Birthday Fallout

Yesterday's 37th was a blast, which means, like any good explosive, it got off to a dull start, laden with tension, no one was sure what's was going to happen, violence was immanent and then everyone just sat back and watched the cool fireworks and went "Ahhhhhhh".

To wit: I sat around angsting about unemployment and credit cards until roughly 2pm, at which time I went to the library to research credit card debt management. Came away with a great book by Anne Garrels from NPR about the Iraq situation. Then picked up Fado the Wonderpooch and dropped him off with Wifey at the MotherofWifey's home so he could help W. with gardening. (He eats dirt clods).

Bought some pizza at Big Time Pizza (one of many chi-chi frou-frou pizzerias on the Eastside that specialize in gourmet toppings like bleu cheese on a salami pie). This was the joint that when I first arrived in Seattle, my then-girlfriend took me to for a pizza with artichoke hearts on it, which I thought profoundly odd.

Went to rehearsal for My Husband's Wild Desires Almost Drove Me Mad, which is the show I'm in now that opens Friday night. Started angsting again as our director is highly, highly strung and keeps fidgeting with our blocking, the way we say lines, and make our entrances. We open in 72 hours and she needs to start backing off. The entire cast is starting to get really tight-lipped around her and she's aware, but nothing changes. We all just look at each other when another round of notes hits and give each other "don't sweat it" reassuring glances. Which is great for me, as I literally started this show right in the middle of the rehearsal schedule, after the original lead bowed out. I've had a little over 2 weeks to get everything nailed, and it shows. Having a director who's trigger-happy over every detail isn't making my job any easier. So it goes...

My castmates surprised me with a yummy cake someone brought in from the catering company they work for - a white cake with fresh blackberries. Huge slabs of icing on doorstop-thick slices. Of course, the director rushes in backstage and hectors us to stop eating and start the cue-to-cue, so we all grumbled and shoveled bites of yummy cake in and went to work. There are only 3 lighting cues in the first act - this took 35 minutes to figure out. Lights up, one spot on the female lead, and lights down. You'd be amazed at how much fidgeting and entering and exiting the stage this requires. The 2nd act is even easier, lighting-wise: lights up to start, lights down to end. Another 40 minutes goes by. Right.

I tried to get everyone to join me for a birthday pint at the local alehouse, but it was past 11pm and we all went our separate ways. Queen's We Are The Champions came on the stereo as I drove home, which was awesome as that is the one song I listen to driving to the theater on opening night. Gets me fired up and ready to rock. So it's 11:30, I'm driving through the suburban Redmond streets with Queen screaming out of my car with the windows down. For some reason, all the traffic lights were out - pitch black outside.

Got home - Wifey and F. the Wonder P. were utterly sacked out. Fado didn't even greet me at the door. I thought no one was home as I came in. The house was completely still. So I stayed up awhile longer and played on the net. Fell asleep at nearly 2am.

All in all, not a bad day. I want to spend every birthday from now on doing something onstage. That is the best way by far to celebrate. Rehearsing, performing, hanging out with other actors. Nothing beats it.

Happy Birthday to Me, Happy Birthday to Me!

Hey fishwrap enthusiasts! It's my 37th birthday today, and to celebrate it, I'm sitting and typing in my bathrobe. Har!

Yes, 37. A "standing in line" birthday number if ever there was one.

One of those nebulous ages where, on the prow of the good ship YOU, reports of Fortyland being sighted are still vague rumors, but ones that are picking up strength on the lower decks. And the devil-may-care Thirtytown Port is ages past. 37 is the year where the tilt of the ocean and the salt tang of the sea start to wear on you. The point where the Captain has to assess the fuel situation, the strength of the wind, and any dangerous cross-currents that could wreck the unaware steersman. A lull could prove a crushing blow.

Where were any of you at 37, campers? What were any milestones, major events, losses you faced in that flat wheat field between 30 and 40? Maybe today would be a good day for my 100 Things About Me list that flashed through the 'sphere awhile back. Then again, maybe not. I'm not keen on it to begin with.

