First off--

Ignore the latter half of that song, as it cuts out. Unless...y'know...you're into that sorta' thing...

..and Philip Glass.

I'm reading through the cut of Twelfth Night for this season's Shakesperience tour. I'm also listening to sappy Shaimus songs and half-heartedly clicking through an old girlfriend's Facebook album. BECAUSE I AM ORSINO AND I'M GETTING INTO CHARACTER SHABAM ACTING. No yeah, the ridiculousness is evident to me too, which is why I laughed about it and then stopped. If you're like me though, you have a habit of tonguing your toothaches. There's a thinly veiled double entendre in there, Merry Christmas.

I'm in love with this cut of the show, and I absolutely CANNOT WAIT to bop back into Boise. There are a ton of people I'm excited to see again, not to mention an amazing show to work on. Combine that with an ability to wear winter clothes without looking like a moron? YEEEEE~!! Though I can't exactly say looking like a moron has ever stopped me before.

TWIN FALLS!!

I might have to pull a RubberDuck and start travelblogging. I'd have to use AntiApathy (which I haven't updated in 6 months because irony irony irony) since THIS blog probably shouldn't be associated with ISF in any way.

Cuz I use a lotta' bad words.

And talk about wee-wees.

This break at home has been incredibly enlightening. It really forced me to look at myself in a new light. Yes, a blacklight. (GOOD GOD WHERE DO I COME UP WITH THIS GOLD?) It felt like I was being poured into an oblong container and trying to fill my way out as much as possible. In certain ways I had to curb my immense ego (NO EASY TASK, SINCE I'M SO AWESOME.) and in other ways, I've had to really come to terms with who and what I am as an artist. It's all good. It's all very very good.

I fully intend to climb the branches of time and pluck next year off of the highest bough. Even if I fall from the tree a few times, those fresh epochs are the very best.

Love,
Dak

Difribulating

Hey all!

While walking back home from the DeSoto bus stop, I got to thinking about schtorf. Namely, I tried to pinpoint what it is exactly that's been making me somewhat off as of late. Off center. Misaligned. I did a lot of dancing around thoughts, but I didn't really land on any satisfying conclusions until I got home and emptied my brain to my mom. We began talking about life and so forth, and surmised that we need to be around artists.

As a matter of fact, that's something I've put off for so long. Not avoided per se, but it's definitely a mantle that's been hanging in my closet gathering dust. I am an artist.

THAT'S what I do.

And it's a hell of a responsibility to realize that if you don't put all your ideas out there, THEY WILL NEVER EXIST. If I don't create--those things will NEVER BE.

Heavy-

-but it's a responsibility I'm willing to take on. My life will NOT be orthodox. It's already too late for that (I'm not even Jewish!) I feel things and look at things and express myself in a different, unique way (JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE--SHA-DING-DONG.)

I dunno...it seems like an obvious realization, but it's still an important things to remember. Whether creating or not, you're still an artist. Every atom of your being serves that purpose.

And now...Tommy Wiseau.

Cheers, mates!

-Dak

So I'm finally working on Flyboy again-

Lights dim as Alex exits. Chair is cleared as Sam enters, he wears expensive jeans and a worn blazer over a ‘Flyboy’ shirt. While not strikingly handsome, he has a disarming charm about him. He thinks faster than he speaks, but his words come out at the speed of an automatic rifle. Even still, above all he is a storyteller. His speech is colored with self-aware little aphorisms and moments of clarity that surprise even him. Sam is possessed of the healthiest form of self-love, the kind which sees through and deconstructs his own persona even as it creates itself.

He grins at the audience.

DON'T LOOK AT MEEEE~

My biggest accomplishment today was finding a controller that plugs into my laptop so I can play Super Nintendo games more conveniently.

It's tough to look at this scenario and feel like I've failed in some way. YES YES I KNOW SHUT THE FUCK UP IT'S JUST A SHORT BREAK. In 32 days, I'll be on a plane back to Boise to rehearse Twelfth Night (or Twelfth Nizzle, as we say in the hood.) The difficulty THIS time is the realization that this isn't where I need to be. Why do I feel this dissonance? Likely because this isn't the life for me anymore.

The things that used to interest me don't hold nearly as much sway anymore. Yeah, I can play Mario RPG with ease now--but hell if I can plug in more than twenty minutes without a voice in my mind shouting "DON'T YOU HAVE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS TO DO?"

I did get a job, though. Super seasonal. I'll be working all of four weeks before I'm done, but I've got to cover the cost of nights-out SOMEHOW, right? That New Years champagne won't buy itself.

I did spent a decent bit of time rooting through all my junk in the garage, though. I'm sure a third of it is garbage-bound, but I won't have to think about that until I move out. Yeah, that's the other thing--until I'm in L.A. for a substantial amount of time/actually working here, it doesn't make that much sense to set up shop here.

Oof.

I'm going to continue distracting myself from this greasy mood.

Love,
Dak

Eccentricities

I found myself at a bus stop in Pasadena, roasting in my fall coat and knit beanie. I'd been wearing the same outfit for three days, and the broken left heel of my boot was in my right coat pocket. The coffee I was sipping was making me sweat even more. Despite an excellent few days of nearly non-stop amazing conversations (broken up by a few movies and some Red Dead Redemption at McJew's place) I was excited to get home. I felt like an RPG character with a niggling (HAW HAW) status ailment I had to cure by getting to an INN. If there was a cobbler in town who could fix my boot, why even better.

Every time I binge on friendship, it tends to center me more somehow. It makes me realize just how much learning I have to do...and just how much of a blank mind I need to retain. The worst thing for me to do is think I know something--and act accordingly. But FWOCK...I've barely been in the real world as of yet. It's like...it's like the tutorial really JUST ended, and I've got to embark on all these new missions. Jeez, that's two RPG references already.

NEEEERD ALEEEERT~!

While splitting a bottle of wine, a friend and I got to talking about eccentricities. About how you don't have to be particularly weird to be seen as eccentric in America, or more specifically, in L.A. How, growing up in Santa Cruz, I'm used to a much wider spectrum of eccentric and I tend to feel infinitely more comfortable around weirdos. About how in places like France (and here we both conceded that our knowledge on the subject was rather--hem--sparse) it seemed far more acceptable to just be fucking weird. What was the conclusion we drew from all this hashing it out? Aside from 'more wine!' it simply served to reinforce the fact that I've got far more flexibility to just 'be' than I ever knew. Whatever this entails.

One of my biggest pet peeves in the world is being told I can't behave a certain way--and my closest friends are the ones who I can make bootyhole jokes around.

Hmm-
Love,
Dak

WORDS WORDS WORDS-

I love words. I love poetry. I love poetry about love. I poet love about poetry...?

Alright, that last one didn't exactly work--but this poem really resonated with me right now. It's fantabulous. Check it out over on Beans' blog--

LURVE,
Dak

Temp

Being home is weird.

I feel like I belong here less than ever, but I don't mean that in the 'Creep' by Radiohead comb my hair over one eye and get a lip piercing so I can pretend to be aloof about my lip piercing sort of way. I've just fallen in love with my life so much that I feel weird in a place that doesn't sustain it. I got so used to throwing on a costume every night at 7 that I feel weirder not doing that. Even moving chairs around as a butler felt like I was providing a service. There's a pun in there somewhere, I'm sure.

It's probably the drama of the theatre that attracts people like me. The rewards you get from the theatre, on the acting side and the audience side, are palpable yet unquantifyable. You know you've just EXPERIENCED something (and paid twenty bucks for it) but you're not sure exactly what it is. It's goosebumps, it's laughter, its excitement. It makes you want to rush home, have sex, and change your life. It's the same energy I felt after seeing that U2 3D exhibit at the Rock and Roll. It's--to me at least--what LIFE feels like.

I knew it would be like this when I got back, too. As a matter of fact, its not nearly as bad as it usually is. I feel fantastic. I've got tasks to complete. Things to do. Seasonal employment to rustle up. And on top of that, a whole metric fuck-ton of friends to see. It's nice once the recaps are through and we can get right back to making new memories.

It's good to be back. Weird, but good.

Love,
Dak

Wasting Time.

I should be packing.

Instead, I'm listening to Mayer Hawthorne at 3:30 in the morning.

Go about your business.

Fear Not.

Survival Mode

This song perfectly encapsulates my feelings about getting a 'survival job' for the holidays. Hopefully I won't have to enter the ol Barnes and Noble as an employee again anytime soon...I'll be calling and e-mailing local theatres and such to see if they need house managers or box office folks. Best case scenario I book a gig teaching movement, clowning, pantomime, or something. Or...y'know...lead some text and movement workshops at the pretend college or my old High School.

BOINK!!

