davemcgee.com

Waterfalls!

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Sun, 13 Jul 2008 05:31:00 +0000

More photos of my Waterfalls Expotition: here!

On Why I May Actually Vote for Ralph Fucking Nader

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Sat, 12 Jul 2008 17:46:00 +0000

Here is the Oath of Office that is sworn upon becoming President of the United States:

"I do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my Ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States."

Here is the text of the 4th Amendment of the US Constitution:

"The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized."

I have been a fervent supporter of Barack Obama. I have campaigned for him. I have donated money to him. But I was wrong about him.

George W. Bush has repeatedly and brazenly broken the law. He has knowingly defied the Fourth Amendment over and over and over again. And Barack Obama just cast a vote saying "Hey, you know what? No big deal."

No. No no. No no no. Fuck that.

The Oath of Office says basically just one thing: "I will uphold the Constitution." Obama thinks it's OK for the President to defy the Constitution. Therefore, Obama is unqualified for the office of the Presidency. That is the entire fucking job.

This is the thing. This is the deal breaker for me.

Look: of course he's still "better" than John McCain (who ~~cast an identical vote~~ cast no vote, but said he also would have voted for it, by the way); but this is like saying an elephant would make a better second baseman than a rhinoceros. They are both fundamentally unqualified. They both believe that the single job requirement is moot.

And I may have to look elsewhere on the ballot this year.

Table 16

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 20:28:00 +0000

This is the other one, that I didn't even submit.

Cheery!

Prompt 8: A husband and wife are meeting in a restaurant to finalize the terms of their impending divorce. Write the scene from the point of view of a busboy snorting cocaine in the restroom.

These two fucks come in here about an hour or two ago and sit over at table 16 which is like where I have the worst fucking luck with everything it�s cursed or something has been forever. I�m free and clear so far�s I can tell what with the two fucks order just coffee which means my job is cake just step in when they�re gone two cups two saucers single wipedown bing bing bing. Finally for once like in ever have some fucking decent table 16 luck I�m thinking except they�ve sat there for like a full 40 minutes and I guess haven�t so much as had sip one of the coffee because of the I guess importance of their conversation which includes fucking papers and signatures and which looks like six motherfucking different types of bad news since they�re both so serious and fucking intense except then one of them then must like take a sip of the cold sick coffee and it�s fucking cold and and this is just as I�m walking by so the one of these fucks says �can we get a couple a fresh cups� and like nudges them toward me so what am I supposed to do except say �yessir� but my throat is fucking dry so I don�t say nothing I just pick up the cups and then like immediately drop one. Table motherfucking 16, right? Which means I get an earful from Bill about it like it�s my fucking fault I�m feeling a little bit shaky today it�s like I�ve been looking at these two fucks staring intently and whispering and shit in like hushed voices and it�s starting to freak me out and the radio is playing fucking I wish that I had Jessie�s girl and I�m fucked up. I dropped a cup. And I�m sitting there, kneeling, scrubbing the ugly mulch fucking carpet like the shit isn�t covered with stains and footprints and shit and these two fucks are just talking and pausing and saying �visitation� and shit and �separate residences� and fucking �mutual property� and shit and I figure what�s going on. And I just want to stand up and throw my fucking rag down on the carpet and go listen, OK, listen. Let me tell you what, OK, just burn it. Whatever the two of you fucks�ve got, just burn it. All. You don�t want it. You won�t. For the rest of your lives you�ll see this shit and it will like all you�ll think about is the fucking fights and the bullshit and the how the other one�ve you fucked it up good. But I don�t say shit I just scrub. And then Bill says �hurry� like I�m not fucking scrubbing. And then the one fuck leaves and I tell Bill I gotta piss and he gives me this fucking look and I can tell the other one is right outside the door waiting for me to be done because I can hear her crying but she just has to wait her turn cause I�m gonna do one more I gotta do something to get these shakes to stop. And I know she�s in no fucking hurry. She�s got nothing to go home to.

Quietly Leaning Against

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 20:18:00 +0000

Almost two years ago exactly, McSweeney's Internet Tendency had a contest of sorts after they printed 13 Writing Prompts. I submitted one. It did not, of course, win. But I just realized I had never put it up. So! Behold my brilliance!

Prompt 5.
A wasp called the tarantula hawk reproduces by paralyzing tarantulas and laying its eggs into their bodies. When the larvae hatch, they devour the still living spider from the inside out. Isn't that fucked up? Write a short story about how fucked up that is.