Does Anyone Else Get Creeped out By the A.I. Movie?

I just saw Steven Spielberg's A.I. for the 3rd time, and every time I watch it, I'm completely creeped out by the ending of it. I mean the part after the 2000-years-out cyborgs pick up David in the amphibicopter and download his memories to resurrect his mom. (That was a spoiler for you cavedwelling Luddites who haven't seen it yet - so sue me.)

Does anyone else who has seen this movie think it's absolutely, well, icky when David greets his negligee-wearing mom who spends most of her Get-Out-Of-The-Afterlife-Free pass saying really creeped out, coquettish things and putting out a "hello, stranger!" vibe to her little robot son?

Okay, maybe it's me, but it felt really wrong and not at all as innocent and sweet as Spielberg probably would have us believe. That movie was so great up until he's rescued by the cyborgs. Equally disturbing and childlike with great acting, etc., then we get into Oedipusland and it goes whacko.

I kept thinking what kind of weirdo psychic damage little Haley Joel Osment is going to be shlepping around after that movie came out. First, equate yourself with a robot son who's not good enough to earn his mother's affections through unconditional love. Spend your life looking for it in a hostile uncaring world filled with untrustable liars. Then get only one day to spend with her re-animated corpse to discover that she's hitting on you, kind of. Ni-ice. Enjoy puberty, Haley.

The Varieties of Temp Agency Front Desk Fauna

One of the funny things about looking for work through an agency is the plethora of interesting receptionists you come into contact with on a daily basis.

To wit:

The giggly, distracted one who sounds like she's five and loses track of how to spell her name when giving her e-mail out for you to send your resume. "S-M-um,-I!*giggle* (sorry)-T-H@tempsahoy.com.!"

Or:

The guy who answers the phone sounding like Elmer Fudd and Captain Kangaroo all rolled into one, who likes to use words like "okey dokey" and "you betcha!" after every sentence.

(In my opinion, the words okey dokey are not really professional language. But hey, that's just me, the lone kid who didn't get invited to the Tempskateer Playhouse with Mickey and the other Disney Friends).

Or even:

The guy who answers the phone and before you're even done telling him your name simply blurts out "okay, you're added to the list!" in a pissed-off, breathless way.

(My name is Steve Johnson, not really a name that's going to stand out on a "call me!" chart. At least have the dignity to let me pronounce it fully before I "get on the list.")


All this leaves me with is the sense that anyone can do reception. Anyone. Except me, of course, even though I'm on the list supervised by Giggly Girl at Temps Ahoy, Captain Kookaroo at Temps R' Us, and Angry Man at the front desk of Temps? What Temps?, Inc.

It doesn't do me any good mentally to know that in order to get hired by these agencies, I have to get past people like this. As if the job was locked away in a vault somewhere in the Kingpin's Holdout and he's throwing all the expendable underlings at me to sap my will before the final confrontation.

"Yeah, send a hundred of the Giggly Girls at him before he even gets to the front door! If that doesn't work, well then..., he'll just have to meet my sidekick, Capt. Chucklehead! MWHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! You'll never get that primo position now, Mr. Stan Johansen of Redville, WA! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Stay tuned....

Brutal Fruit Is Here! And It Wants Your Daughter!

I just saw an ad online for a new alcoholic beverage known as "Brutal Fruit".

Words fail me. Except these: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Imagine that first hangover -

ROOMMATE: Damn, Bob, you look like shit. What happened last night?

BOB: Urgh, uhhnn, Brutal - Brutal Fruit!

BOB staggers off to the toilet looking ashen.

Twyla Tharp's Creativity Message

I've just started reading The Creative Habit, by Twyla Tharp, well-known choreographer and artist. She has a line in there that I won't soon forget - "Filling this empty space constitutes my identity.", meaning she's facing an empty dance studio with only half of a program done in her head and everything's booked up and sold out already. The dancers are to arrive any minute and she has no clue how to fill up the time. She has five weeks in which to forge the second half of the show.