It took me a while to get up this morning. Last night's TV marathonning in my underpants with a bowl of Cracklin Oat Bran really took it out of me(?) Nah..couldn't be that. It was the week's worth of shows all catching up to my body. Matter of fact, come this Monday I will have been working on Othello and An Ideal Husband for about four months. If you throw Shakesperience in there, I've been hearing "And what's he then that says I play the villain?" on repeat for the better part of the year. That's not a complaint. I've got no gripes about listening to and performing Shakespeare all year. That's like saying "Man, I wish I could take a break from that daily smoothie'n'intercourse routine my girlfriend's got me on." I'm immensely grateful for this year and those to come. It's strange just how significantly my life has been altered at 25. It's staggering, really. I've put in a good amount of effort--though there's still plenty of projects and things I want to get going. Such as:

Start my own theatre company.
Naturally, this is the dream. Get all my favorite actors together and just fuck with texts. Blow them apart. Explore them. Live them. Rip them to shreds and run around naked with "What fools these mortals be" smeared on our bodies in glow-in-the-dark paint.

Get High School Daze back off the ground.
I've been drawing this fucking comic since middle school. I remember the exact day I created the main character, Jason McKinsey...I was at an airport headed to the east coast and I wanted to kill some time before the flight left. I've been drawing him now for most of my life--and that series holds a special place in my heart.

Start Clowning Around.
I've been avoiding this terrifying idea, but I can't any longer. I've been a little too busy to come up with good street routines, but I would love to begin clowning on a regular basis. I think its a healthy way to confront my stage fears face to face.

Write Some More Effing Music.
I've written all of one song, and I'm not terribly proud of it. I want to write enough to start playing gigs at coffee shops. That's right.

But first--survival job. I wonder if there's a market for a job where I literally just survive. Like I have a machete, a canteen, and a towel, and a film crew follows me around LA while I'm hacking away at shrubs and collecting rainwater from gutters.

Hell, Jersey Shore has an audience--and I don't think any of those fuckers could even SPELL 'survival'.

Much love (with rubber gloves,)
Dak

Relationship Advice To Keep From Puking

Went to see the Allison Bencar band play last night at our resident watering hole, Pacers. A bunch of the folks from the show came to check it out and show their support. After elbowing my way up to the bar and grabbing a classy two Oktoberfests I grabbed a seat, ordered the hottest wings available, and checked out the music. The band was fun--though with the exception of a stellar cover of Spiderwebs, I preferred their original stuff.

When my beers and wing plate were empty, a buddy of mine pulled me aside to have some bro talk. It served to remind me why I decided to take up singletude. It seems that he and his girlfriend have taken up two differing arts, and that puts a damper on their relationship. It's not an enormous issue, but when you're not part of someone's "world" so to speak, it's a little difficult to give advice that you'd deem worthy. I get it. I've been there. If I was dating a sculpture artist, there'd really be only so much advice I could give in that capacity.

"I like the...I like how it's made of...uh...clay.."
"Ah...okay, but what do you think about the symbolic representation of Poland in 1937?"
"It's...good..?"

Somewhere in that talk, I started to feel violently ill. I had to excuse myself and find somewhere to sit...as I was getting chills and sweating like a crazy person. After my buddy said his goodbyes, we went to my apartment to grab his bag and continue talking. Or rather, he talked while I clung to walls and tried not to puke on him. My input was reduced to sharp nods and terse responses punctuated by deep breaths. Nevertheless, it was good for him to get it out in the open.

He left, and I crashed...but not before thinking about some of the stuff he said.

I've seen stellar examples of great relationships. I've also participated in some. Conversely, I've been in terrible relationships that shouldn't have lasted half as long as they did. Does it really matter if you can't lend your wisdom to every part of your other half's life? Should it matter? What's really a bump in the road? I don't want to be the guy who freaks out at every little misstep. I've done that. I also don't want to be the guy that fights tooth and nail for something that's profoundly not working. I've also done that.

Guys, relationships are weird. Lovely and fucking weird.

Love, (but hey, don't feel pressured to say it back...give yourself...y'know...the time you need)
Dak

Fired (Up)

After a lovely weekend of art, amazing meals, nights out, nights in, and U2 (courtesy of a lovely lovely friend), I feel like I'm transformed. I have an annoying habit of assuming I know how an event is going to go down, thereby eliminating all possible surprise for myself. It's like keeping a handful of dirt in my pocket so I can throw grit on all the shiny new experiences out there. The past few days, however--I've had a completely new approach to the stage, and I'm beginning to approach life differently as well. Maybe differently is the wrong word.

Somehow I feel closer to myself.

Maybe it was watching Bono wail Bloody Sunday a foot away from me, while a capacity crowd Buenos Aires cried and sang along. Perhaps it was being close enough to touch Picasso's La Vie and Rodin's The Thinker in a span of five minutes. Either way, it's like something has opened up in me that's been closed for months.

Yes. It's my butthole.

On the serious, though! I've been gypsying around, and only sort of participating in my life. Like...I've shown up and opened the book, but I haven't been doing the classwork. Deja Vu. BAH!!

I'm excited. I have an excite.

Love,
Dak

Woo Thyself

I was flipping through an issue of Glamour magazine in the green room during our show's matinee today (I always get a kick out of the 'Naughty Sex Questions' in womens' magazines. I want to see something like "Is it okay to fill my husband's anus with tortellini shells?") I stumbled upon a little blurb that suggested to women that it was okay to be interesting.

"Hmm." I thought to myself.

Upon further investigation, there was a testimonial written by someone who claimed that "In my mid twenties, my boyfriend was my hobby. After we broke up, I decided to learn to be interested in myself again. I started learning Italian, doing youth charity, and I took a vacay to Rome." Aside from the abominable usage of 'vacay', I found it extremely fascinating. "Right on!" I thought, "We ALL could use some of that!"

Honestly, some people just know who they are. On the flip side, some people DON'T know who they are, but they're okay with being who they've BEEN for the rest of their lives. Falling into that second category is a terrifying thought to me. It'd be easy to do, too! My acting life is pretty fulfilling as is...but I'm still lacking something...that something that makes you go to bed at night spent with the exhaustion of a fully-lived day, a crescent moon hanging in the sky like a used-up orange peel.

Yeah, it comes down to making sure you're not neglecting yourself in life's love triangle. You are your own partner first and everything else second. That's not to say you should be selfish of course, but hell...there's no shame in toughing it out to get what you need. I'm starting to get life-hungry again...in the best way possible.

Look out below,
Dak

The Social Network

The film makes me want to delete my Facebook.

It's also pretty freaking great. You should see it.

I don't know what it is about movies based on eccentric people, but they tend to nudge me more and more in that direction. That is to say, in the "Eff everyone, I'm going to start wearing mascot outfits when I feel like it" direction. Palpable eff-the-world energy that could make you loved or hated for who you are(trying to be.) It certainly addresses the 'block' I've been feeling as of late. Its a relaxed bit of settling. Its a thumbed nose at the surprises the world has to offer. I've been fluffing my laurels to prepare to rest on them.

Now now now, it's not as dire as all that. It's just how I've been feeling for a bit. It goes away when I get onstage, or sing Karaoke, or dance, or write. That said--I'm glad that aspect has been irritated. Reddened and swollen like my tonsils. Otherwise I may have gone longer without truly appreciating it. In addition, it's always lovely to hear "Keep doing your thing, son--the world is yours! Love, Mom" via Facebook.

Which is why I won't actually be deleting my profitty-profile.

It's all good, though. It's all REALLY good. I feel like my fire's back. I'm rumbling again. The periscope is up and I can see in three hundred and sixty lovely lovely degrees.

Future Plan: New Years in the Bay with Dresy-Poo and company. Let's make that happen.

All you need is,
Dak

Beer Goggles Are Rose Colored

Slightly drunken Facebooking can be dangerous. Its easy to flit through old memories and old albums with a slight smile, thinking "Why didn't we work out again?" Nobody is around to tap me on the shoulder and give a perfectly solid explanation that I would shrug off or ignore anyway. It's much simpler to hang around in a hazy bliss and pretend. Ride the fantasy. String together all the good parts (or make up new ones.)

After an actor's nightmare (reprise my role in Time and the Conways? SURE I remember all my lines...) the morning brings clarity. Last night was reactive. A willful surrender. Nice while it lasted, but I'm glad to be back in the now.

Now, where the owner of the Cleveland Indians invited the acting company to watch a game from the owners box, where the beer and nacho cheese flowed freely. Where in the fourth inning, a dessert cart trucks by with mint-chocolate brownies and shots of Tia Maria in edible chocolate cups. Where we got an official welcome on the Jumbotron and one of our very own did a little dance breakdown. On top of that, the Tribe delivered a win? I am humbled.

And I don't even watch baseball.

This is what my life looks like now, though. During the week, I get to work at what I love--and during the weekend I get to stock the fridge with Trader Joes goodies and shop for clothing on the cheap. It's a lot of momentum, and again I'm tempted to give myself over to it completely. To kowtow to it and take the reins of my life in inconsequential ways(Like beating Kingdom Hearts.) To be intimidated by the whirlwind instead of accepting it with grace and humility--clearing my throat--and declaring that I've still got a ways to go. Which I do. There's plenty of life that I haven't got figured out... Plenty I'm still unraveling. I have to be the first one to admit the existence of magic before I expect anyone else to do the same.

Lovely lovely life. I have no idea how you function, but I trust your judgment.

Some parting words--If you're ever having tough times, just remember that you're in the first half of a two-part episode.

Love,
Dak

The Cleve

Cleveland is a bittersweet city.

