Done... sort of... for now.

After about three weeks of piddling around with it, today I got the office done 'enough' to at least move the furniture back in so that when I return on 1/7/08 I can begin working again.

I know, terribly thrilling, isn't it?

A project that I'd optimistically thought I could get done in a week, in the end, at least as far as I've gotten, ate up three weeks. Not every day, mind you, nor every hour of the days I did decide to go work on it. Instead, I tended to do things like wash clothes, take walks, go to the gym, play with the two children in the house, read books, etc. Y'know, do vacation stuff, or what other folks may call... normal.. things.

Such as it is, even in it's unfinished but operational state, I can't believe what sort of feeling this room gives now. There's a warmth and calm I've not known in a while just when I sit in there. I've still things to complete: marble the posts, add doors to (and paint the insides of) the cabinet, age the arches a bit more, add wall dressings, close off the old double doors, et cetera, but at least I've come very close to realizing, and completing, something I've had floating around in my head for a few months.

That's a rarity.

...

The arches, walls and cabinets painted, with a basecoat on the floor are below. The arches have sort of a Venetian Plaster treatment, but I didn't want to apply the same texture to the permanent walls in case in a couple of years I want to change the scheme again (which is probable). I applied a paint treatment instead using the same colors that went with the plastered texture:

The same view, this time with the floor complete:

A better look at the floor. It goes well with the other furniture I have in there and gives a nice comfortable, lively weight to the room. The bluish haze you see is the still drying sealant(at the time of the photo, at least):


For other in progress images, look a couple of posts back.

Hey, where are the drawings?

I've gotten a single comment concerning the lack of promised drawings of what I'd been planning on doing to my office.

The simple fact of the matter is that I was so involved in actually doing the project that I only did enough of any particular drawing to solve some visual or dimensional problems... otherwise, I forged ahead with the construction. As a result, there were no post-worthy drawings completed.

Work was indeed begun last week. However, as predicted, I did not choose to spend each day of the first week of my vacation at the sceneshop. As the opportunities arose, I did whatever I felt like doing throughout the week, which meant that by the end of Friday I was about two days behind on the construction. No matter, though. I'm still having fun with it.

The bad news is that I'm still working on now, the second week of my five week vacation/holiday/comp hours festival. The good news is that the visiting percussionist and his friend (frequent houseguests of the landlords) will be in the house this week, Tuesday-Friday. This means that even if I do come home any of these evenings, I'll be greeted with a neverending, booming, loud voice and other various 'trick-ticka-ticka-tacks' from which no nook or cranny of the house will provide escape. When this occurs I usually just make a hasty exit and go see a film or something, just so the added noise in the house doesn't drive me up the wall... While that doesn't sound so great on my end, the good news comes into play that I'll have plenty of opportunities to work on the office during night hours this week, as going home isn't really an option.

As a side note, lest I misrepresent, this percussionist and his friend are great guys. The problem is that I just don't mesh with the additional noise. At all. Screaming/crying babies I can tune out easily, but for some reason, the noise these guys bring seems to, in my head, get so amplified I can concentrate on nothing else.

Anyway, so I'll be working on the office another week. Maybe, just maybe, I'll have it completed by the time I leave the place Friday night.

In the post below you'll see images of what I've done so far.

Arches in progress (no drawings, though).

Image #1: The barren corner of my office as it stood last week. The white blinds are drawn down, covering the floor to ceiling windows. You can also see one of the two 'Superman' blue walls (the third wall is 'Superman' red) and the faux marble floor I'd done a couple of years ago. I'll be changing the color schemes of the walls, obviously, and the floor will be painted to resemble wooden planks.




Image #2: The same corner as it appears today, with my gothic/monastic inspired forms. I still need to complete the last pillar (seen on the floor in front of the cabinet), repair seams, fill crevices, and add doors to the cabinets themselves, which will have a design mirroring the arches above. I should be painting this by Wednesday.



Image #3: A closer look at the mouldings and pillar caps I carved out of plywood and pink foam. The foam will be coated with a hardening agent that will protect it and, while not quite making it 100% damage proof, will make it incredibly resilient... enough, certainly, for a low-traffic area as this.



Image #4: The same wall with the lights turned off, obviously. While dark, you should still be able to make out the bushes on the other side of the window. The cabinets are masking the unsightly pine straw and roots but will still allow the green tops to peek through. The arches above hide the overhang of the front of the building. I'll post better images of this view (even taken during the day!) once it's complete.

I'd considered carving one for myself once, but only got around to building one out of sand...

The headache is still ever-present, though not as intense as it was thirteen hours ago. This is not a good sign, and I am hoping that it is not there to greet me again in the morning.

(For those of you out there who are mothering types, yes, I have been taking meds for the pain. Even handfuls of five ibuprofen at a time don't seem to help much...)

Not that it's related, but there's something else...

I went to a memorial service tonight for a friend's father who'd passed away earlier this week. Not a funeral (the man had been cremated), it was indeed a memorial... many people stood and gave their memories of the man and how he'd touched their lives. I'd only met him once, and from what I saw and experienced I do not doubt a word of what was shared tonight.

The thoughts of what I'd like as a going-away ceremony had come to me before, and tonight as I drove away, I thought of how much this quiet, heartfelt, and tasteful memorial gathering mirrored what I would like. I have no documents dictating this, nor have I ever, but I've never wanted an opulent funeral. If it could be done legally, I'd rather just be dumped in a hole in the ground somewhere in the mountains or in a pine box. Cremation would be fine, too, in many ways preferable, but I'd rather it be done on a pyre just for the aesthetics. Again, a probably a legal problem. For me, and no offense to anyone reading this, but breaking the bank on a funeral, even the box the body is put into, seems silly.

I like the idea of a memorial, too, where folks come together not to dwell in sadness but to relish the memory of someone they knew and cared for.

I'd also like pizza served at the reception, should there be one. It is, or will have been, after all, my favorite food.

So, whoever is reading this, should I expire for whatever reason, now you know: Not a lot of flowers, no frilly casket, no huge gravestone (unless it's in the shape of a knight's effigy with a really amazing quote... that'd be cool. Oh, and that's what this post's title is about... I can't find the photo of it, though.).

Whatever is less expensive, go for it. I won't mind. I'll be dead.

That's not a bird chirping...