*****

Go with me here. You're sitting at home. Say it's a Thursday night. You're curled up with a book and a pint of your favorite beverage. The book is a good one, and you've never read it before. The beverage is delicious. Even if it's water, it's the best water you've tasted. It's the perfect balance of hydrogen, oxygen, and the other shit that's in there. It's that post-dinner pre-darkness time of day. You have a very nice lamp, which is illuminating your text. Illuminating like casting light on it, not like drawing intense designs in the margins. It's late summer, maybe just about to be autumn. You can hear the kids playing baseball in the park. They're just tossing the ball around. Outside of the U.S.A., they're kicking a slightly larger ball around, having wholesome fun. If it's wine, or a cocktail, you probably shouldn't have a whole pint, although whatever makes you happy. Urbanites scratch the kids and add in people walking by on the street below, voices modulated and happy-sounding. Rural folk make it crickets and frogs and a lonesome car on the distant highway. So. You've just passed the halfway point, and the book's starting to get very good. Do you like music while you're reading? There can be some music. At just that perfect volume between annoyingly-too-quiet and slightly-distracting. There's somebody in the room with you, if you want, also enjoying a book. Or knitting, or something. Or you can be alone. Whatever. You're comfortable, is the point. You're comfortable in your favorite spot, wearing your favorite clothes, in socks that are thick enough to keep your feet nice and toasty but soft enough that they feel like bunny slippers. You go to turn the next page. Only you can't. The page has ended mid-sentence, and you wish to turn the page to finish the line, but you can't move your arm. You're sitting there, staring at the last few words on page 184, and you can't move your hand to turn the page. Which is weird. So you're going to put the book down and massage your shoulder or elbow, and make a quizzical expression and wonder, perhaps aloud, what's going on. Except you can't put the book down, and you can't massage your arm, and you can't use the telephone. You are unable to move. Completely. Can't wiggle your fingers. Can't adjust your position. You can't even take your eyes from those last few words on the page: "quietly leaning against" "quietly leaning against" "quietly leaning against." This is ridiculous, right? You're in perfect health. You were moving only a moment ago, when you put your drink down on the table. You can't move, can't swallow, and what's more pressing is you can't blink. Your eyes are open quietly leaning against and you can't even blink or close your eyes quietly leaning against for just a second to get your bearings and figure out what's going on. You are unable to call for help. And now you realize that you cannot breathe. And then, for the first time, you feel it. You feel the first nibble somewhere deep within you. In your stomach. Or your chest. Just the tiniest nibble. A sharp, sudden pain. And then sharper and more intense. And then sharper and beyond anything you've ever known. You fucking hurt. Something is deeply, deeply wrong inside of you. You want nothing more than to clutch your stomach and scream in agony, because something is biting you. Something that you cannot see is eating you from the inside. Your parched throat and drying eyes are nothing to you now because your chest is a cavity filled with teeth, malevolent teeth, quietly leaning against which are devouring your lungs your heart your quietly leaning against core. Your very center. This is not cancer, this is not your body against itself. Something is inside of you, and it is biting you. You can feel it in your neck. In your genitals. Nothing could possibly be worse than this. You would pray, but to whom? What kind of sick fuck god would let you be consumed from the inside, bite by bite? What kind of sick fuck would want you to be eaten alive like this? Sitting in your home on a Thursday night with a book and a drink just trying to relax. And now you're here, unable to move, paralyzed, being consumed. quietly leaning against. And now you picture the creature inside of you. The teeth inside of you. And you picture your own childhood. Birthed alive and held and nurtured and fed and played with and supported and loved in light and in comfort. Not like these teeth. These teeth that were born in you and in the instant of birth began to dig their way out of you. As a test of survival. The first moments of this precious fucking life not spent being held by mother in a warm, soft room coming face to face with existence. The first moments of life spent devouring. Taking the life of another being. This, unluckily for you, is you. For this new creature to survive, you must be devoured whole. Tough fucking luck, huh? If it makes it out of your chest, out of your brain, out of the tough skin around your ankle, it will get to live, and you will not. You will be left a husk. Deflated flesh. quietly leaning against. Oh fucking well, right? Here you are with pain so horrifyingly so abjectly terrible that you now find yourself cheering on the teeth. Come on, teeth. That's right motherfucker. If this is your lot in this miserable life then good fucking luck and please hurry. Please now. Hurry. You have given up because from this pain there is no turning back. Your liver and kidneys are being eaten bite by bite. Just please hurry now. quietly leaning against.

So. Is this what life is.

You'd be into that?

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 17:17:00 +0000

Hillary probably didn't mean this the way it sounds:

If we can blast fifty women into space, one day we will launch a woman into the White House.

Un Memoriam Mega-Post 2

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Wed, 28 May 2008 02:35:00 +0000

The Last Unicorn

The Great Mouse Detective

The Indian in the Cupboard

and

The Return of the Indian

Also! The new podcast! The second volume of AuD(i)ocent takes you on a tour of the Merchant's House Museum. Love it. Love it.