The downtown area where we live (Alternatively 'Reservation Square' or 'The Apartments Next To The Crack House) is a mix of industrial burnout and magnificent theatre extravaganza. We're literally a block from Playhouse Square, where you can see a classical repertory company one night, the blue man group the next, Billy Elliot after that, then finish off with Louis C.K. stand-up.
The very next day, you could hang out on the corner of Chester and 13th and watch a for-reals drug bust go down.

As I said to one of the other actors here, "I want to start the second season of The Wire, but I might as well just stand on the front steps."

There are wonderful things if you know where to find them, and my "OH GOD ITS MY FIRST TIME IN THIS CITY" jitters have come and gone, so I'm no stranger to taking a stroll down Superior to the restaurants on 4th street--or swinging by Tower City to snag a book at their teensy tiny Borders. As I mosey around, I can't help but notice that most of the skyscrapers here are empty and gutted, with down-and-out homeless folks lying in the alleys with rumpled paper bags cradled under their arms. How they manage to find cover during the sporadic two-hour thunderstorms is beyond me. I wonder if the Safety Ambassadors (bike-mounted windbreakered whistleblowers) are any help. There's a smokers' pole on every corner and 'No Smoking' signs on every bus stop, and cigarette filters EVERYWHERE--as if Hunter S Thompson acid-crawled the streets on his hands and knees.

The diamonds in the rough are there for the taking, though. Last weekend I carpooled with some other cast members to the Westside Market, an indoor farmers' market of overwhelming proportions where you could get a fresh farm-raised chicken directly from the person who plucked it. Like cinnamon honey butter? Check out one of FIVE dairy vendors. Want some obscure Mediterranean cheese? Fresh challa bread? Prosciutto? Caviar? How about a crepe and an espresso while you wait for the Amish guy to wrap a steak for you? Be sure to write a shopping list (I foolishly did not.)

My home-base is a fully furnished one-bedroom apartment with free internet and HBO on demand(!) Every Thursday it gets cleaned for me(!?) and it is literally a 4-minute walk from the rehearsal space(!?!!?!?) As I adapt to the new rhythm here, I enjoy it more and more.

That is to say, I haven't DRIVEN anywhere yet. So....fuck.

Love love love,
Dak

Eventual Return

As my time here this summer draws to a close, I'm getting about as reflective as I can stand. Right now I'm sitting in the Library(!) stealing internet and sweating through my shirt via intense caffeine buzz. Megan just left for SB, and I'm waiting to go see a movie with Sean later today at the adorable little indie theatre. I've begun to carve out a sort of niche here for the summer, and I'll be sad to leave it. I'm whipping around like a flag, but I'm still at full mast.

Yes.

Boner joke.

Anyway, it's still incredibly strange. It's easy to feel like I'm being pulled by the whims of other people and I have no say in the matter--but that's simply not true. In fact, there is a huge lesson to learn here about remaining grounded (like me in High School! BA-ZING!) It's not about the THINGS. It's not about the circumstances. It's about your reactions. It's easy to dig a hole and hide in it. Its easy to climb into a tin can, scribble 'Do Not Open Until 2025' and live inside until Mrs. Fulcher's 3rd grade class digs you up.

Even in spite of all the changing forces and the constant food processor that is time, I need to make sure I keep my head. It feels like its full of oatmeal right now--and that's not just because I funneled oatmeal into my ears.

Stay thirsty my friends,
Dak

The Hippitty Haps

What up, negroids?

WELL it's been a long fucking time since I've written anything, so here it beeeee-!

I'm about halfway through my summer stint with ISF, Othello opens in three days, and An Ideal Husband has been running for about a week and a half. I'm having a fantastic time--and I really feel like I'm learning something on this go-round. I've been keeping in shape, reading a whole bunch (Caucasian Chalk Circle, Everything is Illuminated, Naked, the rest of the Scott Pilgrim series), and scraping together a ton of new music.

Also looking at butts. I forget to mention that sometimes-wait no I don't.

Ahhh man. In addition, I grabbed a journal, an idea book, and a sketch book to keep my actual writing skills sharp. Sorry blogosphere-o-web-o-tubes.

In addition to all this I've made a serious effort to have a great time. I've mentioned that before, but its something that's easy to forget. I get wrapped up in the 'implications of things' easily and slipping out of that is often no small feat. Leave that shit on the page and the stage.

I do, however, want to touch on something I've mentioned before. Many many times. Really...more like every goddamn 4 minutes I bring up love and relationships. Now I'm surrounded by several examples of relationships that work and relationships that don't work. In my past experiences I've been of the mind that if it stops working for some ethereal subconscious reason--it wasn't meant to be. Now obviously that doesn't mean you throw in the towel at every red flag, but if there is a profound unhappiness or discontent--that's something I haven't figured out how to solve. Is it a thing you solve? Is the goal of a relationship just so you can kneel in the rubble of your destroyed apartment together, knowing you've conquered all of your own individual idiosyncrasies in order to remain together? You throw your bleeding arm over your partner's broken shoulders and smile at them with what teeth you have left. They kiss you on the cheek and you snuggle up to their ear and say, ever so sweetly, "Stop drinking so much coffee. It gives you bad breath."

I've seen this, and its goddamn terrifying.

Maybe I don't have the irrefutable faith that 'this is the one' yet. Maybe, for the right person, you're supposed to take a bazooka and blow holes in the walls of your home. Burn out in the driveway and send your car careening into a Del Taco, spraying C-Grade ground beef and mild sauce onto the street. Catch doves with your bare hands, twist off their feathers and fashion them into a rope ladder to save your princess. I have definitely felt this way. There's a dusty box of feathers in a closet somewhere, right next to the heart-shaped moon rock I collected MY GODDAMN SELF.

I'm used to the kind of attraction, the kind of love that drives you to insanity. I've gone to great lengths of psychological flagellation for the sake of girls that make me crazy. What's wrong with a normal relationship though? I've been reading a lot of Charles Mee plays about lurve...and there are a few particular moments that laud the idea of just having someone to say 'good morning' to when you wake up. Y'know. Just someone to ask what you want to eat for dinner. Someone to adjust your tie and touch you on the shoulder. Someone to share a movie with. Simple. Sweet. Dependable.

Which--I have to admit--I've had. I've been both hands before. I've been the shoulder to cry on and the crier but at the end of the day I'm not driven to great feats of superhuman excellence.

Jeez, I expect a lot. That could be why the girls that make my heart stop seem so few and far between. I don't just mean make my heart 'skip a beat'. I mean fully and completely stop. I mean I pull out the key and toss it in their pocket when they're not looking--I mean I breathe clouds of mist until I'm near them again--I mean if I can't be with them I begin to sink into the earth because the ground can't hold me up anymore.

Let me end with this...why don't they write a childrens' book in which the princess is actually in love with the dragon?

-Dak

First Love (Charles Mee)

"I think for me it took so long to be able to love another person
such a long time to grow up
get rid of all my self-involvement
all my worrying whether or not I measured up"

More posts eventually, I swear!

You Is Who You Is And You Ain't Who You 'Round

Turns out the only thing that can legitimize you is yourself.

'Course that's an easy one--but with preview for An Ideal Husband just around the corner (as in this evening) I've had to really take a look at the reasons WHY I do this. This acting thing, that is. For the past month n' change, I've had the strangest time of being here. During Shakesperience, I really felt like I was part of a group of wandering adventurers, all after the same goal. All chasing the same elusive thing. That thing, I guess, characterized itself when we rolled through places like Dietrich, Idaho (Population: 200) to do a show for every student they could rustle up. Us. Six little nomads in a Penske truck and a Minivan. Maybe I just liked how romantic that sounded.

So now THE SEASON begins. The big ol' summer season with its massive casts and techs and several directors and shows in repertory and Equity hours and out of town actors and the ISF vehicles with 'Bronco Motors' stickers and nights out and days in and rehearsal hours and staggered calls and absolute saturation of incredible talent. I feel I have thoroughly slipped through the cracks. And no--of COURSE that isn't true. Nobody getting paid what I am to do what I do has the right to feel like they've been 'left behind.' All that's happened is I've been forced to take a serious look at the why of the what.

I've thrust a massive personal stake in what I'm doing. For the past month, I've expected this summer season to act as a lever--to catapult me from the between-show-doldrums into some kind of state of utter fulfillment and theatre bliss. I tiptoed into rehearsals feeling confident until the very moment the veterans opened their mouths. Then I tensed up, froze up, and pushed out my lines like a horrible concretey dump. No wonder I felt so dishonest onstage. I WAS. I've been playing the impress game. I've had this ridiculous 'prodigal son finally returning to the land of professional theatre' thing in my head. Y'know. 'LOVE ME, I'M B(L)ACK.'

Silly.

But y'know--I forgive me. "It's all class." (David Alan Anderson, who plays Othello, says that. Brilliant quote.) Totally true. I'm still learning how to do all this. I'm a YEAR into the professional world, after all. Still learning. I mean...hell...I'm still planning to go back to grad school at some point!

So yes, I'm still alive! Making headway. Still dorky. Less hair.