One of my favorite things to wake up with is a splitting headache. It just sort of sets the mood for the rest of the day, 'know what I mean?

The second item on that list would be waking to the sound of a hairball being hacked up right next to my pillow.

Lucky for me I got both this morning.

I hated to do it, being all compassionate an' stuff, but I had to make a kitty cough grenade by tossing her off the bed before he could actually wretch up the offending glob... 'Still have the railroad spike going through my right eye, though.

'Can't seem to cast that one off as easily, no matter how may ibuprofen I take.

*cough*

Drywall dust is an accursed thing, even if it comes from putting in a new door to my office that I've wanted to have done since '06.

I began remodeling my office today and consolidated two and a half years of accumulated clutter into a series of neatly stacked boxes. The place is all cleaned out and ready for the fun to begin... Gone are the shelves of Superman paraphernalia, the framed images of the Last Son of Krypton, the red futon with the 'S' emblem pillows. Soon gone, too, will be the red and blue walls, replaced with what I hope will be some sort of faux Venetian plaster treatment.

I'm undecided on that one, though as it's pretty time consumptive and in the next phase I enter I may not want the texture on the walls. I'm not quite fickle, but I am honest enough to know that I get bored with my surroundings pretty quickly and I'm surprised that Kal lasted as long as he did. I don't want to spend a precious day installing a second skin on the walls that I can take off later if the mood strikes... I'll be spending enough time next week as it is on what I've already planned out.

How ridiculous is it that I spend a month or more complaining about spending all of my waking hours at work, only to now be excited that I'll more than likely be spending the first week of my 'vacation' at the very same place? It makes a significant difference that this is a self-motivated project. Designed by me, built by me, for me. That, and it won't be torn down in a couple of weeks once the show is over. I feel like I'm actually 'creating' something for once. And it's FUN. I actually find this relaxing!

This new decor, should I finish it, will be in place for at least a couple of years until I get tired of it, rip it all out, and do something different. I love having the freedom, opportunity and, most of all, the ability to do that sort of thing. I got out of doing computer graphics years ago due to, in no small part, the insanity that I was driven to by being cooped up in a gray cubicle. And that was only three months of torture.

It occurs to me that I've not really described what I'll be doing, what's driving my excitement, and there's a reason for that: I've let it be no secret to friends around here what I'm planning (figuring that the more I talk about it the less likely I'll be postpone the project again) but I can hardly do so without doodling on an available napkin or index card. Unfortunately I've none available here in cyberspace.

Drawings will, though, follow tomorrow or the next day, if you, the reader, are interested...

Blam.

Splat. Pa-ching.

Anyone got a whetstone?

Here I sit on firewatch.

It's a little something I have to do when, for the needs of a show, the smoke sensors are bypassed by the campus so that we may use a fog machine in our theatre. It's a legal thing wherein I walk the building every half hour during the performance.

Those of you who know me and speak to me regularly (yes, you, Yovanka and Jennifer) have heard me talk about this a great deal. That's primarily because, outside of this, I have nothing else going on. Seriously. I go home, feed the cat, watch half an hour of the History Channel, and fall asleep, only to wake the next morning to do it all over again...

Enough of that, though. I wrote about this a week or so ago (see "Work Zombie").

Firewatch, though, is a herald, of sorts, of the coming release of December. This 'firewatch' occurs just prior to the opening of a show when we begin adding all of the technical elements. That means the show is about to open. That means it's ever so close to being finished. That means I have nothing to do during firewatch except for walking the building, as in the Environmental Health and Safety representative here on campus has dictated that I can have "no other responsibilities, job or otherwise, while on firewatch". It's like a mini vacation. I sit, watch episodes of "Heroes" on a computer, read a book, update my blog, etc. Nothing, apart from taking a two minute walk every half hour.

Now, I get this text message from the aforementioned Jennifer tonight, saying that it was good to see me in a better mood yesterday when she'd come to watch a rehearsal of the current production. I was, indeed, in better than normal spirits. I was excited to see a couple of friends, excited that they were coming to see the show, excited for the cast that they'd have someone to interact with, and excited that, at least for a couple of hours, I had nothing to do, no matter to solve, and no problem to repair. I just had no idea that it had changed my mood so much.

I don't have a hard job. I really don't. In fact, my job is quite... fun. But too much of a good thing, as I've written before, is not so good.

As the seven day weeks go on for months, my nerves get shot. I'm without sleep, I'm without relaxation, I'm without... release... of any sort. It bugs me that I'm told by a student that I 'lose it' too easily... but she's not been around for the last two and a half, nearly three, months leading up to the frayed nerves and the loss of patience waiting for it all to be over. I'm apologized to when someone approaches me and I turn to them with expectant "What do you want?" eyes because I expect yet another change or addition, leading to more weekend or late night hours after the cast has gone home.

Ah, but firewatch... the sweet release from all that. For a time, anyway, until the rehearsals are over and I get another list. But there's a light down at the end of that tunnel...

"All work and no play makes Kenyon a dull boy."

I need some sharpening.

Masks

Once upon a time I relished costume parties. Not for the 'party' per se, i.e., the carousing, the drunkenness, the vomiting, the careless acts which lead to regret the next day, etc, but it was an opportunity to play... an opportunity to be silly on the outside and for once to grab attention for myself, to break outside of the usual quiet shell I wear in spite of myself.

I normally skipped parties in college, the debauchery not my thing (even less then), but Halloween was special. There, for years at least, I was actually competitive, in my own passive way. I'd not just pull something out of thin air, but would dwell on what would be the 'perfect' outfit for me that year... what would be sort of a hidden 'it' costume for that year... what could exhibit what skill I had with makeup, with throwing together costume pieces, etc. I always wanted to be something different than the usual that others would see. I wanted to get the attention.

I remember, during the long hair years, being Rum Tum Tugger from 'Cats', a Klingon, Edward Scissorhands (it took days for me to untangle my hair from that one), and Captain Marvel (with a ponytail). With that last one, photos of which are in an earlier post in September, I'd wanted to do 'Beast' from the Disney film that had opened that year. While good, unfortunately I lost social 'oomph' by going with a somewhat obscure comic book hero. I should have gone with the Disney. It would have rocked. Oh, and only ONE picture was taken of my Edward, unfortunately lost years ago. With that one I stayed in character most of the evening, I think. Folks brought that one up to me for months afterward.