One Day

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Thu, 15 May 2008 16:16:00 +0000

Carrie handed me her new Moleskine last night and said "Write something in here" and then this is what I wrote.

One day the world will
And one day you shall
And one day I too will
And one day together we
And another day the sun
And later that day the rest of
And sometime beyond our
The whole of the universe
And then who knows what
will
And who can say what
shall
But it's true it's true
it's true
So let's dance as much as

The Un-Memoriam Mega-Post

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 14:57:00 +0000

I've been writing about things!

The Magician's Nephew!

Un Memoriam is a new column in which I�m going to be reviewing my nostalgia. Which is to say, I�m going to be taking things I�m nostalgic for (or �for which I�m nostalgic� if you�re one of THOSE people), writing about why I remember liking them, and reviewing them now that I�m old and wise. This will mostly be YA novels and movies (to be more specific, probably mostly YA fantasy novels and, uh, Disney movies), but something else might sneak in here occasionally, too (food, or activities, or board games, or what have you). I plan to keep this column up until one of three things happens:

1) I run out of stuff.
2) I get too sad and prefer to live a life of intense ignorance.
3) Umm� profit? I guess there were only two reasons.

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe!

Before JK Rowling flew in on her broomstick and obliterated all comers, there was a time when CS Lewis�s The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe was the go-to young adult fantasy novel. Everyone I knew loved it. Or maybe everyone I loved knew it. Whichever, it was one of my favorite books when I was a lad. There�s a decent chance that it was one of your favorite books too, right? I�ll acknowledge that it may have just been ubiquitous around me because I grew up in a very conservative, very Christian San Diego suburb� but no, I�m pretty sure it had reached critical mass elsewhere as well. Everybody loves lions, everybody loves witches, and my goodness gracious who doesn�t love a wardrobe? Universal appeal!

The Horse and His Boy!

It�s great. Seriously. It�s great. So yes, I�m flabbergasted. The characters are compelling and complicated and fleshed out, the quest they�re on is exciting and beautifully written, and the authorial voice seems far less �dictated into a tape recorder� rather than �you know, actually written out�. I read without cringing at every page turn. I actually laughed at some of the jokes. I cared about the characters, and thought they made good decisions. For the most part, it�s wonderful.

Prince Fucking Caspian!

Oh, man. OOOOOH MAN. Nothing happens in Prince Caspian. �Prince Caspian� is barely in Prince Caspian, which seems like an odd choice, but whatever. And it�s not like I remembered it being awesome. All that I remembered about this volume before picking it back up again was that at one point, a boy and an old man were standing on a rooftop, looking at stars. About halfway through reading, I realized that what I was remembering was the cover art.

More to come. Soon and soon.

Cost/Benefit Analysis

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 14:55:00 +0000

Winter: Cold, but I can breathe.
Spring: Warm, but I can't breathe.

I'm not sure which is better. I'd try to break it down and figure it out but I HAVE TO BLOW MY NOSE AGAIN.

Should Have Done This Earlier

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Sat, 16 Feb 2008 02:09:00 +0000

Come one. Come all. Come giggle. Tomorrow. With us.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Perv.

Ad Nauseam Lyceum

PRESENTS

Sex, Lies and February... a pageant?
a play-reading what teaches us the true meaning of February.

by Thanksgiving! A! Pageant! playwright David McGee
"directed" by Deena Selenow

featuring
Preston Martin, Slaney Chadwick Ross, Mark Lindberg, Elon Rutberg, Karina Richardson
&
introducing Laura "Moss" O'Brien as Ma Groundhog

THIS Caturday, February 16 @ 7pm
159 West 119th Street @ Adam Clayton Powell Blvd.
There will be beer. There will be laughs. There will be groundhogs.

- - -

THEN join us NEXT week at
- - -

Ad Nauseam Lyceum

PRESENTS

BIG WHITE INSTITUTIONALIZED BOX!

a collaborative installation project

Saturday, February 23 & Sunday, February 24
12 - 8 PM

Reception Saturday February 23 from 5 - 8 PM

chashama on 119th
159 West 119th Street @ Adam Clayton Powell Blvd.

Ad Nauseam Lyceum is proud to present BIG WHITE INSTITUTIONALIZED BOX! a collaborative installation project at chashama on 119th on Saturday, February 23 and Sunday, February 24, 2008.

Ad Nauseam Lyceum has been granted a chashama residency for the month of February at a defunct storefront on 119th Street and Adam Clayton Powell Blvd. Instead of curating a traditional group show as we have done in the past, Ad Nauseam Lyceum will use this unique opportunity to explore new territory as an organization and to utilize the distinct talents and interests of our community of artists. BIG WHITE INSTITUTIONALIZED BOX! is a collaborative art installation created by Brent Birnbaum, Matthew Broach, Celso and the Endless Love Crew, Ryan Frank, Scott Goodman, David Herman, Peter Lester, David Ort, Joan Pamboukes, Tara Parsons, Jake Scharbach, Deena Selenow, Rory Sheridan, Adam Parker Smith and Kyle Walters.