Stay hungry, stay foolish.

Love,
Dak

Yum Yum Sadness Buns

As you may or may not know, I'm back in Boise! WOOOOTSKIES!

Now that I'm part of a large ensemble with an enormous breadth of talent--its easy for me to go into "Oh boy...I'd better impress everyone or I'm gonna slip through the cracks nobody likes me boo hoo pass the black eyeliner." especially when rehearsing with very talented folks.

Most of which are extremely inclusive. That's the one where they're really friendly to you, right? Yeah, that one.

My pattern is to internalize my utter terror of such a large pond, then go into a spiral of self-loathing that's usually only halted by drinking myself into a stupor and vomiting into a flowerpot/newspaper stand/dogs mouth. A couple of Nebraska Shakes nights ended that way.

Instead though--as I do my best acting in a relaxed environment--I'm going to take this experience exactly as it is and just allow myself to be here and be open with it. I'm by no means a lead--so yeah, I do have to make my rehearsals count. I'm also by no means being judged by anybody. I'm already here...so what the fuck? What else matters? I'm going to give my all during my time and not worry about what so and so thinks of my 'moments'.

Workin' (with a)hard(-on),
Dak

STILL ALIVE

I'm still alive!

(Real post soon!)

DAYUM. DATS A WHOLE LOTTA HONKIES.

Memoir title: The Only Black Guy In Boise

It's coming out next week! Pre-order it now!

I'm writing from a coffee/breakfast stop on the outskirts of Downtown Boise, in the linen district. Yeah, I don't know what it means either, but there are bedspreads EVERYWHERE. As you can assume by the title, I'm feeling just the slightest bit out of place. Thankfully though, it has nothing to do with the attitude of the Boise-ites. If anything, their folly would be going out of their way to make me feel comfortable.

"You alright?"
"Yeah no, I'm fine...I'm just a little-"
"Can I get you some...y'know...grits?"
"I'm good--w..how do you know what that is?"
"Some fried chicken? Forty of high life?"
"Really, I'm good. Thanks..."
"I swept the stoop if you want to sit out there and play dice~"
"Really...thank you..but...I'm fine."

Also, I'm pretty sure I saw a drug deal or a hitman being hired on the way over here. Low-rider red sportscar pulls up to unsavory-looking individual (buzz cut, huge shorts, tats, apparent fear of showers) the window rolls down and the two have a hurried conversation in whispers and hisses. Eventually, I see the driver cruise off looking very pleased.

I dunno. Maybe they played a quick game of Yahtzee.

Quarter-Life Crisis Update:
Y'know how I'm usually bitching about wanting to bone down teh hardcores on ALL the girls? For some reason, as of late--I've had little to no...er...drive...whatsoever. In all aspects, really. It would be presumptuous to say "Life hands you a couple of defining moments, and you either rise to the occasion or spend the rest of your life chasing it." because I don't believe that. I think that's an easy way to make things look monstrous and terrifying. I'm sure its more organic than that. Even still--I feel like the lover left on the station platform. I'm still waving my kerchief and its almost sunset.

I know. Pretty gay analogy. I AM pretty gay.

I guess I constantly think I'm fighting. I pretend there are odds. Foes to defeat. Challenges to surmount...when life isn't really like that. Not the whole time. I should take time to relax...but I've just got that BUG still. Not the one that gets me to get up and fight tooth and nail--but the one that makes me tell myself "Dude, you fucked it up. You had your chance." and then mope and shrug. Walk along the train tracks and try to hitch a ride.

WHY DOESN'T ANYBODY ELSE REALIZE HOW AWESOME I AM?

I think that's the ridiculous notion I'm trying to shout.

Also there are a whole lot of white people in here.

Student Of The Month,
Dak

JEEZ MAN.

WOW.

So I'm definitely glad I got that last post off my chest--but I am NOT feeling that way anymore. I realize that what was stifling me so much was the fact that I was trapping myself. I was all like, "LOOK DeeKs. You ARE NOT ALLOWED to FUCK IT UP BIG TIME."

And y'know what? Eff that ess in the bee.

I am going to fuck up BIG HUGE TIMES. I'm going to bomb like the Luftwaffe (too soon..?) I am going to fall on my face in a heap of doo-doo sticks, and I'm going to stand right back up, pull up my pants, and do it again.

Let me lay it out on the table--
I'm TERRIFIED by the actors I'm working with. They're....like....PROFESSIONAL and shit. I know this comes with the territory. Me being a newcomer and all, I feel like I've got to establish that I belong there...but just my BEING there establishes that I belong there. The director isn't going to pull me aside midway through the run and say, "You know...I really think we made a mistake with you. This no-lines footman tea-serving thing REALLY isn't working out."

I AM BROKE LIKE JOKE. In communist Russia, BANK uses YOU! Oh..wait...that's everywhere... But yeah, I'll get a paycheck next Thursday...so I've REALLY got to make this 40 bucks last. If I'm gonna' go out, I'm going to PRE-GAME like a FACE.

SPEAKING OF GOING OUT--I mentioned the lack of bonage. (Annah, you know who to call if you ever swing by Idaho. ROWR. If you squint and I put on an accent, I am EXACTLY like Ricky Martin oh wait but not gay.) I realize it was just an extra thing to complain about. BESIDES WHO NEEDS ROMANTIC INTERLUDES WHEN YOU HAVE ANIME TO WATCH OH GOD I'M SUCH A FUCKING GEEK.

I vow to fuck it up in a major way, but only as a means to an end. How can you really be immortal if you don't shoot yourself in the face?

METAPHORICALLY--SWEET JESUS--METAPHORICALLY.

Suck My,
Dak

Every couple of months or so, I get furiously depressed. It's a strange period of time where I'm absurdly anxious and find that I can barely hold up my end of a simple conversation without freaking out enormously over what I'm saying (or not saying.) Menial tasks become monstrous undertakings, and beneath my entire day creeps the notion that I am a walking failure.

This used to happen a lot in college.

Perhaps its a type of static electricity that's generated when expectations rub against reality. For a brief period of time today I managed to calm myself down by saying aloud "Nobody is expecting anything from me." At this moment now, however--in this coffee shop--with a shitty remix of 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' playing--with my heart going like a minigun in an action movie--I am vastly, supremely, unhappy.

My routine is: get up, water the lawn, feed the dog, feed the self, shower, go to rehearsal, say very little, go get coffee, watch Dr.Who, walk home, write, game, feed the dog again, eat dinner, fall asleep watching Samurai Champloo. There's nothing inherently psyche-crushing about this...but I cannot, for the life of me, escape that feeling.

Love just sounds fucking asinine to me (and believe me, I definitely tried to force it.)

BWARAHGLGHAHLGHAHAHAHAHHL.

I'm tiring myself with these complaints. Thanks for listening, though. I think the reality is I've just been feeling really lonely recently. I'm not generally one to be on my own side. I have trouble having my own back. I have a huge, fragile ego a lot of the time...so underneath whatever confidence I exude, there's usually a sinister voice--my OWN voice--whispering in my ear that I am absolute crap. That I have no idea what I'm doing, and that I've already failed years ago.

Again--expectation.

BUH. Can I please dig a hole and live in it for a while?

Or...y'know...get laid? That'd be cool, too. It's been several months after all.

Retardedly,
Dak

Grown-up Gamer

I was extremely lucky to start playing video games in 1985. (Or 1988 I guess...as its difficult to grip a controller as a newborn.) With the resurgence of gaming, thanks almost entirely to Nintendo, games burst through its marginalized niche and became a thing the entire family could enjoy. I got to watch gaming grow up and become what it is today.

Recently however, I've noticed I don't have quite the boner for any and all games as I used to. Age and experience caused me to develop this thing called 'taste'. I realize it takes more than high production values, crazy graphics, and tig ol' bitties to make me play a game now. I like to see things like 'integrity' and 'emotional resonance'. I'm expecting video games to finally sack up and act like every other medium.

A lot of folks my age are also into the indie gaming and art game scene. I understand the frustration with many mainstream games and big production companies pushing people (often huffing and puffing) into these other movements. And yeah, they absolutely have their merits. I don't consider a broad condemnation of the mainstream viable--especially because broad sweeping gestures are often the mark of laziness, cynicism, or BEING FUCKING 14 YEARS OLD (Was that irony just now? Hmm.)

When games are clearly presenting themselves in a way that says "Isn't this FUCKING AWESOME?" I have to roll my eyes. That feels utterly dishonest. Let ME make the decision about whether this is awesome or not. Show me that the main character can air-juggle an opponent using only their nipples and Oscar Wilde quotes, THEN I'll think the game is awesome. There are a few exceptions of games that can get away with this idea, because either they present it with a sense of humor (see No More Heroes, Bayonetta, and Devil May Cry) or they really MAKE you feel like the badass you're playing as (God of War, Zone of the Enders 2, Devil May Cry again..)