After college, no one I knew seemed to care about costume parties. A sad time. Eventually I threw my own, dressing as the pulp hero 'The Shadow' (putty nose, oversized fedora, red scarf and all), but honestly, I'm not a party thrower. I'm more of a 'have a few people over for a quiet gettogether' sort of guy. Not good makings for costume parties, that sort. It was a lackluster time, truly, but at least I got to wear a costume again.

More years went by and after returning to KSU in '04 I'd been invited to a student's party at the last minute. I went to Wal-Mart, spent half an hour with a hot glue gun and craft foam, and went as 'Commando Chicken'... a creation of my own. It freaked a lot of people out initially, 'cause no one knew who I was. That, and the chicken mannerisms and noises that I picked up from my intense study of the fowl creatures during my lonely youth on the farm.

In '05 I went to school as Erik Teague, one of our department's students with a penchant for tattoos, anything black, chains, and mohawks (then, though, his full head of hair was merely colored green in places). Unbeknownst to him, of course. I showed up just as his class was letting out for lunch and rounded the corner, hoping to surprise him with the honor of my imitation of his particular traits, only to find him... wearing a 'Kenyon' costume: Dark, deep, solid colored shirt, khakis, hair "just right" with a lock or two hanging down over the forehead... and a Superman shirt underneath. Completely coincidental, our choices were, but completely wonderful.

This year, Erik, a two time national award winning costume designer himself, threw a 'Halloween Hootenanny' at his place. I wasn't going to go, now age differences compounding the discomfort and awkwardness I usually feel at large parties, but knew that it'd mean a lot to him since he'd asked so often if I'd be able to make it. And I'd be able to wear a costume again.

I'd decided to be a zombie since I've been reading so much about them recently in 'The Walking Dead' (a killer comic book... pun intended, tee, hee), The Zombie Survival Guide, World War Z, etc. Oh, but not just any zombie. Mine was a technical director (me, o'course) who'd been working in a sceneshop only to have an ill secured sawblade sling out and impale his chest... just at the moment that the dreaded Zombie Apocalypse took place.

I walked in and got a few great scares right off the bat... not the "BOO" type, but the slow, shambling, 'Ohmygodhesnotstopping' type. It helped that Erik is said to have a phobia of zombies, but it's one that a number of friends of his are bound and determined to help him overcome (primarily by assaulting him with good, entertaining zombie literature). Staying in character for a few minutes, I stumbled around, grasping, groping, not quite biting (the sawblade in my sternum was a constant frustration in keeping me from getting in close to do any sort of munching), and generally doing what any good zombie would do at a costume party. James, Erik's roommate and landlord, was prepared: He chained me up in the corner next to the door in order, I believe, that I could 'greet' anyone that came in. Fun times for a while, lots of squeals once the guests realized this thing crawling towards them would not stop...

I eventually after an hour or so once the youngsters began to sort of ramp up their shenanigans and I couldn't walk around without the fear of ripping other's costumes on my REAL sawblade chestpiece. Long enough, though, for Erik to have awarded me the unofficial Best Single Costume award.

'I still got it, babe!

Workzombie.

I am so ruttin' tired I can't stand it. I've worked straight through since early September (including many if not most evenings) with only a couple of days off, which, while temporarily relaxing, have only proven to put me more behind.

This is similar to what it was like years ago when I was so burned out that I quit. Of course, I hung on for about three years during that time, but at least then I had something waiting at home to keep me at least a little more balanced. Okay, only a fraction more balanced. But it was, for a long time, enough.

In the end I actually enjoy what I do, but it's sort of like being force fed pizza... which, as you may remember, is my favorite food... the kryptonite to my waistline. Sure, it's fun for a while, but eventually you just want to vomit if you look at another piece. Right now I'm beyond retching... I'm in to the dry heaves.

Sure, I'll have the entire month of December and the first week of January off due to all of the comp hours I've built up (an estimated 170 by Thanksgiving), but really... is it worth it? To what end am I killing myself, truly? I'm doing a job, I am appreciated at what I do (perhaps even respected, if I may be so bold), but at what cost? My thoughts are clouded, I can rarely put together a coherent sentence as I speak to others. I feel as though my 'self', what little 'life' I had before, is slipping away, slowly, as sand through an hourglass lost to the wind as I stumble ahead with only the faintest idea of what I'm supposed to be doing next.

Right now, all I am is work. Nothing else. Even if I HAD time off, I'm not entirely certain what I'd do with it...

Even at the mention of the name...

So I get this phone call on my work voice mail yesterday. The accent was thick and the connection from the caller's cell phone poor, so I only understood a few words. The person spoke as if he knew me but I couldn't place the voice.

I called the number just now, thinking perhaps it was a vendor that I needed to speak with. It wasn't. It turned out to be an ex-relative, my past wife's uncle, calling hoping to offer me a bit of extra work with his company that just opened a branch here in Marietta.

I couldn't make it much past his introduction before the adrenaline was pumping and my breath became shorter. I wanted to lash out at something. I could hear nothing else of what he wanted to say and only my sense of social propriety kept me from slamming the phone down as he spoke.

Explaining that I appreciated his offer, I nonetheless had to tell him that even the association that I would make constantly to that woman when dealing with him was not possible. I wanted to have nothing to do with his company.

The man himself is a good man, as is much of her family that I met, but the fact that the mere MENTION of the woman's name as he was reintroducing himself set my blood aflame. I earnestly believe he was merely trying to provide an opportunity that I might enjoy, and that I appreciate, but there is no way that I can have anything to do with anyone associated with that adulteress.

The rage, the fury, that this woman still incites, four years after the fact, is disturbing.

Butterball.

I love pizza.

Thin, thick, small, large, I love it. Too much, maybe. But then, doesn't pretty much everyone? Even those annoying vegetarians can at least find SOMETHING to go on those heavenly pies.

Today I enjoyed a day off... my first in weeks, and possibly my last for weeks to come, at least until Thanksgiving. So, this evening, the house being barren of any living soul but me and the blasted cat, I indulged myself and ordered what is now a bit of forbidden fruit to share with the blessed peace and quiet. I stopped eating when the large disc was half gone.

Man, I love the stuff. I'm excited that the other half is waiting on the counter to be enjoyed as breakfast. At least a slice, anyway.