Ad Nauseam Lyceum will present a large scale collaborative installation that reflects the distinct connections and conflicts between various artistic mediums, styles, and processes in which artists are working today. By engaging with the space in alternative and experimental ways, Ad Nauseam Lyceum and its collaborators aim to explore and expose how different types of work can relate to each other through the context of the exhibition display. With some artists working independently and others in collaboration, this ambitious project will present work in a setting that resembles the sanctuary of the artist's studio and outside the confines of a commercial gallery. Created through the communal efforts of over fifteen artists, BIG WHITE INSTITUTIONALIZED BOX! will be an alternative to the traditional group exhibition and exist as an experimentation in curatorial practice.

Ad Nauseam Lyceum is an artist run organization committed to showcasing multi-disciplinary work by emerging artists in New York . The group aims to give young artists an opportunity to collaborate, present work, and have a creative dialogue outside the traditional art market. Founded in 2006 by Ryan Frank, Deena Selenow, and Rory Sheridan , the group has hosted previous events at Ephemeroptera Art Space, chashama, 717 Studio, and EXPLOSIVO! and has collectively shown the work of over 50 visual and performing artists. Dedicated to blurring the lines between various artistic genres, Ad Nauseam Lyceum is a platform for a new generation of artists working in performance, visual art, and digital media.

chashama is a non-profit New York City arts organization with a nine-year history of supporting artists of all genres and experience levels by offering them access to space and major support resources. chashama provides opportunities for artists by transforming vacant real estate into multi-arts complexes and animating them with innovative and challenging art. Through low and no-cost admissions, chashama provides more opportunities for audiences as well as artists.

BIG WHITE INSTITUTIONALIZED BOX! will be open for a final presentation on February 23rd and 24th from 12-8pm,
with an opening reception on Saturday, February 23rd from 5-8pm.

--
Ad Nauseam Lyceum
adnauseamlyceum@gmail.com
www.adnaus.com

Obama-Morris-Jumel!

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Mon, 04 Feb 2008 01:03:00 +0000

Two down, twenty to go!

Stephanie and I set out this morning for a day of Obama canvassing, and historic house visiting. Which is just about the best day I can imagine. We walked around Haarlem (real New Amsterdamers use two A's!) handing out fliers and hanging up signs in business windows (with permission) and at bus stops (without permission). We wore Big Ol' Blue Stickers, we wore buttons on our hats, and lo, did we encourage the masses to go out on Tuesday and vote for our candidate of choice. Our neighborhood, which had been strangely empty of political signs of any sort, is now covered in Obama material. Apparently, some people make their voting decisions based on, like, printed material they see hung around their homes? That's... strange. But, OK, I'll go with it. Does it work on the Internet too? Just in case:

So go vote, damnit.

After we performed our civic duty or whatever, we headed up to the Morris-Jumel Mansion, which is in Washington Heights. British Colonel Roger Morris caused the house to be built in 1765 as a summer home, and at the time owned a parcel of land that extended from river to river across Manhattan. That's not so possible anymore, but luckily the house still exists, on a nice little piece of land that still has a fairly nice view. It just has a fairly nice view of an entirely developed island, instead of the wilderness that Morris must have looked over.

During the autumn of 1776, the house was George Washington's home and headquarters. Oh. So Washington Heights is not just a clever name, then. Later, the house was captured by the English, who taxed the HELL out of its tea. After the colonies won the war (spoiler!) and George Washington was President, he brought members of his family and cabinet back to the house for a sight-seeing trip. Washington, John Adams, John Quincy Adams, Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton all dined together in the, er, dining room. We felt appropriately awed, I think.
Later, the house was purchased by Stephen and Eliza Jumel. When he died, she married Aaron Burr, who shot up the dining room in retroactive Hamiltonian spite. Not really. Well, maybe. They didn't specifically say he didn't do it I guess. Anyway, this was his (Burr's) bedroom.

Now that I've made your browser work to look at this post, I might as well keep it up, right? Here's me on the stairwell doing my best to look regal:

Here's Stephanie looking toward the place where the herb garden once was:

Here's the octagonal room, which was apparently an architectural marvel at the time:

A mirror, featuring the reflection of Eliza's bedroom:

And, finally, the end of another wonderful expotition.

Oh, hell.

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 03:49:00 +0000

I just finished reading Chuck Klosterman (this one) and my old nemesis has returned: I'm not writing like me I'm writing like the writer I just finished reading. I was all set to get to work on my next thing for readingground and I started writing Untitled Klosterman Essay 42 instead of Untitled Dave McGee Essay 6, Or Whatever Number I'm At But It's Low.