I can no longer abide JRPG bullshit. If I see one more goddamn overconfident, socially retarded hero or badass with a mysterious past--I'm going to vomit into a french press. If I see one more goddamn incapable healing chick, super peppy kawaii never-shuts-up motherfucker, or hey here's a robot because hey here's a robot (bonus points if you know what that's from), I am going to punch a building in the head. I understand that a lot of folks play these types of games for the familiarity that these characters (and storylines) possess. It's like, "Okay, when is my town going to be destroyed?" "When is what's-her-tits going to get kidnapped?" "What do they call 'fire' and 'ice' magic in this one?" "When is--" and so on and so on. How about another out-of-left-field ballpunch like Aeris's death or KEFKA FUCKING WINNING midway through the game!? Oh...uh...spoiler alert... Point is, I think those games are selling their audiences short when they aren't surprising them. After all, when do we discover the most about ourselves? Maybe that's asking Densetsu No Buraiken: Blazing Ether to do more then it's ever trying to do from the get-go.

It would require more research to do a broader more sweeping criticism of games-as-of-today...but there you go. THEY YOU FUCKIN' GO, MAN.

Now I'm off to make a lesson plan I mean probably play guitar.

DAK

Off Again

It's been real, nyuggas--but I'm headed on up to the land of taters and ridiculously good-looking people again.

I had a great time being home for the month-ish, but I admit it will be great to have an income again and be able to hang out outside without burning to a crisp or taking the bus for three hours to see anyone. I've really got to find a 'thing I love to do' while I'm not doing the thing I love to do so I can quit whining about not doing it. The writing is going alright, and I'm actually starting work on another play. Matter of fact, I'm not sure how many finished plays this one will make. At least ten. Maybe two of those are decent, too.

On top of that, I've got to get back up on my webcomicing. Sorry, Doo Doo Thursdays--I like you. I REALLY do...but you take (arguably) hours of effort that I may or may not feel guilty about later.

In other news, I really want a goofy bike helmet. I wonder how tough it would be to get my hands on one once I'm in the Idaho region. Either that Daft Punk model or this weird one. I'll probably just grab one from Bern and decorate it with ridiculous stickers and stencils. Aside from that, I'm packin' for SUMMER, BITCHES.

I own two pairs of shorts...

Also--I think I'm going to have more TIME in the summer than I did during the tour. This means more HANGING OUT WITH CASTIES AND BOISEITES. Bois..Bois-ee-ites...Boys.. Ee..Yites.. Anyhoo--this means ORDERING 2ND EDITION D BOOKS. There are some interested parties...and I could whip up a pretty decent campaign to run while I'm not doing the show/going to coffee shops to talk to the super cute baristas/learning more songs/going to yoga at the Y or something/floating the river/camping up in the mountains/sitting bitch on Luke's bike when we hit up Idaho City for a day trip.

Man...activities out the wazoo.

Love love love,
Dak

Be The Strange You Want To See

I love hanging out with my buddy, Deebs. It's always somehow really enlightening. Some of the notions expressed during our two days of nearly nonstop shit-shooting:

• The world could be bettered simply with consideration and perspective.

• We aren't socially ready for the technology we've created.
  

• "Me getting into politics would be like joining the Dark Side to change the Empire."

• You must live your beliefs to the absolute fullest, and be ready to support and preach them.

• As an individual, you have an inherent duty to your community.
  

Often I forget that my beliefs are more than just a code that I live by. The whole 'Silly Is The New Sexy' 'Art and Awareness' 'Humor Above All' thing doesn't really fly if I don't completely believe in it.

Hmm.

Anyway, I'll post something funnier later. That's just been on my mind.

DAK!

Eff This Noise

Excuse me?

Excuse me-

Can I just?

Can I just say this? I'm having a really weird time of things. I would say 'bad', but it's not--really. It's not. It's just...it's really weird. I can be okay with weird. Weird's not bad. They're different.

I'm here at home, where I feel like a powerless lump. I mean--sometimes. Don't get me wrong, I can still accomplish plenty--I just have a hard time not judging the quantifiable bullshit that stacks up. What is it about being home? About being an actor out of work that makes me feel like 'the curses through your teeth'?

My energy is devoid and lacking. My self-consciousness is in full-fucking-force. I am so entrenched in self-aware patterns that I feel like jumping into a lake and sinking to the bottom so I can build a nice flat down there. This stagnating miasma of perceived judgment is making me into a big, dumb, frightened child.

BUH.

It's off my chest. Kinda. I mean...you know me. You know I get like this. Every time you don't speak your mind, you're killing yourself. You are actually dying. When you hold back, that's one less modicum of self that doesn't exist because you've decided it doesn't belong.

I'm not made for this. I realize that. I GET it. But...but what NOW?

Time to create the world I want to live in.

Th...that's the secret. Create it. Fuck em if they can't take a joke.

I've spent an extremely long time railing against the 'way things are' but begrudgingly accepting them in the end as inevitabilities.

Fuck that shit. I can't abide it any longer.

Good riddance to bad bullshit.

Dak

I AM THE DECEMBERISTS.

If only. Here's another cover. This time its "Here I Dreamt I Was An Architect."




Eventually I'll upload something original/in my range.

Optional Courses

I'm beginning to look at this break between shows as less of an "OH MY GOD, I AM AN UNCREATIVE GODDAMN LUMP." and more of a chance to take those optional classes I didn't have time for when I had no time. Classes like-

BLOGGING 101 with Dr. Internet
Course Overview: Learn to post frequently on ALL the blogs you manage. Develop the ability to wring halfway decent writing out of your brain even when you don't think you can. Realize that you ALWAYS have something to say--even when you don't know who you're speaking to.

BIKE REPAIR 102 with Dr. Diamondback
Course Overview: Continue knowledge of bike repair and maintenance. Do not give up when a problem shows itself. Fix the shit yourself.

SURVIVING WITHOUT TECHNOLOGY (MacGuyvering Technology) 10 with Dr. HP
Course Overview: Jerry-rig a way for your broken laptop to still be useful. Learn that old LCD monitors just burn out on occasion. Laugh at yourself.

ALGEBRA 2

SOCIALIZING 205 with Dr. Friends
Course Overview: Focusing on awareness around your friends. See them for their potential and try to help them realize it. Learn to do the same with strangers. Slowly build the world you want to be a part of.

RELATIONSHIPS 210 with Dr. Heartstring
Course Overview: Get realistic about what you are looking for relationship-wise. Learn to not force anything just because you 'might as well' or because it 'seems like it would work'.

I'm also taking 'Financial Planning', 'Doctor Who and You', 'Intermediate Beginner Self-Taught Guitar' and an hour-a-day exercise thing. All requirements for my LIFE major. Luckily, they don't boot you if you take too many credits.

Dak

Another Song!

Or rather, a RE-RECORDING of a song I did. It's Billy Liar again! Now with more....acousticness. And multitracking.

I recorded it with my internal laptop mic, so the quality isn't great, but here it be anyway!
EDIT: Re-re-mastered. I quieted down that weird low harmony in the chorus, because I didn't like it all that much--but it still had sentimental value.


DAK

Shakespearebomb

Or 'Shakesbomb' for short.

I would love to remount some of the Shakespeare scenes I performed (and had the pleasure of watching) in large public areas--in a sort of flash mob fashion. How awesome would it be to fake a funeral procession through 3rd Street headed by a wailing mourner--only to have it interrupted by a limping hunchback who shouts "Stay you that bear the corse and set it down!"

The biggest difficulty for me in putting this together is finding time to REHEARSE with whoever wants to do these scenes, and finding a way to announce them, and then bookend them. The scenes themselves will be SUUUPER fun, and a great chance to explore performing Shakespeare in a 'natural' setting. Groundlings n' all. Hell, why not record it and use it for the next AntiApathy?

Thus far I'm looking at--

• Richard III Act 1 Scene 2 (As mentioned)

• Much Ado About Nothing Act 4 Scene 1 "Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?"

• The Tempest Act 3 Scene 1 "There be some sports are painful, and their labor Delight in them sets off..."

• Romeo and Juliet Act 2 Scene 2 (The motherflipping BALCONY SCENE, NYUGGAAZ)

• Measure for Measure Act 3 Scene 1 "Death be a fearful thing/And shamed life a hateful."

Snapplecakes? SNAPPLECAKES. I'm re-reading Richard the third right now, just to get a better sense of it. MAN how awesome would it be to hock a casket through Santa Monica and perform that effing scene? Yeah, I know.

Dak

Embroiled

Love is a left-brain/right-brain thing--for instance:

Does it belong, in its most beautiful and spiritual successes, to us all?
Are its boundaries merely obtuse and arbitrary? Does love always win because love is the goal? Are jealousies and pangs simply counter-intuitive to love's beautiful seamless course?

Or does love belong?

Is it a thing to be fought for, tooth and nail, until it's dragged--unharmed--from a scorched and bloody battlefield? Are the scars and broken bones, the gallows humor of "It almost didn't work out after I got drunk and made out with so-and-so.." the things that make it stronger? Can you simply double and redouble your assault against a country already embroiled in battle in order to turn the tide in your favor?

Must I screw on that plumed helmet, hoist my sword, and go drag Helen back by the hair? (I hear she's into that)

Whatever the case, it'll take quite the Eurydice before I enter the underworld.

Dak

Backstories

Albert Edward Brown, my dad, kidnapped me when I was five (or was it four?) My brother too. Took us both.

