XI: I never lost control

One thing I like about the Stout Monk is that they play good music there. While drunk, I got into a spirited discussion - well, more like a sermon - about my belief that Kurt Cobain was murdered. Man, I'm obnoxious. I love my id, I should use it more often.

So this entry's title is from Bowie's "The Man Who Sold the World," which was playing while we were out on the patio and I was still in a position to appreciate the specifics of my surroundings.

This entry is picking up from the previous one posted earlier tonight, which itself is the continuation of the first post I made tonight. So if you're just seeing this, scroll down to IX: Memory is an art to get the beginning of the story of this weekend. It's an attempt to keep the story manageable and also inflate my post count for the month. Go me!

So, assuming you've read the previous couple posts, on to the stirring conclusion.

I had set my alarm for 7:10. I had drunk-shaved the night before, wrapped my gift, laid everything out in preparation and figured out my route to the Royal Botanical Gardens.

at about 7:30 I hear music, awaken terribly disoriented to the cheerful sunshine outside my window. My first thought was something along the lines of "Oh fucking hell crap ass bitch, I have to get out of bed and do something today. FML!"

So I sauntered downstairs, had my cereal, had a quick shower, dressed in my khaki pants and my shirt tie, gathered my wits about me and walked, at 8:30, to the GO station, picking up a coffee for good measure.

I'll confess something. I tell people "I don't get hangovers," specifically, that I've only ever had two. One was after my 19th birthday, the other after a flawed night drinking Keith's Pale Ale. Ever since then I've been good enough about staying hydrated and taking care of myself and knowing my limits. That's not to say I never feel the after-effects. When you eject as much stomach acid as I tend to do, a queasy feeling tends to linger. But what I'm getting at here is that only twice have I ever been incapacitated by this feeling. That's my standard. My brother Eric, for example, has had many, many nights where he overdid it and was completely absent the entire next day. As much experience as he has partying - and it's a great deal more than me - he always ends up paying for it, and I've only gotten tot hat point twice. Aside from those two occasions, I've always been able to pick myself up the next day, dust myself off, and walk away.

Thus the miracle of this morning that I was completely sober and alert by the time I got out the door. I had popped a Gravol just in case I needed something to calm my nerves, because anything that's beyond routine for me is a threat. You know me. And going to a wedding, being surrounded by new people and all that stuff, well, that's a prime scenario.

SO here's what happens. I got on the 9:20 train and arrive at Aldershot whenever, shortly before 10. And the initial idea had been to catch a bus down to the Royal Boyanical Gardens, but stupid, stupid me, had failed to check what time buses arrive. One little gap in my plan.

I had even thought about it. I was out the door, I was at Tim Hortons buying my coffee, thinking "Hm, you know, there's a chance I've got this all wrong and I won't be able to catch the bus. I'll have to take a cab. Hope I've got enough money." Durrk.

So I got to Aldershot and gradually realize that no bus is coming in good enough time to get me to the Gardens. I could've gotten there for 11:08 when the wedding was due to start at 11, and in the end that may have been acceptable but not preferable of course. so I dialed the invaluable resource that is #Taxi and called myself a cab.

Within only a few moments the cab pulled up. Not my cab, but the girl who was also waiting ceded it to me, saying I had been waiting longer. I was reluctant. I had a bad feeling about this. I could've said "Let's split it, where are you going?" Anything. I had time. But no, I got in.

First question. "Do you take debit?" Nope. I tugged my collar and kept a paranoid eye on the meter.

We approached, the fucker ticked up from $3 to $5 to $8. I was low on cash, but I knew I had a fiver and a lot of coins, but whether that would cover it, I had no idea. $8 became $9 became $11 and finally $12.05 when the cabbie pulled up to the Botanical Gardens. I dug through my wallet. A $5 bill. Two toonies and a loonie got me to $10. Quarters boosted that total to $11.25 and the rest came in dimes. Yess! "Sorry sir, I won't be able to tip you but it's all there." Go me. My change pocket was effectively emptied.

My irritation grew, however, as I became aware that we were at the wrong entrance, and he had actually taken a long way around to get there, so fuck him he didn't deserve any tip anyhow. I had to run around, frantically, to the other side of the building as raindrops began to fall and heavy dark clouds began to roll in. "Muck my life, fuck my life!" I chanted as I tried more and more inoperative doors. finally I found the front.

First order of business, make sure I'm even in the right place. I saw people dressed as for a wedding and a woman claiming to be the "coordinator" so I went with the flow and hoped this was, ni fact, the Judd-Udris wedding. Next stop was to clean up, because I'd been untucked and my hair was soaked, so I finger-combed it, straightened my shirt, tightened my tie, made myself respectable. Presentable.