I fucking hate that. Gah.

This is why I stopped reading fiction for a while back there in Aught Five, because I am such a mental-flow-junkie that I just steal unabashedly. Or in this case, totally abashedly. I am fully, 100% abashed. Not sure what to do here, because apparently non-fiction is now verboten as well. Backs of cereal boxes and nothing else, forever?

Hmm. OK.

Step 1: Read David Mitchell. Can't copy him because he's a chameleon. Brilliant.
Step 2: ?
Step 3: This joke is probably overused.

Jack Hitt, Redux

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 14:52:00 +0000

More Jack Hitt! More! More!

This week, This American Life is rerunning the (this?) episode "The Middle of Nowhere" which includes Jack Hitt's fantastic piece on Nauru, as well as a really fun non-Hitt segment on battles with the phone company's billing department.

This has been one of my favorite episodes since I first heard it, but at the time of first listen, I did not know who Jack Hitt was. Coming back 'round to it this time, I was delighted to, in the words of the old saying "put two" and "two together."

The episode will be available for free download until 12/14/07, after which STREAMING!

In other news:

Today: Snow this morning will become a mix of wintry precipitation for the afternoon. Some rain may mix in late. Temps nearly steady in the mid 30s. Winds ENE at 10 to 15 mph. Snow accumulating 2 to 4 inches.
Tonight: Rain and sleet this evening ending with continued cloudy conditions overnight. Snow mixing in. Low 31F. Winds N at 10 to 15 mph. Chance of precip 70%.

Good grief, sometimes I miss California.

Beverage Note(s)

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Fri, 07 Dec 2007 03:42:00 +0000

Tall Soy Peppermint Mocha at Starbucks Part 1: Absolutely delicious.
Tall Soy Peppermint Mocha at Starbucks Part 2: Still not worth $4.50.

Expotition

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Fri, 30 Nov 2007 22:00:00 +0000

The Cloisters Museum in Manhattan is one of my favorite places in New York, which places it high in the running for one of my favorite places in the world. Stephanie and I make it a point to go at least a couple of times a year, although we prefer it best in autumn. Wandering up (the long way!) through Fort Tryon Park to approach it from the South, seeing it first in the distance and then seeing it loom glorious, large, right up close... it feels like a pilgrimage writ small. If you'll pardon the not particularly awesome simile. There's a grandness there, is what I'm trying to say.

Last Saturday, we headed out for our Annual Autumnal Visit, with the gorgeous walk and the crunching leaves underfoot and just the most beautiful crisp day. The sky was blue, the trees were many-hued, and we had packed lunch because we are poor. The walk was--as expected--lovely, but when we got in the front door EEP! Crowded. Far too crowded. Crowded crowded crowded.

I... am not a fan of crowds. We backed slowly out the door. We basically have the museum memorized, at this point-- it's not as if we're missing out on the art. Had it been our first trip, we certainly would have braved it. But as I find stillness part of its appeal (it's *Cloisters* please recall), an alternate suggestion was proffered: what if we were to just... walk North? Already being near the upper tip of Manhattan, it wouldn't be that long of a walk to just head up there and see it. Exploring new neighborhoods is one of my most favorite things to do, and we had a beautiful day, and good walking shoes, and basically no reason not to go.

Alors: we went.

After clearing the northern edge of the park, we just struck out northerly on Broadway. We joked about the stores. We thought about stopping for a 1pm beer (Woo!). We looked into a very small branch of the New York Public Library. And then, across the street, we saw what appeared to be an 18th Century Dutch Farmhouse.

Guess the hell what? IT WAS AN 18th CENTURY DUTCH FARMHOUSE. Still there. Remaining from the time that upper New York was forests and farmland. Yes, we had found the Dyckman Farmhouse Museum which was completely empty of other people (except for the lovely Emily who did her graduate work in Museum Studies and who is the keeper of the Farmhouse Museum. She is super-cool and we want to be her friends). We had traded the crowded to capacity museum for one in which we were literally the only guests.

So yes. $1 entrance fee, and we had ourselves the run of the house. Each of the rooms is marked with an excellent description of of its contents (and how they are different now than they were then). It's very well curated, except for an oddly out-of-place exhibit that contained an "explanation" of what it means to be Dutch. I thought that either needed to be expanded or scrapped... but other than that the place was very cool. Outside the house proper there are plaques (plastic plaques. plasques?) explaining the history of the house, showing the placement of the old well, explaining what a Hessian Hut is, commenting on the renovation of the grounds in the early 20th Century. There's a way that places like that have of giving me--just for a moment--an idea or a fleeting feeling of how things used to be that is thrilling. Just thrilling.