The problem is that I know I'm going to have to be a good boy for a couple of days, which is no fun at all. I don't enjoy eating 'right'. I don't enjoy vegetables. I find escape and (at least temporary) relief of stress through food. Others forget food when uptight... I dwell on it.

But, no, I have to be responsible for a bit after tonight and fight the genetic code at work inside my skin. Otherwise, I'll wind up again looking like the butterball in the picture above.

Cussing Tired.

Have you at any time been so tired that all you want to do is sit down and cuss quietly as you give your mind over to the haze of exhaustion?

Perhaps most of you do this already without qualm. If so, no problem, God bless America for freedom of speech. You go, girl, and all of that. I'm just not generally given over to coarse language... perhaps it's due to a youth full of purposefully avoiding all of the vices of a less than favorable father figure, one of which was that could not seemingly utter five words without a growled expletive, or maybe that I believe there are usually far better ways to express a feeling or what not... Today I'm a bit more free than I ever have been with the colorful language bits, but even then the prudish, judgmental aspect of my self-image finds it contemptible that I'd resort to the baser slurs.

At times, though, nothing else seems to fit. No other words are quite appropriate or can fill the void of exhaustion when it feels as though it would be too much effort to reach up and simply pet the cat.... which is o.k., since she sees fit to dig her head under my hand anyway for sort of a self-service cat scratch, but you get the point.

(*bleep*)

Hawkman 'got no lovehandles!

This weekend I again attended the Saturday morning Dragon*Con parade, about the only annual self-created tradition that I have. With the 'Con, it's about all I do. It's all about seeing the homemade costumes that folks come up with... that, and seeing the couple hundred Stromtroopers walking in tight formation (the fightin' 501st) bringing up the rear of the parade.

(Before you ask, no, the images of me above are not from the parade... they're from fifteen years ago, but I added them due to the subject of what I'm writing about tonight.)

For me, though, the one thing I want to see is the superhero section... and, the one portion of the parade I sort of regret looking at every year. Many of the costumes are done very, very well... most of these folks focus a great deal of time and energy into the outfits and it shows. This year, for the first time that I've seen, someone did the Alan Scott Green Lantern (which is at the same time the worst and coolest costume in the whole history of comics with its nonsensical combination of colors and high-collared cape) and a couple of guys did their version of Dr. Midnite.

These two are what are called 'Golden Age' heroes, both from the early forties when superhero exploits were still new to publishing. It was a great time... good guys were self-made men, knew instinctively what to do, and had no qualms about doing it (this was about thirty or forty years before the Batman became the angst filled psychopath that everyone sees him as being today... yeah, his parents were shot in front of him still, but he seemed to deal with it better).

I've had a great affinity for the Golden Age heroes since I was young, particularly due to my oldest brother's influence. When he shipped off to the Navy, he'd left me all of the comics he had gathered over the years and in many of the Justice League issues there would be reprints of these old stories, or in some cases, current-day 'team-ups' as one group of heroes would cross worlds to fight crime or some world-shattering events with these old characters. For some reason the older heroes did something for me... maybe because they'd only show up now and then, maybe because of the simplicity of the stories, maybe because they were all, for the most part, just above average men... not aliens, not mutants, not gods... just guys who decided to put on garish outfits and take down mobsters.

The Alan Scott Green Lantern and Dr. Midnight were two of my favorites and I'd always intended that if I were to actually go to a 'con in costume, it'd be as one of those two. What has kept me from doing it for YEARS isn't that I don't particularly sew very well (although I do well enough when I need to), but my physique. I'm not in too bad a shape, better than most American forty year olds, I believe, but nowhere NEAR what I'd need to be in to pull off any of these outfits. Unfortunately, few others really seem to hold to that standard. Yes, they spend weeks making the perfect costume, but unfortunately don't spend that much time, apparently, dealing with what's underneath the outfit. Maybe it's pride... no, definitely, it's pride... but I can't do that. Dr. Midnight should not have chubby cheeks squeezed in by his cowl, which would be the case if I were to don the black headdress. Superman should not have a soft pudginess, the effect of me wearing the red underpants. So, I don't.

There was an awesome Hawkman this year, though. Handmade, from what I could tell, and the guy, while not 6'-3" and built like a rock, at least didn't have the results of too many pizzas bulging over his belt. Another good one was a Power Girl (the Marilyn Monroe of superheroines... in the world of buxom female crimefighters, she's the buxom-est). What images I have above were ripped from someone else's photobucket site I came across tonight, and fortunately they'd taken pictures of the two costumes I mention here. Sadly, none of the GL or Dr. Midnite, but maybe it's just as well.

Also, along with the images above, you'll see the last (and only, in my adult life) superhero outfit I did for a Halloween party in 1992. I've never had the chiseled jawline or high cheekbones for Superman, but I've always thought that my roundish features would make for a decent Captain Marvel...

Who Watches the Watchmen?

So, apparently no one in Edinburgh cares what time it is.

I alluded to this in the Tuesday, August 7 post but never got around to going into a bit more detail about it.

Having flown into Scotland on Friday the 3rd, I realized that evening that I'd neither brought my watch nor travel alarm clock. It wouldn't be an issue until Sunday morning, when we were to have been in our performance venue at 7:00am... for those not knowing the time difference, that'd be 2:00am Georgia time.

I had a bit of metaphorical baggage from my college years hanging around due to the TD we had during our summer stock seasons. Despite all of his other faults (he stood for years as the sole example of everything I didn't want to be as a Technical Director), I could say two things that I actually respected about him: He was always responsible about his bedtime and he was always the first up and ready for the workday. In these two aspects I've also turned out to be his opposite, and it's always bugged me. I should be an example, at least here, I thought, and thus determined that it was my responsibility to help ensure that I was the first up, ready to go, before the rest of the company. I helped determine the time when most others needed to be up and moving about, and decided when we'd need to leave, with Hannah's approval, of course, as it was her party.

Understandably knowing what time it is would be a good thing.

So, the morning of the 4th, Saturday, I set out bright and early to find a watch and clock. An easy thing, I'd assumed, as every convenience store around here in Marietta carried some sort of timepiece. Of course, that morning, "around here" was thousands of miles away in the land of redundancy and excess, the horrible U.S. of A. In Europe, they do things differently.

