comments so far (one good, two... less so), and you are reading this... Well, chances are you clicked a link on her comments box, and here you are, reading about your past and my future, and the two are the same.

I like those stream of conscious thoughts.

Yeah, so I read a lot of comics and think in weird terms like this. I love time travel stories. I like thinking about patterns and predictability. Even chaos has the some great, predictable patterns.

I hope you're not feeling conned, somehow...

But this was a truth that occured to me as I was writing, so I wrote it, and, in the end, changed what I was originally going to write. I took the moment and commented on it, so here we are.

Now, going back to where I left off.

I never have any problem writing what I see and do, and writing the actions and words of other people. When it comes to me, I can get damnably personal, and I don't mind, because you don't know me and probably never will. (Well, that's been my attitude for all my other writings. I've only had this blog for a few months and decided to focus on the table waiting thing, which probably wasn't a good idea to begin with.)

Even when I write about people I meet in the real world, I don't mind putting their thoughts on paper (or electrons) because if the people reading don't know me, how will they know the people I write about? Many times, I don't even bother changing the names.

Ah, but to write about Julia, who is known in this blog world and is held in such high regard, especially after I placed the link on her site to this blog, which I haven't done yet, but know I will. It feels odd somehow. Not quite wrong, but...

I need Horselover Fat to help me out, I think.

Ah, I got it. It ruins the honesty when you feel that the person you're writing about might actually read your words. It really shouldn't matter, but it does.

Then I think back to my third or so post where I wrote how I got into the whole blog thing, and that I wouldn't have if not for Julia, in a very roundabout way.

And then I think back to how I took her name off the original post, and never did say who it was I was talking about. Until now, that is.

I must be tired. Only a tired man could keep this many bizarre threads in his head at once.

Here's the end of the evening.

I said hello to Julia and offered congratulations on her well-told stories. She said she liked my story, too, and that I looked (or my name sounded) familiar somehow. I told her I'd sent her a few e-mails. She asked me for my e-mail address (adding that she had it somewhere, but this would be easier). I offered her one of my business cards.

Now, about my business cards. On one of my longer trips out of town, years ago, I made up some of those goofy homemade cards and gave them out to pals who wanted to keep in touch while I was gone (I got tired of writing my weird e-mail address several times a day). I bought a thousand blank business cards (a hundred sheets with ten cards on each) at Sam's. They cost like five bucks. First, I made generic "Independent Counsel" and "Paranormal Investigator" cards. People thought they were cute, so I made more bizarre ones, like "Professional Wesley Snipes Impersonator," "Fluffer," "Psychopath," and "El Hombre Invisible." Then people started sort of collecting them, doing the "got it got it need it got it" thing. Two people now have taken entire stacks of my cards. (What the hell are they planning to do with them, I wonder.) I started getting suggestions for really wacked out stuff to do. One day, I made up some really, really foul ones, stuff you would never see on a business card, like "Amateur Rapist" and "Director of Child Porn" and "Teenage Sex Therapist (Females Only)."

I had a bunch of cards in my wallet. I handed the stack to Julia, and made some comment to the effect of "You like weird stuff. Take one you like."

She sorted through them and chose the "Savior (and fry cook)" card.

Later that night, as I was going home, I looked at the remaining cards. It was rather distressing. Almost every one was of the extremely foul variety. There were no cute cards. No "Ghostbuster." No "Former Mr. Alaska." No "Comic Book Dork." All incredibly foul lines that I would only give out to people who know me and my sense of humor and would get the joke.

Also, they weren't that varied. One "Amateur Rapist" in a big deck is one thing, but when they're almost ALL "Amateur Rapist" cards?

Sheesh. "Great to meet you, Julia. I promise you that card is not some sort of reverse psychology. Let's do lunch in an alley at midnight."

It's after two now and even though this was only five hours ago it's not very clear in my memory. My head still wasn't straight after that bizarre reading and I was starting to feel strangely sleepy.

I told her somewhere around here that I thought she improved her stories by reading them aloud. About the same time, I also signed the book of speakers.

But I had one last thing to say to her, so I said it. I don't remember how, exactly, but it was basically this, referring to a message I sent her a few weeks ago: "I'm the guy who, uh... I said I'd buy you a piece of cake sometime."

She was walking away as I said this. She turned back and looked over her shoulder at me. She smiled. All she said was, "I would like that."

Coulda died then, I tell you.

There is far too much misery in this world. Ask anybody. But on days that seem dark and wet and you don't know how the hell you're going to make it out of this one, a few kind words at the right time are all it takes to really boost you out of your momentary crises and make you feel that everything's going to turn out okay and we're all with you so don't worry about it.

If I'm overstating it, leave it at this: I couldn't get the stupid grin off my face the whole ride home.

I talked to Bill for a minute about what a cool event this was and then thanked Tiffany for putting it all together. I know it's my waiting background, but damn it if I didn't want to tip everybody (of course I left a buck for my iced tea). I walked back to my car and found that it wasn't ticketed like I thought it would be (it looked like a good place to park, but who can tell these days?). I drove back to Monkey County in half an hour, ate a pizza, wrote this entry, and--to guess the future again--fell asleep within a half hour of posting it.

I'm very glad I went. I could have stayed home and continued to edit my movie, but sometimes a guy needs to get out and try something different. Meet people he hasn't met before. Go it alone without the safety net of the same routine and the same people. Sure, I got a bit knocked about inside and feel like I embarrassed myself in front of too many people. But like a heavy workout, in the end, it just felt good.

And, most importantly, right now I'm thinking tomorrow is going to be a great day.