It is, in a word, fantastically freaking cool. Three words. In three words, I meant.

And the best thing of all is that there are 21 more homes kept as museums by the Historic House Trust of New York City. Meaning that I have my next few free weekend days planned out.

If you're heading up to the Cloisters anyway (you should, really) spare an hour to check it out. You'll get to stand in a house that's been kept there since Washington was chillin'. A real honest to goodness bit of intact U.S. History. Good. Stuff.

So: we made it up to the top of Manhattan, crossed the river to the Bronx, and attempted to take the subway back downtown. The station was closed.

We walked. Which was the better choice anyway.

I'm also a client.

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 05:11:00 +0000

There is no longer any way to hide it, to deny it, or to pretend it isn't happening.

It's happening. It's happening right now, and you know it. You've been ignoring it for too long, not saying anything, tiptoeing around the issue. This is inexcusable. We can't afford that any longer. It's time to face the facts:

I am going bald.

And I believe I speak for everyone here when I say: fuck.

If you'll allow me to get introspective and all self-image focused and all... well... "bloggy" for a second (you are, after all, at my blog, and should have been expecting it) this realization has put me through the emotional ringer. I've been in a funk for the better part of the week (not the good kind, where the bass riff is all groovy). Stephanie noticed before I did, and asked me earlier this week if anything was wrong. "Yes," I didn't say, "That's why I've been all moody and binge-eating like I just found out that starting on Wednesday there won't be any more food ever." Instead I said "Of course not, I'm fine!" and then I started in on my fifth or sixth helping of dinner and sort of stared at the floor for an hour. "Just fine!"

Oh, and I also have vitiligo. Which means that eventually, I may turn into, basically, a naked mole rat. Pigmentless, hairless, I shall have no choice but to burrow deep, deep underground where I shall not be mocked by the harsh light of the sun or the sound of woman screaming "Dear God, what is that thing?"

Many men, of course, go bald. This is true. Great men, from Patrick Stewart to Mikhail Gorbachev to Bruce Willis lose their hair and still find ways to explore strange new worlds, bring down communism, or pretend to have hair (respectively). There's probably a market for an Everybody Poops-type book for men called A Lot of Men Go Bald And It Doesn't Mean You're Ugly It Just Means You're Special In A Hairless Way actually, you know what? Scratch the book idea.

So, yes. I'm troubled by the fact that I'm losing my hair. I'm also troubled by the fact that I'm SO DAMN TROUBLED by the fact that I'm losing my hair. I would not have thought that I was so vain. It's unfortunate that my self-image--a non-vain person with hair--would suddenly be so wrong (on two counts!). I wish that I were not distressed about this, but it turns out that I am. Which really bothers me.

I can, of course, justify it by saying that I'm not concerned about my appearance, I'm just concerned about getting older. In much the same way that my brother (that hairy bastard) said "Oh... I'm sorry" several years ago when I told him I was getting glasses. "Why?" I asked, honestly bewildered. "I just remember what it was like when I started feeling that I was getting old," he responded with a sigh. I didn't feel it then. I definitely feel it now. There was at least a good chance that I would go bald in my life. I just didn't think it would happen at 25 years of age. Look at him. Look at him there with his long flowing locks.
Unfortunately, I don't think there are a lot of good options, here. As Dave Barry once wrote,

Should balding white men shave their heads, the way many African-American men, such as Michael Jordan, do?

A. No. It's not fair, but the simple truth is that balding African-American men look cool when they shave their heads, whereas balding white men look like giant thumbs.

Was true then, is true now. I don't really want to rock the Picard, I would never ever ever do a comb-over or that spider's nest thing that some old guys do, and I'm really interested in not looking like I'm pretending it's not happening. In fact, I promised myself that if I were ever going bald, I would cut my hair really short, which seems to be the only reasonable answer. Well that day is upon us. I must keep my promise to myself, methinks. My clippers and I have an appointment tonight.

I know that there are hair-regrowth remedies that have met with some measure of success. Last week, on the recommendation of a fellow balding 20-something, I picked up some Rogaine Foam, which I rather think has increased the speed of my hair loss.

I don't like that this is happening, I don't like my emotional reaction to it, and, yes, I don't like thinking about getting older.

This sucks, you know?

Only thing left to do is to compensate by growing a Civil War Mustache. That'll woo the ladies.

Sigh.

Thanksgiving! A! Pageant!

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 20:29:00 +0000

Said pageant features Slaney Chadwick Ross, Briana Mowrey, Preston Martin, Albert Hwang, Derrick Karg, Pearce Larson and intoducing Elon Rutberg as Squanto.

Look, either you're paying $10 for a hilarious show and you get to drink for free, or you're paying $10 for an hour of drinking and you get a hilarious show free. Either one of those is worth $10 but--and here's where it gets really clever--you're going to get both of them.