I began at a local grocery store about the size of my office. They directed me to a pharmacy. The pharmacy directed me to a Woolworth's, only a fifteen minute walk away. "Perfect," I thought, "Woolworth's carries everything."

Except watches or clocks.

The young clerk then directs me to a watch shop down the block. Even more perfect!

Except the watch shop, while they carried watchBANDS and actually repaired watches, did not sell watches themselves or clocks. Nor could the clerk initially direct me to a store that DID sell watches... or clocks. As I left, it came to him that I should try a place two doors down. They'd certainly have them.

It doesn't matter what was two doors down. All you need to know is that, no, they didn't sell watches. Or clocks.

A Happymeal toy with a cheap digital readout, a sundial... I would have been happy with most anything at this point.

I finally took out my city map to begin making my way back to another commercial area. Numerous stores were visited. Minutes ticked by, an hour passed... (not that I would have known at the time, mind you, but they did). I'd passed an outdoor market, a place in what used to be the gallows/cow sales area of Old Town (which I'd later find was adjacent to what would become my favorite Mexican place in the city; see Aug. 8 post) and a single flea market hawker had a few vintage antique watches he would be willing to part with... for around thirty to seventy five pounds each ($60-$150). Sorry, I'm frustrated, but not that much. Not yet, at least.

Continuing on nearly aimlessly, eventually I stopped in complete frustration at streetcorner where five routes converged into one spot. Seething in that I'd been walking for an hour and half, visiting countless (non-described in this post) vendors, yet apparently no one knew were to find a watch (or a clock), I'd had it. I stood there, angry, with a series of unspecified and muted expletives flowing through my imagination, frozen in irritation, nearly overcome with the fury over not being able to find a friggin' timepiece of ANY sort. Fuming, I went back the way I'd come to cut over a few blocks to a familiar street I'd visited the day before.

Half an hour later I did happen to come across a cheap tourist shop that had a few watches and did indeed pay a reasonable amount for a decent looking, square faced timepiece (and tiny travel clock with a discreet alarm), and all was well in my life again. It'd only taken two hours and a long, circuitous route which had taken me in an arc all over downtown Edinburgh.

(Thanks for hanging in there with the mundane details of my frustration. All of this has been written to come to this final moment of the anecdote:)

Later that afternoon the company headed out of the flat to hand out fliers advertising our show which was to premiere the following day (y'remember, the reason I needed to know what time it was to begin with). On the route to the venue, I recognized that we neared the spot where I'd stopped in anger to mentally raise a fist to the sky at the ridiculous lack of timekeeping pieces in the city, and relayed the story, specifically the intensity of the moment on the streetcorner, to Caroline and Lauren. We paused for a second as I described the morning's agitation on the very spot where I nearly had a meltdown.

Listening so well as she always does, Caroline, with her patented smirk, asked, "So, you couldn't find a place that sold one, anywhere?" She delicately pointed over my shoulder. "Like that one?"

I glanced back. Not three feet behind me was a store with an enormous window filled with its wares, and a sign above it that read, simply, in one foot tall, three dimensional, polished aluminum letters:

'WATCHES'.

Fresh Produce

I tease Vicki about her daughter, Samantha, having what I call a "cantaloupe head", as it's round and sort of Charlie Brownish shaped. I then have to remind her that I had what I refer to as a "watermelon head"... oblong, and as tall as my shoulders were wide. Seriously. It's like I was some sort of mutant or something.

Taking a walk

The two days I had for hiking in Scotland were spent between Stirling and Collander, northeast of Edinburgh. I'd wanted to go to Wick, the north terminus of the rail line in Scotland, but wisdom had me stay nearer to my airport in case anything were to go wrong (like oversleeping and missing a bus or train).

Around Collander is an area named 'The Trussachs', a lush mountainous area also called 'Rob Roy Country' as this is where the rogue/folk hero operated. True enough, as Steve had mentioned, it was beautiful. Much different from the rest of the Lowlands, which to me truly just resembles the rolling hills of some of our southeastern states albeit with less trees.

Stepping off the bus in Collander I purchased a topographical map from the local visitor center, bought a couple of trekking poles from a local outdoor shop, and headed east with only a few hours of daylight left. When showing the clerk on the map where I'd intended to go, he'd responded, looking over his glasses, "Today, you mean?", questioning my ability to cover the miles before sundown. The hike was like walking through a postcard... it was exactly what I needed, a complete break from Edinburgh... diametrically opposite.

Despite the clerk's reservations, or perhaps in spite of them, I made it to where I'd wanted with an hour to spare. Unfortunately, while gorgeous, there was no spot anywhere near appropriate for pitching a tent... I turned around, hoofed it a mile back to a Boy Scout campsite, and spoke to the Scoutmaster about the possibility of using a small corner of their maintained area as daylight was about to be gone and dark clouds were moving in. Unfortunately it's the age in which we live: Despite my explained reasons, he was wary of a stranger coming up around nightfall and asking to camp near his large group of young boys. I wanted to get angry about this but he was well within his rights to concern himself with "child endangerment". I thanked him and was about to excuse myself, but he paused and then told me about a second sight they had at this location a few hundred yards away, down the road and up in the trees. I would be more than welcome to use it if I wanted. Perhaps he had a change of heart, I don't know... but if I were a molester or some other fiend, a few trees wouldn't have kept me from their camp. He was probably just covering his rear while being helpful, and I don't blame him.

...Especially since this other space was FAR superior to the one they were using! He'd directed me to a clearing surrounded by moss covered boulders, large Shire-like trees and next to a good sized running stream. Away from everyone, not a sound to be heard other than the gurgling of the small waterfalls nearby, the campsite was ideal. I honestly could not have asked for a better place to spend the night.

The following morning I made my way back over the miles to Collander, the landscape along the way being completely different in the early sun, and back to Stirling. As the day progressed, the weather kept getting worse but I still had an afternoon to see as much as I could.