Last item on the agenda, stow the gift. I found Amanda's sister and she found me the coordinator and I was able to place the gift in the reception hall. Then I just chilled out until Deanna and Andrew showed up, and chilled with them a while, until Joe and Viki came.

At this point, it became fairly clear that the rain was a goddamn tsunami. I'd been saying "Oh it's been raining a lot lately, but only a little each day." Well this was goddamn plenty. The first thing I said to Joe when he arrived was "Well, I might as well just say it. This is just too ironic." Yuk yuk. Alanis.

It was supposed to be an outdoor wedding. "What if it rains?" I asked Amanda at one point in the planning stages. She shrugged , "Well, there's a tent, so unless it's really bad we'll be fine." And it was really bad. So the whole thing was moved inside and it probably wasn't what they had in mind. Joe played his minute or so, less than he was probably intending to. They didn't end up doing "Wild Horses" at the reception. The ceremony didn't take long.

We maybe could've mingled more, us Sheridan kids mainly stuck to ourselves. There was just not a lot to do. I recognized one guy, Jon, Manda had introduced me to him when we went to Fan Expo last year. He brought his wife and this other fellow, his wife's boyfriend. Yeah, they're poly. I didn't speak directly to them, just observed. From a distance, the whole situation was amusingly weird. There's a play in there, but I say that about everything nowadays. Everything is game. I want to write it all.

The food was good, although the cake was a bit rich for my taste because I'm not a cake fan. That's a well known fact. If you didn't know that already, you should now, because I've said it.

Also, I think Manda's sister may have been eying me, but I think that most of the time anyway (and it's an instinct that has served me well.) Not that anything was actually going to happen - I was pretty worn out from the night before, among the myriad reasons why not.

It was a good ceremony, a fun reception, quite casual. No dancing. The servers were pushing the wine but I think i'll be off alcohol for a couple days at least. Man I was gassed last night.

I caught a ride home with Joe and Viki; we were the last to linger due to waiting for her parents to pick us up. I was very thankful and was sure to express this gratitude repeatedly. I got home, made dinner (prefab Chinese approximation) and then lounged around watching Superbad, nodding off into a well-earned nap. When I was done with that, caffeine and this undertaking.

Tomorrow I ought to take care of my various business. Lot to do. Monday's the day to do it since I won't really be thinking about school.

Go me.

Hopefully you'll see me again by the end of the month, but you never know when I'll just disappear again. You know me. At least, if you're reading SWP you certain have a right to feel as though you know me.

And now what adventures await our Manda in the realm on matrimony. Excitement!

It's been fun catching up. We should do this more often. I'm very pleased with this weekend and I hope my recap has done it justice. The summer of 2009 has been an eventful one, that's for damn sure. And we're just approaching the home stretch.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

X: Take me to away to nowhere plains

In case you haven't caught on yet, I'm doing three posts tonight both to raise my post count for the month and to more effectively summarize my comparatively busy weekend. As SWP is, in general, a self-gratifying celebration of every nuance and neurosis of my life, more me shouldn't be unwarranted, since I've been scarce of late.

This entry's title from Here Comes Your Man, one of my favourite Pixies songs, along with U-Mass and Gouge Away. I originally thought the lyric was "nowhere place," a variation I kinda like better, but who am I to second guess Black Francis?

Saturday wasn't going to be much of a day, I thought. I was going to use it to take care of some long-standing items on the ole to-do list including reviews that are way past due, and other selfish writings. I still haven't done any of 'em. It was going to be a boring day, that was the plan, I swears. The main thing I did was go buy wrapping paper and a card - and the debit machine at Carlton Cards was out, so I had to pay with cash, which becomes important later, because it meant breaking a twenty.

It was a boring day for the most part, I sat around watching movies (as has been quite customary lately) then went out to dad's for dinner, lent him Lost season 2. Asked me to comment whether the raft cliffhanger was resolved immediately. I told him if I were him, I'd be more interested in the contents of the hatch. Oh man, those were the days.

Actually not really. One of the few spoilers I had handy on my first go-round was about what was in the hatch, Desmond, the button, and the introduction (but not resolution) of the Henry Gale story. Eric, too, knew that there was "some crazy guy" living in the hatch because he'd caught that episode not long before we started watching. So dad has pure perspective Tabula Rasa, if you will; and I will.