So come to Greenpoint on Saturday. Trust me, I don't like Brooklyn any more than you do (and possibly substantially less than you do), but it's going to be worth it.

Mouth 3, Dave 0

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 16:30:00 +0000

Two canker sores this week, and now I have a major tongue cramp. Tongue cramp? Who the hell gets a tongue cramp?

Me. And ouch.

Act V

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Fri, 19 Oct 2007 19:45:00 +0000

Well, I just spent the last 30 minutes or so sobbing, while attempting to, you know, do my job. Maybe the rule to take away from this is: don't listen to This American Life while at work.

This week's episode -- which I've heard before and which still got this reaction out of me -- is called Act V.

We devote this entire episode to one story: over the course of six months, reporter and TAL contributor Jack Hitt followed a group of inmates at a high-security prison as they rehearsed and staged a production of the last act�Act V�of Hamlet. Shakespeare may seem like an odd match for a group of hardened criminals, but Jack found that they understand the Bard on a level that most of us might not. It's a play about murder and its consequences, performed by murderers living out the consequences.

Get them handkerchiefs ready.

The journalist/reporter/narrator of the story is Jack Hitt. I'm turning out to be quite a fan of his. After reading his essay "Mighty White of You" in Harpers Magazine (you can read it online if you're a subscriber (which is worth it) or if you, um, email me and ask nicely) I purchased his book Off the Road: A Modern-Day Walk Down the Pilgrim's Route Into Spain.

Get some Jack Hitt in your life, people. You'll be glad you did.

Chess'd! Review

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Thu, 18 Oct 2007 20:34:00 +0000

For archiving purposes, I'm putting up the www.nytheatre.com review of my play "Chess'd!" that I produced this summer for the breedingground Spring Fever Festival '07.

For what it's worth, I think this review is fair and, ultimately, correct in its criticism. It's nice to read a review of something that I wrote and think, "Oh, the reviewer totally got it: its faults, and its SHEER EFFING GENIUS."

I'm fairly certain that, barring a cosmic event, I'll never ever produce a play ever again. I like acting. I really like directing. I love writing. Producing? Egads. Count me out.

Now I'm going to go find out if anybody has pictures of this show anywhere.

nytheatre.com review
Daniel Kelley � May 19, 2007

Chess'd! is a comic romp through the absurd and hilarious world of a ninja and a man in a white tuxedo playing a game of epic, life-sized chess. The players, both eager for victory, quickly disregard all the rules of the game in favor of doing everything in their power to destroy the other. It is only then, as the ninja and the man in the white tuxedo spin out of control, that a mysterious man with a Southern accent appears from nowhere, with a team of incompetent medics that changes everything.

Chess'd! succeeds most as a straight-up comedy. The clever, at times ingenious comic writing, combined with dead-on performances, direction, and design help make Chess'd! hilarious from start to finish. It succeeds less as an allegory for the abuse of power. A lack of clarity as to what each character represents, and how the world around them works, leaves the symbolism of the play unclear.

As a comedy, however, the play is without reproach. David McGee's writing is crisp, specific and clever. The individual gags are carefully constructed and expertly executed, whether it's "The Man's" increasingly lengthy and involved calls to Jesus Christ, the double-dialogue between the Ninja and White Tuxedo as they sheepishly attempt to explain their carnage, or (perhaps the funniest moment in the play) when the irate "Man" gets the wrong kind of coffee.

Deena Selenow's direction provides an excellent frame for the talented ensemble. Owen O'Malley is solid, and at times endearing, as White Tuxedo. Pearce Larson as The Man and Joby Earle as Ninja do a skillful job of fully committing to the language and style of the piece. Though Larson enters later on, his performance commands the second half and delivers the single funniest moment in the entire play. Joshua William Gelb's set and Denise Maroney's costume design manage the epic scope of the piece with simple yet imaginative choices that work well, and accentuate the fun theatricality of the piece.

But where the fun is supposed to give way to symbolism, confusion prevails. While Ninja and White Tuxedo do everything in their power to destroy each other, I remained unclear as to how their actions affect the world around them. While I enjoyed their battling and laughed my way through it, it didn't feel resonant with the current state of affairs in the world. It felt as though the play was being funny for the sake of being funny, which was something I thought it did very well, and I was wiling to accept it at that.

However, the sense of how this play relates to the real world, and what exactly the play is trying to say, becomes more important as the play progresses. McGee (to his credit) seems intent on making the play something more than the absurd comedy we are initially presented with. However, McGee's world beyond the absurd is somewhat muddled, and the symbolism indecisive. I was uncertain what role the medics have in the world of the play, and what they were meant to represent. I was uncertain why the Ninja and White Tuxedo were so different from them and why they had to escape them. The epilogue, given by "Other Medic", attempts to clarify what has come before, and to give it some weight. The writing is strong, but the conclusion's somber tone is jarring considering what has occurred previously; it feels tacked on. However, the very last line returns the play to its absurd core, and causes the audience to burst out laughing once again.