This isn't something I usually talk about, though I've gotten a bit more comfortable mentioning it to certain people. It's actually a significant part of who I am...or what I refer to as "Dakotah Brown backstory volume 1". That said, I realize that it's starting to really affect me again and I feel like I need to deal with it. Dredge it all back up. Try to get to the bottom of this strange train of negativity and anxiety. Lately, I haven't given that event the weight it most certainly deserves.

I forget the details more and more as I get older, but what I'll try to piece together what I remember--

My family was living in Santa Cruz at the time-on Seaside Avenue, house number 144. A teeny little place with a teeny little yard. Quiant, but we loved it. As a matter of fact, it was on the nicer end of the places we'd lived in during that time, which included a motel, several relatives' houses, and a dorm room at UCSC (we'd make microwavable pancakes in the common room in the mornings and play nintendo in the afternoon.) I remember planting apple seeds in the back yard with my brother. We were all hope.

I was prescient in those days. I can't tell when the switch happened, or why--or even if, but what it comes down to is that one night I had a nightmare that my brother and I were in the back of our old Volkswagon bug, driving away from the house with my father chasing the car and my mom running after it.

A few months later it happened.

From there on out it gets hazy. I don't have the greatest memory anyway--as those of you who know me are aware. You generally have to tell me things a few times in order for it to click. I never considered that it could've been a defense mechanism of some kind. Well, anyhow-

We traveled across the country. We drove and flew from the east coast to the west coast. For eight months, we were on the run. Literally, my father would make us duck our heads down when we went through tollbooths in case the attendant recognized us from the wanted posters our mother had been putting up anywhere she could. We avoided police officers, zipped through airport gates, and a handful of times we hid in the closet at our aunt's house when the maid would come to clean up--just to be sure we wouldn't be spotted. Several mornings were spent watching my father hurriedly throw together something for us to eat before we headed out on the interstate at 4-something in the morning just so we could keep moving.

Some scattered memories from back then:

"Can I call Mom?" I ask, late one night. My brother is in the living room--we were in the middle of playing Mario 3.
"Sure, sure Kokanutty-buddy."
"Okay."
I go back. We beat Giant Land. I come ask again.
"When can I call Mom?"
"Later, man. Later."
Later.
My brother and I beat the game and went to bed. I was never allowed to call.

Getting beaten for dropping a plate. Feeling confused and powerless.

My brother raising a fuss in the bathtub. My father thrust a finger at his chest to emphasize a point, accidentally cutting my brother with his fingernail.

Playing with a switchblade I found in the back of my father's car. Cutting my finger. Getting frantic at the sight of all the blood.

Being in court. Knowing that something serious is going to happen. My dad, solemn, on one side of the room. I'm terrified that I'd never see him again. That our mother would 'take us away'. Our mother, who Da told us was 'The Devil'. Literally. "Your mother is Beelzebub. She is the devil." Even when our mother got custody of us again, he would send letters to that effect. He was righteous for a few years. Tried to sway us with slanderous letters, phone calls, Game Genie.

"Who are we running away from?"
"The police." Says Da.
"What are they gonna to do if they get us?"
"They're gonna' take you away from me."

Standing in the back area of an apartment complex in Baltimore. My brother, seven, gets assaulted by a thirteen-year-old, James Johnson. I cry. I'm four. I'm scared and furious. My father comes out to 'save us'. Chases the kid down and loses him in a church. Drives around the block until he finds him again--gets out of the car and forces an apology.

I don't like talking about this. I don't. I really did seal it off for a reason. The more I think about it, the more furious I become. Did I mention that the last communication I've had from my father was a postcard with a question mark on it? Roughly ten years ago, I received it. My father. More harm than good. More harm than good.

That's what I tell myself.

I've been waiting for twenty years for him to come to his senses. For him to do SOMETHING. ANYTHING. The SLIGHTEST FUCKING GESTURE of...I dunno, repentance? Apology? He doesn't just have the excuse of NOT BEING AROUND. That shit doesn't fly anymore.

He left my family poor and my brother and I broken. We missed a school year, and our mother missed our birthdays. We missed her on our birthdays.

Good deal for him, though. Eight years of fathering, than PEACE. BYE! I'm off to slander your mom for dating a white guy, then go marry a white woman! Also remember that your mom is evil and I'm always right! Enjoy your anxiety! Try to feel inadequate around everyone you meet!

I've spent the better part of my life looking for some kind of model, some figure to follow so I don't doom myself to those habits and patterns. In the end, I've had to take bits and pieces from people I look up to...the rest I make up as I go along. As of now, I definitely do NOT want to have children...but if the parenting bug ever hits me--I'm going to make sure I am an exponentially better father than I had. HAD being the operative.

Yeah....this was angry. To tell you the truth though, it's mostly just sad. The whole experience left me feeling wounded and forgotten, but I'm so used to the wound its like a security blanket now. I clutch it tightly when I'm alone. I have for two decades.

It's not something I'll get over quickly. I haven't, as you can see.

But-

But...maybe I can start the slow process of accepting it. Accepting this is part of who I am. Not shutting my eyes to the fact that my father's gone. Accepting, even, that he won't make the effort to be part of my life again...and while I won't consider it optimal...it is okay. Yes, my world feels broken sometimes...but that's not 'how life is'. That's just residue from a world that broke ages ago. Things aren't the same as they were before. Life is new. It can be. I can be.

I can't spend the rest of my life looking for approval from a ghost. I have a model right here in the mirror.

Rock on.

Love,
Dakotah Edward Brown

Increased Workplace Productivity

Guys, guys--

No...seriously...guys...

I've been slacking on my blogs. Just...slackin' ALL over the place. I've decided to update Silly is the New Sexy more frequently, and I'll kick up Doo Doo Thursdays and AntiApathy up as well. From here on out, I'll update this guy twice a week (Tuesdays and Thursdays) and the others once a week (Wednesday and Friday respectively.)

Now that THAT'S over, why don't I show you what I know you came to see.

Marvel at the illustrious Dick Slang.




This may, in fact, be the most uncomfortable YouTube clip I've ever seen. Let's dissect, shall we?

Firstly, evidently it's not gay if you yell 'BAP!'

powered by Splicd.com

Also--there is a moment in each gentleman's...oh...let's call it their 'Freestyle Section' in which they shake their junk around for an extended, awkward, silent period of time.

powered by Splicd.com

Here's my favorite guy. He clearly has aspirations beyond mere 'Dick Slanging'. He begins to let loose a little and starts to go all 'Backup Dancer for Beyonce' for a second...then becomes sort of uncomfortably embarrassed when he realizes his friends are all watching, and ends his solo prematurely.

powered by Splicd.com

Conclusion--I hope they do Bar Mitsvahs.

Dak

The Ol' Ball N Chain

BALL AND CHANG? (If you get it, you are a nerd. Welcome. This is a safe space.)

So a friend of mine wrote this regarding her newfound singletude: "No sad face, just happy faces here. Empowered faces. Finaly free faces."

Well...

Well well well...

She is absolutely right, too. Now why did this little comment strike me so much? Well, dear reader, its because it asks a question of something I have been taking for granted for the longest time. For damn near 20 years, I have been spending a ton of time and a ton of energy coddling my relationships with people, romantic and otherwise. I took this super-single thing to be some character assessment. I used it to grab some good ol' "Woe is me" energy. Some "Boy, if only I had a sweetheart, I could etc etc etc". But know what? Fuck that! Forget it!

And hell, nothing against relationships and people in relationships and people in FANTASTIC relationships--I will however no longer be envious of y'all.

My primary reason for being here is me. And I don't mean that selfishly. I simply hadn't had the desire to be very me-centered for a while.

I've got a horrible habit of hanging out with people and just sort of shutting down. Being marginally clever and interesting, but letting them take the reins of the interaction instead of feeling the complete freedom of doing or saying whatever the fuck comes to mind at the time...it's because I was so focused on assuming what they wanted from me, and then trying to accomplish that. Sit down, you're rockin' the boat and all that shit.

I'm not going to worry about being 'liked' anymore. Like I tell the kids at the Othello Q&A sessions, "Don't try to be a 'good actor'. Be a hard worker."

It's been a long run, but the show's over. I've gotta' toss this costume and go run naked through the rain. It's been a while.

Poe of tree.

"You can't beat this guy," you say over your shoulder, "he's invincible."
"Let me try it-"
"Man, I swear. I've tried everything."
"Yeah, but I haven't."
"Suit yourself." shrug, return to your own game.

A pile of edamame shells and a 'WTF' expression. A face I've never seen under a pile of hair that I don't recognize. You're a globetrotter, you're a conquistador, you're a supplement, you're a salve, you're an actor out of work, I think I love you, I think I'm mad, etc.

"I'll try walking past him. Y'know, ignoring it."
"Doesn't work."
"FUCK."
"Yeah, he just comes back later on."
"Really?"
"Yeah, man. I stopped playing because of him."

I'm trying to put the game down, but its one I've been playing since around third grade. Mrs. Fulcher's class, I believe. I found your nose/wedgie picking endearing, and I left your birthday party because I was terrified of rollerskating. I hope to Bob that I've evolved in SOME way.