I got home from dinner, and got a message from CB. "Hey, you up for anything tonight?" Well, sure, I've got a wedding tomorrow but as long as we're not out too late it's okay, right? So we start brainstorming. Nothing really exciting in theaters, nobody around for bowling, no use in a Niagara trip (but damn we gotta do that someday.) Okay, let's just go get a drink. It was only 8:00, barely 8:30 by the time we got to the bar.

So we sat on the patio, ordered a pint each, and started catching up, talking about "hey summer's going by so fast but at least I'm making it worthwhile." This has been the most eventful and rewarding summer of my life and I am very glad for it, even the miserable parts quite frankly. Swap more stories, a few more pints, basically I share anecdotes I've already written up on this blog. The Poli Sci paper. I drink confidently knowing CB has offered to pick up my tab. What a guy.

I begin to talk about a few weeks ago when I was at Deb's birthday, how appalled one of the ladies was at the attention given to him, and how I felt the need to pipe in and defend his charitable contributions. CB and I discuss this very nuanced issue for a while when this guy at the table over from us interjects "He was a pedophile, y'know, he diddled kids." At this point, I'm exhausted, because that was exactly the conversation I'd had with that lady, only I'm too drunk to really care, so I didn't mount much of an argument, although the discussion was propelled awkwardly by the guy's insistence. I maintain that the man was psychologically stuntedm and didn't have the conception of sex that we do, and thus his kid-fixation, or whatever, was not manifested in the form we know as pedophilia. Some people aren't open to that kind of thinking. He really didn't wanna hear my half-assed psychobabble. I still maintain that he gave to a shitload of charities, was generally a champion of his causes, did his best with what he had, and was an enormously fucked up human being. Whatever. Done talking about it. Again. I hope it sticks this time.

So after that edition of the McLaughlin group, we were 3 pints deep, dealing in halves now. We moved inside to the bar and I was pretty well done. CB's waitress friend was working the bar, dealing with the advances of older drunks. I drunk-talked all over the place, to the probable amusement/bemusement/delight/dismay of CB and every other person there. I was very lively drunk Scott, the one people like to be around and are slightly jealous they're not as drunk as. Then Cathy the waitress treated us to some shots, which was a brilliant awful terrible idea on her part, and sometime after that I got sick waiting for CB to finish something. It happens, and of course if you're me, you're good enough to keep people from noticing while you slink off the the washroom to take care of business. I'm a pro at regurgitation.

So around 1, long after I should've been in bed, after 3.5 pints and a mystery shot, Scotto the Lightweight champ was pretty well floored and calling it a night, so we walked home, CB being good enough to accompany me, converse and keep em grounded, although his attempts to get me running were for bupkiss. We talked about, you know, life and girls and high school and university, the usual topics I scat all over when I'm drinking. It was the best worst night ever.

I came home, realizing I still had a gift to wrap, a ridiculous prospect in my state given the walk home had sobered me, at most, an eighth of the way up. Somehow, I managed to do it anyway, ending up with a sloppy lopsided wrapping job that was pretty good for a drunk dude, and signing the card surprisingly legibly. And then there was the other thing I had wanted to do before bed - shave.

Ha ha ha, oh man. I had about a half a week's worth of growth on my chin and I needed to be clean shaven for the wedding, and shaving in the morning takes precious moments away from sleep when you really need it. So, inebriated beyond reason, I lathered the fuck up and shaved. Now that was an unreal experience, wielding sharp razors (the Mach 3 - if I'd only had a day's growth I could've used my electric and avoided the issue altogether) when you can barely stand. Oh man. What the fuck was I thinking? I don't know, but it worked out well, I got a good clean shave, and in what I felt was a record time. Then I knocked back an acetaminophen and tried to get to sleep, except the casual way in which I tossed that pill down my gullet activated my gag reflex, which is of course really just my vomit reflex, so I threw up again. And I almost choked on that pill, so thank goodness I vomited it up. you're a champ, Scotto. You're a king of men.

I can just see the headlines: "Oakville man chokes to death on pill, was goddamn drunk idiot." Yeah, that's journalistic integrity there.

It was around 2:20 by the time I settled in for a good night's sleep. Before that, I arranged an alarm playlist for 7:10. So at best I was looking at under 5 hours of alcohol-induced sleep. I may or may not have woken up at 5 to use the washroom, or I may have dreamed it, or that was some other night.

The stirring finale of the story in the next post.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

IX: Memory is an art

Looking at that roman numeral up there, I've determined I have written entirely too few entries this month. Nine? Nine?? By the 26th? Ridiculous. Very not me. The thing that makes this so egregious is the fact that, even taking into account the Half-Past weekend earlier this month, this has been the busiest/most eventful weekend of recent memory, and at the end of it all I sit and think I've got enough material for three healthy-sized blog entries. Considering some of the meager offerings I've provided in the past, I could easily split the events of Friday, Saturday, and Sunday into their own entries.