Invincible Cities

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Fri, 12 Oct 2007 16:40:00 +0000

I found out about Camilo Jos� Vergara�s photography here, at the New York Times' "City Room" blog. And now, verily, I am a fan. Vergara is chronicling "urban change" in three communities: Richmond, California; Camden, New Jersey; and Harlem. Where I live. Yesterday's post featured the exterior of my building in 1987. Not much has changes since then (landmarked status, baby!) but there are now trees in the avenue's median. And the cars parked outside are newer. Slightly. Those metal fences you see in this shot are new, though. They are much better than rotting chain link. There are now very bright security lights and security cameras now, as well as 24 hour 2-guard patrol. Which is nice. All of that is nice. I'm not complaining.

But something else comes with those kinds of changes. Something... maybe not so nice.

Perhaps the most fascinating thing about Vergara's project is that he has taken photographs of the same buildings or storefronts over a period of years to chronicle how neighborhoods change over time. For instance, the website features over 20 pictures of 65 E. 125th Street, taken between 1977 and 2007, which illustrate its metamorphosis over the past 30 years from an empty but charming storefront into a bright & shiny Sleepy's Matress Store. It's been a chip shop, a bodega, and much else along the way.

Yes, it's gentrification. Or civic beautification. Or something. It's definitely... complicated. It's nice to have services around home, yes. But... but...

Look. A few blocks from where I live, the corner of 145th Street and Frederick Douglass Blvd. has undergone an unbelievable change. It's almost incredible. Gentrification, you have been photographed. Here's the corner in 1998.
Here is the same corner--no shit--today.
We've got a Starbucks now, people. I'm sure another one will open right across from it soon.

Haarlem!

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Thu, 11 Oct 2007 19:25:00 +0000

Hey look! I live here!

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Sat, 07 Oct 2006 14:31:00 +0000

The Play -- "The Taming of the Shrew: The Induction: Parts 1 and 2, by William Shakespeare and David J. McGee (Respectively), With a New Induction by David J. McGee (Respectfully)"

The Title -- Is very silly

When -- Monday, October 9th at 7pm and Sunday, October 15th at 1pm

Shouldn't you have alerted me earlier than this? -- Yes.

Where -- Hudson Guild Theater, Located in the John Lovejoy Elliot Center, 441 West 26th Street btwn 9th & 10th Avenues

How much does this cost?-- "Pay what you can." We both know what that means.

What's the play about? Is it funny? Does it suck? -- It's picking up the ball that Shakespeare dropped. The producer called it "An absurd riff on Shakespeare, New York theater, and the nature of reality," although that's Raimondo. So, you know. Does it suck? I don't think so. Come prove me otherwise.

I'm in a play, though, and can't be there -- You're dark on Monday, and you know it.

But it's Columbus Day. -- Suck it up, now.

Who is in it? -- Owen O'Malley, Joshua William Gelb, Stephanie Douglass, Dylan Dawson, Elon Rutberg, Joby Earle, Blackey Fontaine, and Heather Caruso.

I know some of those people! -- So come support them!

How do I get tickets? -- E-mail specevents@dreamscapetheatre.org

Can we hang out sometime? -- That would be cool.

Anything else? -- I would sure love to see you. Especially you. You know who you are. So be there. Please. :)

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Mon, 25 Sep 2006 23:12:00 +0000

Today, I finished listening to an audio recording of Michael Frayn's novel Headlong, and began listening to Haruki Murakami's novel Kafka on the Shore. These are both authors that I adore-- Frayn for his brilliance writing plays (Copenhagen, Noises Off), Murakami for his always thrilling fiction (Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle). I greatly enjoyed Headlong, and listened in rapt attention for over four hours to Kafka on the Shore.

Any audio-book recommendations? Particularly good recordings, or just particularly great books? Good rule of thumb here is the longer the better, because my job is very boring which gives me ample time to listen.

Also: is there any reason why I shouldn't listen to (rather than actually read) Ulysses? Discuss.

noreply@blogger.com (Dave) — Sat, 23 Sep 2006 14:37:00 +0000

Here's some syntactical oddness: when discussing actors' work, my preposition changes depending on the medium. For instance, I would say that Terry O'Quinn was in The Rocketeer, but that he is on Lost. Does this have to do with the fact that we say that programs are on television, where we tend to day that they're in movie theatres? How did this distinction develop anyway? We also say on radio. At least I do. Is this just me? No, it can't be. Is this worth my first blog post in six months?