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Mainely Escapist Thoughts I'm back in Maine. Just for the weekend, to maintain my sanity amid the chaos I have inflicted on my life. I wanted to see the last show of the season, and this seemed the perfect opportunity, as it affords Rel three days with me out of her hair, and I'll stop in New Haven on Monday for my follow-up with the surgeon, and I'll leave a the car there, so as not to incur any further New York City parking tickets. It's cheaper to put the car in a fucking garage for a week than it is to pay the damned fines. Anyway, on the way up last night (It now takes me more than five hours to make the trip, but it takes at least a half-hour just to get out of the City), I did a lot of thinking. Driving affords me that, as does showering, but in driving, I'm moving, flying down the highway at ninety miles per hour, wailing along with whatever I'm listening to at the moment, and I think. And suddenly, things don't seem so difficult; all of life seems a possibility. I will take everyone's suggestions; I will mail resumes and cover letters to every casting agent in the Ross Report; I will post flyers in the places where performers congregate; I will write; I will practice; I will perform. I will self-promote like a madman, and I will be wildly successful. Because truth, I AM better than a great deal of what's out there, and people DO need (and want) guys like me around. On the way up, I passed a sign proclaiming, "No Breakdown Lane", and I thought how very fitting a sentiment for my life that is. However difficult things become, however stressful, however tiring, however painful, I have no "Breakdown Lane"; I must continue driving forward; there is simply no other option. I NEARLY started crying after taking Mike and Chip to lunch after they helped me move my life into storage, but I couldn't do it. I didn't have time. I have wanted, for awhile, to just sit down and have a nice long cry. The closest I have come was watching the last thirty minutes of the dress rehearsal of Tick, Tick...BOOM!, and there, I was restrained, as I felt it was necessary to sob as silently as possible, so as not to draw attention to myself and distract from the performance. I cried a bit while driving down to the City on Monday morning, listening to Mary Fahl and Sunday in the Park with George, but mostly, I had to focus on driving, because of the weather and the traffic, so that little outburst was rather abbreviated, as well. What I'd really like would be some time to lock myself in a room alone and just bawl. But I probably won't. There simply is no room for that sort of self-indulgence in my life. (Food and drink self-indulgence is quite another story. Last night, when I arrived here at 2 a.m., I stopped at the all-night convenience store/gas station and bought all kinds of Little Debbie junk food (a fudge round, chocolate chip cookies, a brownie, two small Slim Jims, and chocolate milk to wash it all down), unloaded my things into the house, smoked a bowl, drank some tequila (I'm still in the process of finishing off the Herradura, trying to make it last 'cause I don't know when I'll actually be able to afford another bottle -- not that I bought this bottle, but I certainly earned it.), and munched out on my purchases until they were gone and I was uncomfortably full, then fell asleep, though I'm justifying it by saying I was stressed and tired, and that's the only such trick I've pulled in quite awhile.) The day before yesterday (That'd be Thursday.), having grown tired of counting minutes and spending $18 an hour plus tax for access to a computer and the internet at Kinko's, I went downtown to Prince Street and lost my mind and a good chunk of change purchasing a new 12-inch iBook at the Apple Store. It's the base model, to which I'll add RAM and upgrade the hard drive later, when I have money, but I did buy and install an Airport Extreme card, so that I can go down the block and around the corner to Big Cup, where I can enjoy coffee, cruising, and free internet access, with which to post these entries and send a zillion e-mails with resumes and cover-letters while praying that I'll soon get a job. Of course, there's no wireless internet around here in rural southern Maine at the theatre, but maybe I can at least catch up on typing some of my hand-written notes into the machine. In other news, I'm about 99% sure that the ridiculously hot jacked guy who checked me out as we passed on 7th Avenue (I was on my way to the worst and most expensive Monte Carlo sandwich of my life.) was, in fact, Josh Weston. Let's see if I can find a good, wholesome picture of him to link...Okay, I can't, at least not without fearing copyright violation reprisals. I think he's one of the hottest gay porn-stars currently working, not to mention pretty much the epitome of my favourite "type". I got checked out on the street by my fucking dreamstud pornstar, and I did NOTHING about it! What the fuck kind of fucking idiot am I?! Now, I may have to do something stupid and embarrassing like stalk him. Luckily, that's not possible, as I'm very busy doing nothing in New York, and consequently have no money, and he's West Coast-based. But maybe if we take the Sondheim show to San Francisco...Yes, I'm dreaming. And yes, at this rather tumultuous time in my life, what I really do NOT need is to get involved, even peripherally, in the World of Porn. Actually, the way things are going right now, that doesn't seem like such a bad idea. So now, I'm looking at the late lunch crowd here at the Seafood Center, and I'm observing how fat nearly everyone is, and at first, I thought, "People aren't so fat in Connecti...Wait, that's not true; they are, but in New York...Well, that's not true either. Now granted, I'm living in Chelsea, so there's a disproportionate population of fit beautiful people, and I'm dysmorphic, so I'm convinced I'm too fat, even though all my pants are loose to the point of falling off me, but WHY do all the people here look like they should be eighteen months pregnant?! WHY is America obese?!" And then, I look at my plate, piled with fried shrimp, French fries, a roll, and a small container of cole slaw, and I know the answer very well.
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