Pressure.

But I loved the quote. "Filling this empty space constitutes my identity." At a time when I'm dealing with unemployment issues, career voids and wondering if I will ever achieve anything as an actor or writer, this quote speaks volumes. Not only in the "blank canvas/white page/first note on the piano" kind of empty space, but also in the broader, inner empty space that we all face when deciding what to do with our lives. I've never heard such a strong statement about creativity before - so simple, direct and ultimately true.

I've read tons about the "urge to create", or the "artist's response to society", etc. But that whole constitutes-my-identity makes the need to make art an inescapable act. Bedrock. Inviolate. It catapults the what-do-you-do-for-a-living question into a more pressurized who-are-you-as-a-human-being mode.

She also doesn't sugar-coat the issue. She demystifies artists known as geniuses to expose their leviathan work ethic and focus. Mozart is seen not as a child prodigy, but someone who grew up with a virtuoso father who nurtured his talent. She mentions Mozart's wrecked fingers and wrists that show the lengths to which he was willing to go to master his art.

This book is fantastic - it inspires in a very pragmatic and supportive way. It leaves you with the bare bones of what it takes to create a piece of work without dampening the inner desire to begin.

Stefush Responds!

(These are questions asked by squareslant and can also be seen there..)

Stefush
1. Once you mentioned being married…what does your spouse think about your blogging? Does she read your blog or do you keep it a secret? Do you think secrets hurt or hinder a marriage?

My wife Rina, or Wifey as she’s known behind closed doors, loves my blog. Loves it. Tells the world about it with more enthusiasm than if I’d bought the largest PR firm on the planet. She reads it daily. She’s recruited many people from all over to read it daily as well.

Secrets are built-in to any relationship, and the strength of the relationship is in direct proportion to how large any secret becomes in it. Anyone who feels they don’t have a little sumpin-sumpin they conveniently left out of the conversation from their lover, spouse or live-in is fooling themselves. Not having any secrets is contrary to who we are as human beings.

2. You have a love of both cinema and theatre – if your big break came and you were cast in “Hit” – would you want it to be on stage or behind a camera? Why?

Oh man, see there – there I win either/or. Because if “Hit – Starring America’s Favorite, Stefush!” got large on Broadway, inevitably it’d be made into a movie, a.k.a Chicago. Likewise if something I was in took off at the box office, it’d make its way to Broadway, i.e. White Christmas, Monty Python’s Holy Grail, you-name-it. Plus I’d have the added jazz of knowing that most kick-ass movie actors tend to have cut their teeth in theater – witness Kevin Kline, John Malkovich, John C. Reilly, etc.

3. You said on your blog “I am an ardent and angry liberal. I believe that if you send kids off to war, you should have some first-hand experience of watching someone die in battle.” Is there any reason that you could get behind to send “kids off to war?”

HELL NO. AND NEITHER SHOULD ANYONE ELSE. The whole idea of war in itself is fundamentally wrong. Anyone who believes it’s right for kids to be sent into battle and getting their limbs blown off is living a sick, sick, sick lie. I dare anyone reading this to talk to someone who’s seen combat and ask them if they thought it was “cool”, “smart”, or did them any good personally afterwards. War is an inherently cowardly act.

4. If you could live anywhere – where would you choose and why?

I would live EVERYWHERE – I’d have the money to scour the entire universe seeking beauty and truth and the perfect sidewalk cafe. I’d live in hotels, on space stations and with friends in Iceland and the Congo. I’d go everywhere. I’d be a fast-talking, peripatetic Everyman with constant wireless access.

5. You have 5 minutes to address the United States Supreme court. What do you talk about?

“Gentlemen and ladies, good morning, and let me begin by saying this is not a drill, nor will any questions be entertained. As I speak, thousands of single mothers, gay rights activists and tree-huggers have convened at the White House. They are trained in spec op tactics, armed to the teeth, and looking fabulous in paramilitary outfits designed by Carson Kressley. They have been equipped with the latest in personal armor, telecommunications equipment and Mac make-up accessories. Any attempt to dissuade their entry into your chambers by use of force will be responded to in kind. Those captured will be dressed up burlesque-style and forced into daycare services in inner-city ghettos.