The main thing I did while in Stirling was visit the William Wallace National Monument, a tower built in the mid 1800's in honor of the guy the film "Braveheart" was supposed to be about, though nearly completely fictitious. The tower was amazing, built on the precipice of Abbey Craig, overlooking the city toward Stirling Castle. The monument consists of five levels, but in truth is between what we'd call ten or twelve stories tall. Each floor is packed with historical information and was a joy to experience (the highlight being Wallace's actual claymore, one of the things the film didn't alter for Hollywoodization). The hardest thing for me to deal with, however, was the SINGLE spiral staircase in the monument, seen at the leading edge of the building in the image at the top. Built on the outer corner of the monument, this stone walkway is wide enough for one person to ascend (or descend) comfortably... I could stand on one step with outstretched arms and touch both walls! And this is a major monument of the country that hundreds of people visit a day! I'm embarrassed to say that the narrow, steep spirals, with windows that looked over an enormous drop and allowed strong winds to gale in, got to me. By the time I got to the third level, my hands were shaking. It took me a few minutes to gather the courage to make it to the fourth level and even then I had to sit immediately in the middle of the room. I never made it to the fifth, the open-air roof covered by eight buttresses.

I know this thing has been standing for over a hundred and fifty years, but KNEW the thing was going to collapse that day, despite its five to ten feet thick walls (the staircase wall was only about a foot thick, though solid stone, but I knew when I had to step aside to allow others to pass, the stones would certainly fall out behind me and I'd be screaming to my death). This place was great, though, and well worth my discomfort.

On my way back I made it a point to cross the Stirling Bridge, pictured above with the monument in the distance, where Wallace had his first decisive victory against the English. Though being horribly outnumbered, he attacked as they were bottlenecked on this bridge where the mounted cavalrymen could only cross two abreast. Funny... 'never showed up in the film. Not enough spectacle, I suppose... two men fighting at a time, no pitch-saturated burning fields...

The last image is Stirling at Sunset, with the Wallace Memorial in the foreground and Stirling Castle on the ridge. I took none of these photos, by the way... they're postcards. The weather was foul that day, and, truly, even in perfect weather I couldn't have taken images this nice.

Edinbroke

Nine hours over the Atlantic and a plate of BBQ later, I'm safely back in the U.S.A.

A great many things happened in the last couple of days that obviously got on my last nerves, and it's easy for that sort of thing to happen when you don't want to be where you are to begin with. I'd considered deleting the whiny gripe list post from a couple of days ago, but I'll leave it as a pure slice of feelings at a particular moment in time.

Suffice to say that I'm glad to be back. Going overseas and going to other countries really flips some people's buttons. I like my buttons where they are, apparently. There's a great deal in this nation of mine I have yet to see.

And it's a helluva lot less expensive.

"There's no place like home... There's no place like home..."

Honestly, I can't get back to the US soon enough.

My flight leaves in five hours.

Where are my ruby slippers?

Ok, I'm done...

Things that have, this morning, become the last straws on the back of this Scotland trip:

The @ and " keys being switched on all of the keyboards.
Polish and French accents.
Obnoxious Europeans in hostels.
Cramped spaces... EVERYWHERE.
The pervading stench of urine and something that is akin to soured boiled peanuts... it just lingers in the air all around this city.
Being charged a pound and a half (roughly three dollars) for a Coke... in a tiny glass with a single ice cube.
Drizzly rain.
No inside trash cans, apparently.
The lack of legspace or hand-resting space at this internet kiosk at the hostel (I'm typing with my arms fully extended, just touching the keypad).
Setting bags down on the sidewalk only to find moments later that's exactly where someone decided to clear their morning congestions.
People spitting everywhere.
People flagrantly littering.
Neo-Bohemians. (Take a shower and wash your damn hair. Here's a quarter... go get a shave)
It's a surprise if anyone returns a pleasant "Good Monrning".

Typing this way is annoying. I'll finish later.

And then there were none...

The company closed house this morning, all of us going off in our own directions. Two left in the dead of night to make an (insanely) early flight. Three left by taxi to take a more sensible departure. I said goodbye to the other three as we parted ways in downtown Edinburgh after they'd found a hostel for the evening, as they were staying a day or so longer. They rolled their huge cases down the street, and I walked away from them, my pack-stride returning like an old familiar friend.

I'm off to Stirling, Scotland, for a day or so to do a bit of backpacking.

Dr. Hannah Harvey, the director of "Beowulf and Beer", has more a more detailed list of what, where, and how I'll be doing things each day. I thought I'd give that a try for once. So, if no one hears from me after today, have her give the list to the Scottish authorities, or, like Jack Burton says while going off to deal with some sort of big trouble in little China, "If you don't hear from me, send in the Marines"...

I may have been eated by a distant relative of Grendel.

Perfect weather, if you're a frog.

This is not what the skies looked like today, but this IS Arthur's Seat (the highest sloping peak to the right).

We've been blessed with amazing weather this week, truly. Afraid of having the stereotypical weather while we were here, and in the process walking miles each day in the drizzle, we instead were blessed with nearly perfect conditions all week. What rain we had took place in the early morning hours and we woke most mornings with blue skys and temps in the high 60s to low 70s.

Today, though, fitting for our last show, back to the drizzles. I've been walking in it for hours now. 'Not complaining, mind you... again, we've had far less rain during our daylight hours as forecast this week. A single member of our company had not walked the peak just north of Edinburgh, 'Arthur's Seat', and I'd done it twice already. It was such a good walk that I did it today with him despite the rain... because of it, too.

He wore his kilt for the occasion.

How better to experience this extinct volcano, surrounded by the low-lying rolling hills? In 'true' Scottish weather, where the rain doesn't so much fall, it just sort of hangs there for you to walk into it. Even with the sluggish conditions, it was wonderful.

We're finished here, all of the props are packed, and we're out of our performance venue. Most of the company are flying back tomorrow, but I'm off to the Stirling area, the gateway of the Highlands, I'm told, for a couple of days of camping. Perhaps the rain will let up... I don't know. As much as I can deal with the wetness aesthetically, it's a major hassle to put up and take down a tent in the rain (not to mention the extra weight a saturated tent adds to the pack).

I'd considered hopping on a train and going as far north as I possibly could, but wisdom crept in Thursday... the thought of missing the ONE train at seven in the morning back to Edinburgh, and thus missing my flight, and thus creating a huge hassle and a great deal of expense in getting back to the States, made me take a more conservative option. While Stirling is only half an hour away by train, I'm told it's gorgeous, actually having been likened to Tuscany, Italy.

My main hopes now is that I'll be able to find a great place to see the stars... if the weather lets up for a bit.