And that's exactly what I'll do. Three entries in one night to get to a fairly decent SWP month post count. They won't be long entries, but they'll be easier to digest.

So Friday, I was feeling good and relaxed after a fairly hectic Thursday, what with the whole paper-writing thing. My main task for the day was to go down to the mall and buy Amanda's wedding gift. I've been telling her since the beginning that she's getting a spatula. Not only are spatulas* handy, useful and necessary, it's fun to say. Also, "a spatula" is a good cheap idea for a good, cheap guy like myself.

(*Or is it "spatulae?")

In actuality, I wanted to get her, like, a set, with different mixing spoons and maybe a ladle and stuff, something that came on a stand you could have on the counter. My intention had been to buy this at the mall a week ago, with her in tow (I'd warned her it was likely) but I didn't see what I liked, and resolved to get it elsewhere at a different time. So a different time ended up being two days before the wedding (as you'll recall, the early part of the week was taken up with procrastinating over my paper) and a different place ended up being the same place. The I didn't end up getting the thing we were looking at, because I couldn't find it.

So at the end of it all, I wound up choosing a selection of high quality off-the-racks spatulae, spoons, etc. Kitchen stuff. An ice cream scoop. Good stuff. The checkout lady applauded my choice of brand (Cuisinart, mostly.) I said it was for a friend's wedding, and she said "Oh, was this on the gift registry?" and I said "Nah." I'm too cool for gift registries. I do my own thing and people love me for it. Or at least, they tolerate me for it.

Of course, when I got home, I realized I'd forgotten to buy wrapping paper. that will come up in a later post.

Friday night, we had to eat and run at dad's place. Many weeks ago, B and I got some tickets to an ROH (Ring of Honor Wrestling) event out at the Ted Reeve arena in the Danforth area. If "Ted Reeve" sounds familiar to you, it's because you may be keeping up with the Toronto garbage strike, and know that the Ted Reeve arena is not just "one of" the temporary dump sites, it was elected smelliest. Brando and I were not excited, but we'd already paid our $25.

Add to this the fact that a few nights earlier, Chris had MSN'd me saying "Risk Friday." Basically indicating it was guaranteed to happen - Ryan was down, CB was donw, everything was set. I winced. I've prided myself on never being the guy who holds out, who ruins it, but being all the way out on the East end of Toronto for something I'd already paid for, was guaranteed to go late, etc? Damn - I was in a tight spot.

But still, we went out to the Danforth. It was a nice, small hockey arena, very appropriate for the indy show atmosphere. We had good seats too, third row, that was going to make it difficult for me to leave. It didn't even smell that bad, except for the amount of BO that amounts in a confined space with sweaty people.

There were a few dark matches with people I'd never heard of, good young guys who were just finding their place. The show began after 8 with an excellent Sonjay Dutt vs. El Generico match that saw both men well in control of the crowd, a time limit draw finish that saw the crowd chanting "Five more minutes! Five more minutes!" which of course is the point of a time limit draw. So Sonjay, being the heel, grabs the mic and says "You people want five more minutes? Well I don't!" It was pretty awesome.

Then I saw the Briscoes face a team called the "Super Smash Bros." that worked a comedy video game gimmick that got the crowd chanting "1-Up!" and "Press continue!" These fans love to chant, I tell you. The Smash Bros had some good spots, too, but inevitably, the hulking, jocky Brosicoes had to go over, as established stars of the the ROH promotion.

The last match I saw was an exhibition by former WWE star D-Lo Brown, for whom he crowd went nuts (it's funny, he was hardly a presence in WWE but is highly appreciated by the informed, thoughtful smark crowd. I guess any well-known guy would be in that atmosphere.)

I began to get a little antsy. My plan had been to leave after 9, catch the train back to Oakville for 10:20 and get in some good Risk times. But I was having a good time, so I thought, let's push the time frame back and hour, 11:30 is still an acceptable time to start a Risk game. So I sent Chris a text to this effect,and then a few moments later I got a text from an unknown number saying "Where you at? Let's get some risk going." I guess it turns out I didn't have Chris' number in correctly. Whoops.

So, taken off guard, I bid B. adieu and fled, catching the train with barely a moment to spare, then faced with the awkward proposition of sitting on the train for nearly an hour with no iPod, a Metro I'd already read and no pencil for the crossword/Sudoku. Basically, all I was able to do was sit and contemplate and try not to eavesdrop boring conversations. It's weird. - I love listening in on really bad, private stuff, but sometimes people just banter and I can't stand having to hear it.