I have also enlisted several pro-choice organizations, reps from all major news media, and am broadcasting this message via the Internet and multiple guerilla-networks all over the globe.

We are tired of being decided for, spoken down to, and rescinded of our basic human rights because of your decisions. We will begin firing in 2 minutes unless you give up Scalia and the rest of the louses. They will not be harmed if you follow our directions. You are being watched, and the world is waiting for your response. May God see fit to dress you up like the turkeys you are and deliver us from your evil.”

Massive Milestone and WyW5's Lone Fan Bails Out

Well, campers, kidlets, fishwrap connoisseurs and unemployed yabbos -it's finally happened. This old jalopy is on the verge of 1,000 hits. That's right - count 'em. The Number One with 3 fat zeros behind it.

I'm kinda misty-eyed about the whole thing, to be honest. Just imagine if every one of 'em had sent me a dollar. Hoo boy, that's living!

In other news, Stefush Fan has bailed out, given up, moved on to Bigger and Better Blogs. For those of you who've been busy with that whole final-lurch-from-the-primordial-ooze thing, Stefush Fan is a mysterious reader of this canary cage liner who took it upon his- or herself to write a fan blog in honor of When You Were Five. You can read it here. Or simply hit the Ministry of Information link at the sidebar.

It's a sad day when your lone fan no longer posts to the site they made for you. It's kinda like that dorky feeling you get when you're visiting your hometown with your best girl, and you end up saying how "this used to be a playground!", or "that's my favorite tree!" and she's sitting there twirling her split ends and thinking about lunch.

Please come back, Stefush Fan, whoever you are. If you still care - come back to the When You Were Five and Dime, Steffy Dean, Steffy Dean.

I Was a Middle-aged Mouseketeer!

By the time I had had second thoughts, I was too far in to back down. It had come down to the final 7, and we were all in the green room waiting for the news.

Linda, the nail-biting blonde got the axe first and we all slumped in our chairs. Thank God. Linda was a passive-aggressive little pain in the ass and would have been beaten as soon as she wore the ears.

Marco didn't make the cut either, too ethnic. Too brooding. No one likes a James Dean Mouse. Some of the girls were bummed, though. He was dangerous. Plus he had a good dope connection. So, no Marco Mouse.

Finally it was down to us four - the effeminate guy, the cheerleader, the fatty with a heart of gold sidekick, and me, Grampa Mouse.

I was happy to be chosen, because let's face it, being a Mouseketeer is something to be proud of in life. Especially a first-timer at 40.

Our first show had me walking my dog in flip-flops and a grey bathrobe. I ended up downtown having a coffee at a donut shop while the other 3 Mouseketeers peeped in through the windows and made funny faces against the glass.

All this made it to the final reel of the pilot - which was cool because by then we all had our personalities down well enough to carry the season. A lot of the time the other 3 would band together and go have adventures without me, and there were always subplots about how they'd get in trouble and I'd bail them out with my older wisdom and knowledge. Then we'd all laugh and make jokey, twitchy movements with our Mouse Ears to end the show.

I don't regret any of it. I mean, to this day I can get a taxi because I can still do the whole Mouse Ear Wiggle thing. So that's good and all.

Grindstone? What Grindstone?

Ah, the life of a temp. The "on-again","off-again" bullshit that is the temp workers daily round. Where you are not an employee, but a "representative" of an agency. Sent out in the world like a toddling orphan to seek your fortunes in whatever highrise has bought your skill set that week.

To appear attentive and focused, but not too much.
To appear lively and have a good personality, but not too much.
To be a "team player" with no team.
To give them the best you have to determine if your best is really good enough to deserve medical coverage.