Sampler.

Y'know, I tried writing something today, but I'm not really into it.

I could write about the two hikes I've done to Arthur's Seat over the last couple of days and watching sunsets from atop Calton Hill and its faux Greek memorial.

I could write how I arranged a 'date' between our company's percussionist and an extremely cute French/German girl (who had golden skin and perfect blonde hair).

I could write about how the 'City of the Dead' tour that a couple of company members took last night was so dreadful, although they'd gone due to the rest of the company's urging since the tour guide WE had was so AMAZING (And he was... they had a horrible guide).

I could write about how I've decided where I'm going for my three free days after the close of the show.

...But I'm just not into it right now.

I'm headed back to the flat after a spot of lunch. I've done pretty much I want to do here and all that I really want to do is get off of my feet and read.

I think I'll do just that.

Local Flavor

Scottish food.

I've done the meat pies, the 'real' fish and chips, and won't do the hagus, but the best restaraunt that I've found here is a small out of the way place on a little curvy, downsloping sidestreet behind our performance venue.

It's Mexican.

And it's owned and operated by locals. Scottish locals.

The taste of this stuff is amazing. I don't know WHY they have a Mexican place here... maybe it's to break the mold of the local pub atmosphere (one every other doorway), but in any case it's the best Mexican I've had since Cheyenne's, a place that was within walking distance from where I live in Marietta, closed years ago.

Adding to this is the fact that it resides on this aforementioned low-key street, seemingly a world away from the chaos of the Royal Mile festivities where the Fringe Festival sort of congeals into this packed mass of flesh, noise, and plaid. This is not to say this street is deserted... quite the opposite. However, the folks walking along are usually business owners, store regulars, and only a discreet number of Fringe stragglers and passer-throughs, just to keep it interesting for people watching.

I loved sitting at one of the outside tables today listening to the passing brogues, surrounded by the gothic architecture... and eating my burrito.

All for the want of a nail...

No, I didn't run into the lovliest woman in Edinburgh today. Second lovliest, yes, but not the first. A brunette, this time, but that's another non-story. No, instead, I want to write about another type of frustration... hardware.

God Bless America... the land of the free, home of the brave... and SOME sort of hardware store just around the block.

Today during the show the sole piece of scenery, a stool, shattered. It was one of those inexpensive IKEA deals... good enough to be easily assembled and look good afterwards, but not good enough, apparently, to hold up Andrew Puckett's narrow bum on a regular basis. Being the consumate professional that he is, he didn't drop the line... in fact, I'd not have known anything happened if it weren't for the huge "CRAAAKSPLIT" that I heard while in the booth. I looked up over the booth to see the shattered remains of the piece and Andrew slowly standing, still phyically in character as an old king. What a guy.

After looking at it post-show, I saw what the problem was: the pre-glued, pre-assembled parts collapsed for some reason. Everything that I'd put together, my true fear, held. My pride gave a sigh of relief. No real damage was done to the stool... no split wood, no broken pieces, just weak glue. Nothing four screws couldn't repair to (nearly) as good as new. CERTAINLY, this being an international theatre festival forty years in the running the techs here would have ready access to a gun and a couple of screws.

Oh, no. This is Edinburgh. I had a hellova time purchasing tape and a black marker over here, and I don't think I have written about the two hours it took for me to find a watch for sale. This is far more of a specialty problem.

The space's lead tech asked around and eventually was told that another one of their spaces, maybe, had a gun. Maybe.

We walked a block and down an alley to find that he could not get into the other space... locked door and all. Asking at its box office, he was told that the keys were off and about. He left to find the keybearer and I sat with a book which, fortunately, I'd had the forethought to bring today for the first time.

Minutes passed.

Fortune! The keys were found! He opens up the door, walks in for a bit, and returns with a gun and two batteries. Guess what: Both dead. Well, at least he had screws, right? Well, no... he'd have to look in another space four blocks away for that. He'd have to dig around a bit. Drill bit for a pilot hole so I wouldn't split the wood? Eh... no. Where is a hardware store, or anywhere I can purchase a drill bit? None known. Fortunately I DID know where to find one, if it could call itself that, but it's near our flat, over half an hour's walk away.

Alright... charge the batteries, find the screws, and I'll be back with a bit.

Two hours after beginning the process, and after less than five minutes of work, the stool was repaired. Finally, all of the resources for a simple fix came together into what I would have assumed to be available at each venue in case of emergencies.

All in all, though, this tech I was dealing with was very, very pleasant and seemed embarrassed that these things weren't readily available. He did what he could to help, when, really, probably, he didn't need to.

I just find it amusing that it seems to take so blasted long to find anything around here, even with the locals. This city's been around for what... a millenia, maybe?

That, and it gave me a fun blog post title to work with.

Can't seem to get away from each other...

'Only have five minutes to post this in the local Internet Cafe'... Time is money, doncha know.

Steve came to see the show today with a couple of the teachers in his group visiting the Fringe Festival.

How unusual is it that two men, living in the same house, would attend the same festival in Scotland for entirely different reasons, unbeknownst to each other until after the fact?

As is our way, we spent most of the day bumming around, as we have done since college. A large portion of the time we were shopping for his whiskey, which was fine... Steve was in his element. Not so much the drinking (although that has come to fit, too), but moreso the meeting strangers and engaging in conversation. I don't know many more things that would make him happier than standing in Edinburgh easily speaking to a old, local salesperson (who looked, sure enough, that he knew his subject) about the best whiskey available. He seemed to take only seconds to bond with the guy and make a connection.

There are things I envy about Steve. That's one of them.

By the end they were REALLY into it...

My reason for being in Scotland right now, the KSU Tellers' "Beowulf and Beer", opened to the largest 'house' that the venue people we're working with here have had for an opening day... ever.

Granted, it was only 42 people (44 counting the two that had to be turned away due to showing up late), but still... that was two thirds of the house full.

It probably had something to do with the free beer the attendees were given along with their ticket...

At least I don't lay eggs...

So, yeah, I'm in Edinburgh, Scotland.

The trip? Oh, what you'd expect. Airplane seat was too cramped, baby two rows ahead of me. I couldn't sleep much, if at all.

Yesterday it was overcast and windy. Perfect weather, aesthetically, for Scotland. I slept a good deal, trying to overcome the onset of jetlag.