A bit. A leetle bit.

Except now I'm digging through your old memories again. The ones from back in the DEEZY fo SHEEZY. For a while, I liked to imagine myself in black and white--with a pencil-thin mustache and a cigarette case, putting on my fedora and saying some quip like, "Don't fall for me, kid. I'm just a heap of trouble." before turning around and walking into the rain. Yeah, I'm THAT guy.

Except...y'know...right now...when I'm not.

"This boss is goddamn impossible."
"Dude, I've been telling you that for the last hour."
"Why would they put him IN here?"
"I dunno. Probably so you can't do anything but think about beating it."
"Those clever fucks."
"I've got like...way better games if you want."
"No, hold on--I just thought up a new strategy.."

Unlike Lisa, you're not TEEEARING ME APAAART. Like Wile E Coyote, I wouldn't know the first thing to do if I caught that roadrunner. But the NAGGING. And the...time limit..? I'm trying to learn the lesson here, but it's like the lesson is, "HAH. You silly fuck. See what happens? Now go do something else."

"I HATE THIS BOSS."
"You don't hate him."
"I DESPISE HIM. I WANT NOTHING BUT MISFORTUNE FOR THIS BASTARD."
"No you don't, you're just frustrated."
"BUT-"
"Why don't you put in another game, like I said?"
"I don't want another game."
"Uh huh."
"I...I dunno. I really like this game."
"Would you die if you could never play it again?"
"I guess not, no. 'Vase Seekers: Alpha' is kind of a weird title, anyway."
"Bad translation."

/enigmatic jumble

The Centennial

100 POSTS UP ON THIS BEEZY!!!

And now--for your personal pleasure--ONE HUNDRED RANDOM FACTS ABOUT MY EXISTENCE.

1. I did not know how to properly shop for jeans until a few weeks ago.

2. Earthbound AND Mother 3(OH GOD, SPOILERS) make me cry.

3. I watch an episode of AVGN nearly every night to get to sleep.

4. My two hottest cartoon characters, Princess Jasmine and Gadget Mouse.

5. In middle school, I was involved in a focus group for Whell Of Fortune 2000--I earned 20 bucks an hour to bike to the Sony building and play with the gadgets they made.

6. I can BARELY distinguish tastes in wine.

7. I HATE whining, being moved out of the way, and dodgy internet connections.

8. I LOVE closet dorks, hilarious shirts, and bands that have a sense of humor.

9. I am terrified at coming up with 91 more random facts about me.

10. I have drawn more comics than I can even remember--but I barely have any of them anymore.

11. Oh hey, one of those comics was called 'Zeto' about a clone who was sent in the past to assassinate so and so except he failed so six other clones were sent to finish the job but oh wait they run into Zeto and attack him and like there's something called the 'Zero Dimension' that only Zeto can access hey also he has a sociopath twin brother with wings who he fights at the very end and..and...

12. Until very recently, I never wrote scripts for my comics, as you can guess.

13. I am a closet hippie and have a soft spot in my heart for hippies. I grew up in Santa Cruz, and I love tarot and incense. Don't tell anybody.

14. Using RPGMaker, I've made about 15 or so games. A few favorites include: one that starred me and my friends in an alternate universe because I opened a portal there by accident, one that starred a side character from one of my zillion comics, one about a townsperson who killed the main hero of the game--thusly fucking everything up forever, and one called "Don't get the life".

15. I go through phases in which I'll listen to THE SAME SONG OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER again. And no, not in the healthy way--in the "Really, fucker? Do I, as your roomate, need to continue to be saturated with this madness?" The answer is: yes. Yes sir, you do. Pick up your socks.

16. If I like you, I will call you 'Pee-pee' or 'Poo-poo' or some word that begins with a 'B'. Buster, Bustercakes, Buster-Bonanza, Biggle-Butts, etc.

17. I am going to marry Regina Spektor, Annie Clark, or Princess Zelda. Preferably some combination of the three.

18. My sense of direction is spotty at best--so driving in San Francisco is just comedic.

19. I can't turn off my word-punning or rhyming thing. I tried, but I can't do it. If I begin giggling for no reason, it's because some word thing was hilarious to me (AND NO ONE ELSE.)

20. I grew up on RnB and Motown.

21. I am an enormous Michael Jackson fan. Its hereditary. My mom used to make Jackson 5 collages with her sisters, in addition--there was an old 'Michael Jackson Moonwalker Chocolate Bar' in our freezer for about a decade.

22. Oh hey, I also might marry Fiona Dourif. Who? Brad Dourif's daughter. How do I know her? I..er...waited on her at CPK...LOOK WE'RE GETTING MARRIED SHUT UP.

23. I'm going to start writing more letters--and calling people more often. I wish I did already, but I'm going to start now.

24. I had a miniature freakout when I turned 25. I was thinking "Fuck, man...do I have to settle down? Do I have to hurry up and get married to someone?" I got over that. Quickly.

25. With certain people I meet-I feel INSTANTLY comfortable around. I don't know what determines that, but it just happens. Usually with girls.

26. When exercising, I am entirely mind-over-matter. I thought I lost the ability to do 100 push-ups until I pretended that I was going to do 300 and 100 wasn't so bad at all.

27. Back in elementary school--my best friend Johnny would never eat the brownie's he bought. He'd start to nibble on them and then get bored and give them to me. I liked how this worked out.

28. Oh hey, speaking of Johnny--for years, we would play Power Rangers or X-Men together. He was always the leader, and I always didn't care who I played.

29. In fifth grade--I still wasn't done playing pretend. My friends and I declared the old wooden junge gym 'The Epoch' and would act out scenarios using characters from videogames and cartoons.

30. Don't tell me I could 'never' do something. I will eventually prove you wrong. Unless it's "You could NEVER be a rapist."

31. I still believe in magic. Not the 'wingardium leviosa' kind--but the kind of inexplicable magic that makes us create, think, and fall in love. I believe that gut feelings are to be taken EXTREMELY SERIOUSLY.

32. Current weaknesses include: Punk girls, nice butts, irreverent comics, blazers, 2D fighting games, amazing books, and fire damage.

33. My future mode of transportation will be 'jetpack'.

34. My current mode of transportation is 'whatever works'.

35. I think too much. Like...waaaay too much.

36. I LOVE swimming. Holy crap, you don't even know.

37. Once I get over my initial fears/doubts about a new artistic pursuit, I generally excel and enjoy it greatly.

38. I like giving money to panhandlers, but I prefer giving them food.

39. I think bodily functions are hilarious, and the sooner we can become comfortable around them, the sooner we can talk about really interesting stuff...even though...poop is pretty interesting.

40. Every third thought I have is sexual. (COOKIES, BUKOWSKI, INTERCOURSE, ADAM BRODY, WORLD CUP, BONAGE...etc.)

41. I have a twisted sense of humor that I got from my mom's side. It's saved me in a lot of difficult emotional situations.

42. Sometimes I poop with such ferocity that my back cracks.

43. I'm terrified of heights and massive structures...something about incredible mass is incredibly imposing. (THAT'S WHAT SHE..)

44. I'm a sensitive guy. And by that, I mean my teeth, eyes, and skin are hyper-sensitive. I don't know why. I think I'm Spider Man.

45. When people ask me about my favorite actors--I have a lot of difficulty answering them. I'm horrible with celebrity names and faces. I do like John Malkovich, though.

46. I LOVE MANUAL LABOR. As a generally artistic person, it feels great to get my hands dirty and get some stank goin'. As much as I'd bitch about it, I'd secretly enjoy every single minute of it.

47. I'll still play DDR if I come across a machine, though I'm nowhere near as good as I used to be.

48. For a long time I was terrified that people would discover I was a geek...that was until I realized you could be a geek and still get laid.

49. I think I was a better singer back in high school.

50. WE'RE HALF WAY THERE.

51. I really enjoy clubbing. Its totally absurd most of the time, and that's why I love it.

52. I have a pretty strong sense of smell...that's how I become attracted to people too.

53. I took Tae Kwon Do briefly during pretend college. It was an utterly frustrating experience. I'd love to take it again now that I have nothing to prove.

54. If I get a dog, I'm going to name it Interceptor, Gunwoofers, Boney, or Poppy.

55. Before I die, I have to play Hamlet.

56. Oh hey--I'd also love to put on Woyzeck again.

57. THEATRE COMBO--I also want to do a production of One For The Road.

58. I love it when people bust out of their shell and allow themselves to be goofy, whimsical, or vulnerable. It is a quality of art that brings these emotions to the surface.

59. The current contents of my backpack: A Royal Shakespeare Company Journal, four mechanical pencils, one ballpoint pen, two highlighters, a four gig thumb drive, a wacom tablet, a leather weekly organizer, a broken razr phone (snapped it in half for fun when I got my new one), two granola bar wrappers, a clown nose, a sunglasses case, an uneaten package of breadsticks from a salad bar, and one fritos wrapper. The current contents of the desk I'm writing at: one HP mini netbook, one hardbound sketchbook/journal, an empty plastic cup, two napkins, an issue of the Idaho Statesman, one ballpoint pen, and one pair of aviator glasses. The current contents of my person: one wallet (containing, most interestingly, about 12 different hotel keys), one Sony Ericsson cellular phone, and a set of keys (one for my bike, one for my house, one for my host family's house, one for the Idaho Shakespeare Company minivan, one for the now defunct green Ford explorer my parents gave me, and a Woodstocks Bottle Opener.)