Which is the equivalent of the downtown core determining your health. "Don't get sick, there's work to be done for Uniforce/Temps 'R Us/Temps Ahoy!"

Why am I so bitter, campers? Why can't I take my lumps like the rest of the workforce? Ah, because it's not just as simple as showing up.

There are interoffice politics, mind-numbing exercises in staying busy, and all the usual crap required of today's multitaskual worker without any of the money or benefits they receive.

Remember, you're a "representative" of an agency, not an employee. You are required to behave the way a puppy in a pet store window does. Cultivate the "I'm eager to please, now take me home and make me your own" look. To show that somehow you take the company's mission statement more to heart than the numbed-out souls who are already there do. In short, to be ever-curious and in awe of that company, as if regarding a holy relic or amazing new household appliance.

My last assignment was for an aviation company that had me cleaning out a storage unit built with time-sensitive lighting, so if you didn't hover under the trip unit every 3 minutes, the entire place went pitch-black. I was in a 8-by-10 foot cement and aluminum box inventorying plastic cartons of files that were so old they were splitting at the bottom, when suddenly - the midnight hour! My very own isolation tank filled with a moldy banker box smell.

God, I'm so glad I went to the trouble to learn to type well, write well and use all that mo-dairne office equipment like the fax machine and the Microsoft Office Suite. All those needed qualifications the agencies are looking for, so I can build my career path out at Shurgard Storage Units. Thanks, Uniforce!

When I interviewed there, the hiring manager told me that "I'd never be without work, we're building this database, see, and you're going to be doing a lot of work on it, lots of research..." Within two months, he was blankly looking at me and asking me if there was something I could think of to work on. This, after constantly poking my head into his office asking for more projects.

And the thing is...it's not just the work that's inane. It's also the general psychology of it all. People are reduced to such sameness that it gets to a point of plodding predictability. There was this one guy who would always raise his eyebrow at me in the hallway, one of those "hey guy!" moves. Same hallway, same eyebrow. Or the jittery administrative types, usually female, who fidget in meetings and look like frightened rabbits. You say good morning to them and they flinch.

Or the endless mantra of "is it Friday yet?" What, so you can go have a life for less than 48 hours and convince yourself you have a personality someone would like actually notice?

Or the overly-gregarious types who always come in to your department with a ludicrously cheery "Hey guys! What's the good word today?" What the fuck is a "good word"?

The desperate realization is that all this happens in a void, a vacuum. No one is really listening to anyone else. You co-workers are no different than the paperwork or the meetings you take. That's why everyone is referred to by both their first and last names at work.

Ever notice, campers? "Well, Bill Blah-de-blah in Accounting said we have to..", or "Jane Morrison is attending that seminar this week..." This happens because after awhile, people you work with are indistinguishable from the work itself. Each with their own deadlines - at around 2pm, you know Bob Knob will come in and ask what the good word is, and Minny Admin will come in at 8:30 with her spiky clogs on and talk about the merits of new office supplies.

Human interaction on the job is meant to be as static, blank and informative as your e-mail. You're not supposed to notice others, just move around them while you work. Like pylons set out on the freeway. There are no families at work, no teams. Give it your best shot, kidlets, prove me wrong. Send me your stories of cuddly time from 9-5.

No wonder Christmas parties and office functions are so retarded. What to make of all your work sprouting suits and black cocktail dresses, and following you into an enormous room demanding that you talk about yourself? Um, is the bar open yet? And the great thing is, some companies even notice you didn't attend. "Aren't going to the party, eh? Hmm..." As if you weren't meeting that deadline, either.

And it's not localized. You could get ten office workers in a room together from all over the world and it would be a campfire story where everyone knows the ending.

Men Who Vegas Death-Dive and the Women Who Love Them

Looking back on it now, the whole thing was patently absurd. Of course, looking back on any part of my life now makes any event seem absurd. But at the time...well, who knows why people do the things they do. In this case, a ton of money was involved, two drop-dead (I laugh at this especially now) gorgeous blondes, and well, I had the weekend. So I went.