Like New York, it reeks of urine here. Everything is brown and gray. Or black, if it's older.

These topics are not important.

What IS important, though, is that today I saw the loveliest woman in Edinburgh. Wearing a cream colored sweater, jeans, and a tan scarf, she walked past me as I stood waiting for the rest of the group to catch up to where I stood. Her light blonde hair, glently played with by the breeze, gave me the briefest glimse of her flawless profile.

She walked ahead and disappeared behind a waiting bus. The bus moved on, and she was gone.

I was overcome... crippled. I could think of nothing else for a number of minutes except how absolutely taken I'd been with this woman, just by the merest glance.

A bit later, I looked back for something and saw that she and her friend were right behind me walking in the same direction. It would have been the easiest thing to stop and introduce myself, and invite them to our show.

But, no.

Like some clumsy adolescent, I couldn't muster the courage to speak to her.

It reminded me of what a guy I'd worked with in New York once said... He lived on a street on which, apparently, a number of models lived. He saw them each day as he sat on his front steps but never got past saying a simple greeting to any of them. He finished by saying,"Y'know, the thing is, Kenyon, that any of them would probably do something with me, but I'm too chickenshit to ask."

So, while the group and I turned a corner, she kept walking straight ahead, off into the crowds of the Fringe Festival.

And I stood there, looking after her, reeking of a barnyard.

This is a Test.

As I'd said, until a couple of days ago I was a Blog virgin. Heck, I'm not that experienced at all with any other sort of computer dalliances, either, still awkward and clumsy around a keyboard's brassier straps.

Today, I learned how to click a couple of buttons and add pictures. I figure by this point I've caught up with the average second grader.

This image is of the best haircut I think I've had in a few years. I'd gone to the Superman Festival in Metropolis, IL last year and had allowed my hair and facial hair to grow a decent amount during the weeks leading up to it. No particular purpose there, 'had just done it out of boredom. After having gone to the Festival, however, and having spent the summer day walking around in the heat, the hair had really gotten on my nerves. That, along with, of course, having seen all day the images of a clean cut superhero everywhere I looked.

I went to a local mall's hair cuttin' place and asked the lady for something of what I called a "Thirties cut"... again, probably inspired by the older images of Kal... tight on the sides, longer in the front so that I could comb it back neatly and it wouldn't fuzz up on me.

Whether or not this is "Thirties", I don't know. But I do know that I liked the haircut, it did what I wanted it to do, and got a lot of compliments on it for a couple of weeks after that.

I've not had a good haircut since.

Masks in a Trunk

Today the last stateside rehearsal for the KSU Tellers' "Beowulf and Beer" was held, a small show the student group is taking to the Fringe theatre festival in Edinburg, Scotland. I'm being sent with the lil' tykes to be a technician errant, to provide some sort of support for the intrepid actors in addition to that given by their adviser/director/instructor, the young, pretty and, last-but-not-least, intelligent Dr. Hannah Harvey. I have jokingly called her "Dr. Barbie", but only once to her face. It's inappropriate, however, and I should know better, because she's really more of a "Dr. Skipper", Barbie's little sister. She has neither the height nor tan to own the immortal pink Corvette.

In the end, I believe I'd been asked to go more for the reason of seeing certain pitfalls before they happen, or being there to correct physical issues which may come up than providing any sort of real technical support. Maybe it's to be a bit of an anchor to Hannah, who seems to me to be a "Gee, wouldn't it be great if..." sort of person, looking joyfully to the end result, and I'm... not. I usually shift immediately into looking for and pointing out the problems that will more than likely be encountered along the way, believing that the entire process is doomed to disaster. Not quite that bad, perhaps, but not far off, either. Perhaps the Production Manager and the Artistic Director of the department feel that we'll balance each other out...

My presence there certainly isn't going to be about designing lights, as the performance space itself only has a 'stage' (which is really more of an area of the floor) of roughly 10' x 14'. My office at the KSU Sceneshop, aka 'The Keep', is larger than where they're performing! A couple of flashlights could light the space, and the performance space already has a large amount of instruments aimed at the rectangle which cannot be moved! So, I'll be there, at least, to bring the lights UP, then bring the lights DOWN. I can't complain, though... I'm getting a trip to Scotland out of it...

Of course, we're not there yet, the flight crews haven't lost the costumes and props yet, I haven't gotten stir crazy from being on the plane yet, we haven't gotten lost on the way to our flat OR been ripped off by Scottish taxi drivers waiting to pluck an arrogant American group dry of their fresh Pounds yet, we haven't had the trainwreck of running and teching a show when it's about two in the morning yet ("our" time), I haven't wasted most of my paycheck with the Pounds/Dollars exchange rates, we haven't been rained on for a week straight yet, I haven't had my tent leak water all over me when I go backpacking in the Highlands yet, and I haven't missed my flight back to the U.S. because I couldn't make it back to the airport on time yet.

I'm sure I'll have a good time, though, and in the end will find that the days had gone by far too quickly.

And there's the chance I could find a lusty Scottish wench who could have a thing for a handy, idiosyncratic American guy with a touch of gray in his hair and a weary look to his eyes...

...(*sigh*)

Where, O Morpheus, is thy release?

I have no idea why recently I do not seem to want to sleep.

For a while, years ago, when I experienced similar moods, it was a telling sign of a poor state of mind.

I'm not so far off now.

Perhaps, though, I'll be so sleep deprived in a couple of days that I'll be unconscious during the flight to Scotland...

About the Description...

The blog description quote is from a book I've never read, but the lines themselves have been with me for a few years. My wife [at the time] had come across the book while antiquing, opened it to a random page, and saw these words. She felt they applied to me pretty directly and immediately purchased the old tome, making it a gift later that day. I wish I'd kept it after the eventual disintegration of the nuptial covenant.

I suppose I believe them to apply directly as well... I've used the quote a number of times when asked for some sort of self-description. I appreciate the fact that this person, whoever it describes, seems to have a combination of whimsy and intensity but never seems to feel comfortable, always looking for something but never quite knowing what it is. A damned frustrating walk to immortality, this is.

I should probably read a copy of the book at some point.

Inevitable Self-centeredness

Welcome me to the ranks of the bloggers.

I've never been much of a cyberphile, so forgive me. I'm a blog virgin.

It's all about me.