60. I hate wearing shorts. I don't know why.

61. I read kinda' slowly.

62. I used to be obsessed with 'Whatchamacalit' bars.

63. I don't want to have children.

64. I'm not even sure if I want to get married.

65. Children are ADORABLE. Partly because they're so freaking transparent. "PAY ATTENTION TO ME!" They'll shout. Loves.

66. This is what I'm listening to right now.

67. A lot of the current fashion trends look really really stupid to me. Maybe this is what growing up is like.

68. I want to learn to surf--because HOW AWESOME.

69. I'm going to commit to go to more concerts because HOW AWESOME.

70. I want to learn parkour as well because HOW AWESOME.

71. I can't nap midday. If I do, I wake up like some confused time-traveler. "H..how long have I been gone?" "I dunno, couple hours maybe?" "DEAR GOD, WHAT HAVE I DONE!?"

72. I am not patriotic. I don't think our country stands for anything anymore. We fall into the trap of being a nation of people who are out for themselves--and we teach one-another that this is right. (I allow myself this one cynical outlook.)

73. I feel most comfortable around artists.

74. My favorite nicktoon is a three way tie between Hey Arnold, Rugrats, and Doug.

75. If I could go back in time and give myself some sagely advice, it'd be "Calm the fuck down, you're gonna be fine."

76. In Stevie Wonder's "Do I Do", I've always felt weird about the opening line "When I see you on the street..." Did-did he write that? Does...does he know?

77. Okay, now I'm listening to this. I TOTALLY EMPATHIZE WITH IT.

78. I hate the smell of gasonline. I've found that people are completely on one side or the other with that scent.

79. I can't craft to save my life. Making things for people is an uphill battle, but I always wipe my brow and enjoy what I've done once I'm finished. A lot like pooping.

80. I never ate paste.

81. Sarcastic discontent will NEVER take the place of aloof confidence.

82. Religious views: CHOCOLATE.

83. I once killed a man over penne paste.

84. BWAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA--okay yeah, I'm running out of things. I thought I was going to be cool enough to throw that one in there and continue with real facts. No can do.

85. I don't like wearing bright colors. Or rather...I didn't USED to. I do now.

86. I only recently discovered that going on stage relaxed...almost meditative...produces the best results for me. It allows me to react completely naturally in the moment and USE the text.

87. I consider myself an actor, writer and artist...not a musician yet.

88. I'm going back to Japan sometime in the next few years. I've made this decision just now.

89. Right yeah, I'll start re-learning Japanese too.

90. OH MAN TEN MORE--Hey I'm starting to watch Dr.Who.

91. After guitar, I'd like to learn drums--so I can multitrack on my songs. I'll be like a one man White Stripes....except better than the White Stripes. Everyone's better than the White Stripes.

92. I'm usually clean shaven, but I think I may join the beard side.

93. I get along much better with my family when I don't live with them...but I think it's like that for everyone.

94. I literally just heard someone say "What's new with YOU?" TOMMY WISEAU MOMENT.

95. Start paying attention to the number 417 and you'll see it EVERYWHERE.

96. I used to be terrified of the beach, but not anymore.

97. Yeah, not getting married--the more I think about that prospect, the better I feel about it.

98. Every since I shaved my head, I've begun collecting hats.

99. I oscillate between being terrified of death--and being completely okay with it.

100. I am a raging full-fledged hedonist that loves extremes as much as he loves the quiet pleasures of the outdoors and the sun.

OH SNAP. There go some facts! EAT EM UP, YUM YUM.

Love love love
Dakotah '100 Blogspot Posts' Brown

Pre-Hump Day

It's been wacko, lately. Wacko good though.

We're halfway through week eight of this ten-week shenanigan, and I already know I'm going to miss the holy bajeesus out of my lovely Othellites. Well...okay no, they're not MINE per se--but anyway-

We found ourselves at Arts West school (for the Performing and Visual Arts) for today's second performance. Our steampunkish set barely squeezed into the performance space with suck-in-your-gut room to spare for the audience. The fights were certainly in-your-face. A knife is pretty dangerous-looking thing up on stage...but when we're whirling it around and you have to scoot your feet out of the way or else lose an aglet, it's seriously FUCKING BADASS. And terrifying...I assume...I mean, the knife is actually the safest part of our show if you're the one swinging it around or dodging it. (OH MY GOD I USE SO MANY HYPHENS.)
After the performance, some faculty members rounded the cast up to inform us they had an open spot for a drama teacher...that they'd actually found their for-sure candidate, but after watching our show--they wanted to re-open the offer and extend it to us. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for David Ketchum (our Cassio/Brabantio) who already sent in an application--which I'm certain is fabulous/covered in glitter.

THINGS I NEED
1. A Bicycle
2. Some Shirts
3. To Squeeze a Butt (Ongoing)
4. A PS3
5. 2 PS3s!!???

Also I WROTE A SONG!!!!11!11!one!11juan

I'll upload it as soon as I make a recording of it that I actually like. That'll...mmm...that'll probably be a while. I never thought I'd be able to WRITE a song. It's one of the many artistic paths I've never felt super certain or confident in, but now--SHABAM!! And WHAT? I'm working on ANOTHER ONE!? FUCK YOU, DAKOTAH BROWN! FUCK YOU!

Love love love glove,
Dax-B

Last Night. A free-verse poem.

"...and I see Miguel's face through the gray haze of junk smoke-" writes William S Burroughs. I'm reading Naked Lunch at a bar around midnight. I was on my way home from my friends' apartment. We'd watched 'Zombie Strippers' a short while ago (Unlike Wiseau's epic tour-de-force, it knows and revels in its badness.)

The kitchen ran out of portobello mushrooms. My burger is rendered impossible. I shriek and heave a chair across the room.

"Dude," says the head chef (he's got me in a full Boston Crab) "they're just mushrooms." I shrug with resignation and snap his neck.
"May I have a chicken wrap, then?"

I order a beer. It's my...forth...? Fifth. Fifth drink tonight. It attacks my palate with a ferocity known only to feral creatures. I take intermittent sips of refreshing cucumber water.

"Th..there's a vegetable in my drink." I mutter. Nobody replies.

A girl sits next to me. Her name is Jessica. She's moving to Denver, staying at the Hampton, and enjoys going to hot springs, electronica, and growing pot. She tells me about the law of attraction by bending over, spreading her cheeks and revealing her luscious butthole.

"No, I'm good." I shovel sweet potato fries into my mouth. She holsters her leather cheerio.

"You see, you can manifest anything you desire if you think about it for at least 68 seconds."
"SIXTY-EIGHT!" I pump my fist in the air.
"Wh-?"
"SIXTY-NINE!" I shout. "HEY-YOOOO!" I'm thrashing into a giggle fit.
People are starting to scoot away from me at the bar....which is weird...because the stools are bolted to the floor. A Korean janitor begins cleaning up the dead head chef.
"Its about saying 'yes' to life, y'know?" Jessica nods. I order what she's drinking. The bartender stares at Jessica's drink, looks at my empty hand, then gingerly takes the cocktail from her and pushes it into my grip. She looks at me as if to say, "Was that right?" I wave my hand in front of her face like Obi-Wan Kenobi. She nods knowingly and begins to remove her shirt.
"Wait, no...that's not-" I stammer. The bartender cocks her head and scowls, then goes about her normal business, shirt half-undone.

"If you wanna' go hot tubbing, I'm just in the Hampton here, downtown. I'll text you or something tomorrow." Jessica says.
"Who the hell are you?" I demand.
"We-we were just talking...for like an hour."
"Oh, that's right."
"I was saying, we-"
"I thought you were someone else."
"No," she giggles uncomfortably, pushing hair out of her eyes, "I've been sitting here the whole time."
"Let me get this straight-" I adjust my glasses which are non-existent, "you're Bruce Wayne AND Batman?" I pronounce it 'BAT-mən' like a Jewish last name. She stares at me.
"I don't really know what you're talking about anymore."

And really...do ANY of us?

More Stuff!

'Silly Is The New Sexy'.

Everyone I've ever looked up to has had an incredible sense of humor and an amazing attitude of 'lightness'. They seemed to only take the enjoyment of life seriously. They don't have that trendy adversarial relationship with life that's so in fashion in comfortable societies. I realize that I haven't been quite the paragon of this philosophy either. And yes--obviously it's something I can't help all the time--but it IS something I want to be. The opposite of despair is hope and lightness.

Right?

And I'm not talking about denial, either. That's lame. "EVERYTHING'S GREAT ITS ALL GREAT SUPER GREAT HAHHAHAHAHA-" that just acknowledges how terrified you really are. But--really--the world is a more beautiful place than it is terrible.

And lastly--

--butts. Because I haven't mentioned fantastic butts in the past few posts.