I had been told it would all be a done deal, set up long before I arrived at the casino. No secret phone calls, no back-room meetings, just Sam and his girls and me, the life of the party. Dinner at 8. Then whatever else. And so it went.

The blondes were two of the hottest creatures ever made by God, the drinks were on the house and plentiful, and the sex (what I remember of it) was justifying the cash by the hour, yes sir. Thing was, the hitch, that sound of the other shoe dropping? We all needed to skydive away from the casino to avoid the cops at the end of my stay. I thought Vegas was kind to working girls, but a deal's a deal and to be honest, it didn't really cross my mind. It was Sam's show, and it was a great one.

So, early Monday morning, we - the girls, Sam and I all get into the plane and up we go. Packs are on, instructions given, plane is getting higher and higher and shining under the early morning sun. I'm thinking, "no worries. Get in, jump out, done deal."

Sheila said I fucking bounced. Of course, I was the last to know. I walked around for like a week or something before I knew what was up. I thought word had gotten back to my wife and friends and people just were avoiding me. God bless Sheila. Without her freaking out on me, I wouldn't of known.

"I can see you," she said. "You're not all there, you kind of disappear from the waist down, but it's you, and I see you. You look like fog - I can see the wall behind you." This was brave on her part, I thought.

Evidently the blondes made it, as did Sam. I was the only one who couldn't get his act together on the way down. So I bounced.

Perversely, I wanted to know how high at the time, but that information wasn't available.

New Employment Opportunities

We need the equivalent of baristas for other lines of work:

Stylista...a Gene Juarez receptionist.
Carista...a car salesman for the hip, trendy new type of urban hiphop vehicles, like the Scion or the Honda Element.
Fareasta...an embedded cub reporter for the Iraq War.
Tarista...a lobbyist for Philip Morris.

Updated toddler cartoon shows:
Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego Buried?
Waldo's Family Would Like to Know Where Waldo Is.
Blue's Clues for the Special Investigator.
Daycare CSI

Manifesto for the Death of the Downtown Core Retreat Center

Excerpts taken from talks given at the Retreat's Opening Day Sleeping Bag Breakfast given by Dr. Miles Ositch, Director:

"...I believe there should be a de-programming center for anyone who's spent more than a year in corporate America. I believe anyone who's had to sit in a cubicle for longer than 6 months should be allowed to visit a farm, given an old walking stick and allowed to roam.

"...For every hour of computer screen time they've given to their corporations, an equal amount of fireplace time will be granted. Entire floors of beautifully-appointed lodges in Aspen, Colorado and upstate New York will be renovated for this purpose.

"...I believe that anyone who's ever been "tasked with a deliverable", "assigned an action item", or has the rider of "able to multitask effectively" added to their job description will be allowed to read children's books, illuminated texts from the 13th century, or listen to gospel music until they are again comfortable with human speech.

"...Anyone who's ever participated in a conference call, videoconference or bi-coastal meeting will be allowed to walk away from the others and pet bunnies until they fall asleep.

"...Everyone will be granted 100% organic cotton, hemp or Scottish boating sweaters to lounge in for the duration of their stay. All khakis, bright-neon blouses, pumps and button-down shirts will be taken and burned at the foot of the Skyscraper Effigy on the first night."

"...There is no bottom line, right or smart or down-sized version of anything. Anyone who comes to the retreat with this in mind will be issued a shovel, a flipchart, and a pencil and allowed all the time they need to find it on our premises."

"...Market Shares are days given over to group walks to the Co-Op."

"...anyone who says they're pumped, psyched, fired-up, or really excited about anything will be given over for psychiatric evaluation. After which they will be granted a puppy."

"...anyone visiting with a career in HR will be granted full access to the arts and crafts room, isolation tanks, and nightly Sodium Pentathol cocktails with their therapists."

"...it is with these ideas in mind that we harbor refugees from all walks of Corporate America. Give us your fired, your sore, your befuddled working classes yearning to breathe, period."