I tried to call CB repeatedly, because I wanted him to pick me up at the station to go to Risk, and maybe stop off for eats, because the whole "eat and run" thing had left me unfulfilled. Unfortunately, CB was out of commission for the evening, leaving me to feel some regret for leaving my rasslin' show.

So when I got to town I had to figure out a) how quickest to get to Chris' place, and b) how to get food. I rushed over to the McDonald's but didn't care for the indifferent treatment I was getting in light of my hurry, preferential treatment for the drive-thru, which has always been a mild pet peeve of mine. So after a few minutes I just turned around and ran back to catch the Zone bus.

On the bus, I ran into an acquaintance from high school. We weren't particularly good friends, except in grade 9 when we hung around a fair bit in tech and drama. He'd been out west, but came back when Alberta pretty much collapsed. We talked about, you know, life and figuring your shit out. He was a bit of a burnout when I knew him, but like many of those guys he's starting to think seriously about what he wants to be doing.

I got home, made myself a sandwich, and then headed out to Chris Ferg's, where I saw him and RyLai waiting for the fourth man, as they'd invited a friend of theirs over. It didn't really look like he was going to show, though, so we started to think about what to do, and concluded a three-man game, which we're always against, was possible with some minor modifications - the South America/Australia connection, a dummy player, other stuff.

It ended up being fairly close to our usual game, but with some good progression. I was just glad to be playing. RyLai got an early lead, having South America and Austrlia (we boosted those continents' value too) and Chris and I were mostly on the defensive for the first half of the game but we both managed to make comebacks. Ryan was never eliminated, and he had a set, but by the time we decided to call it a night he had less going on than either of us. Meanwhile, The Big Lebowski and Arrested Development.

So that was Friday. I'll be back in a bit to tell you about Saturday...

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

VIII: Woman Moving in the Shadows

July is positively teleporting by.

You know, it's weird. When you have nothing to do at all during the entire summer, it seems to crawl, and when it's gone you think "Oh Fuck I wasted this summer." But when you get out of the house even just two days a week, and have the rest of your time to be bored, suddenly you find yourself with the urge to make the most of your free time, so by the end of July you (and by this point it should be clear that by "you" I mean me,) feel pretty good about how time has passed.

But let's talk about that, because although the summer school plan has worked out well, that doesn't mean I'm walking on sunshine. As with anything, I had some responsibilities and, as I am wont to do, I totally shirked them, because hey, it's summer. So for the last week or so, but really coming out of the weekend, there was this assignment, a 12-page(ish) paper hanging over my head for Poli Sci. I had absolutely no desire to do it, but of course it was worth 30% of my mark, so it's a little tough to justify skipping. So since Sunday I've been like "Okay, I'll do some readings, and then get started on this paper, it'll be fine, I've got time." And then slowly, slowly I tried to make headway but it was ungodly boring. I was reading about health care, my pet issue (and my word does it steam me when I hear Americans talking smack about it) and just not digging it. So procrastination set in.

And I was really going to get down to business on Wednesday, and then I... didn't. So there's me, up at 1:30 AM on Wednesday night (Thursday morning) clicking around the readings and really just playing Freecell. Fuck, man! I'm 22 years old, I ought to have more sense than this. Or maybe it's because I'm 22 years old and I'm no longer afraid of the threats of not performing well at school because I know I've sunk as low as I can.

That's comforting.

So I made myself a resolution. I'd go to bed, get a good night's sleep, wake up earlier than usual, get as much of my paper done as possible and then, if somehow I managed to get it done, go in to school and hand it in or, likely contingency plan, figure out some time tomorrow I could go in to hand it late.

So I did go to bed relatively early, and I did set my alarm, and I did wake up a few hours earlier than usual. for a while anyway.

Because you see, I was so engrossed in my dream, so comfortable in my bed, and so relaxed by the sound of rainfall outside of my window and the surprisingly gentle tunes my random playlist had selected me to wake up to (for the record, although they are randomly selected, I moderate and arrange them for maximum disruptiveness. Ireally thought My Name is Jonas and Are you Gonna Be My Girl would've gotten me out of bed quicker) made me drift back into a comfortable sleep for another 90 minutes or so, well past the end of the 15-song playlist. So when I finally got out of bed it was nearly 10, which in my defense is still a little earlier than the norm, but not by much.

So, fuck me, right? Well, the kid is nothing if not a very determined last-minute essay writer. That attitude has gotten me in trouble more than once. Maybe my "best work" isn't when I'm right up against deadlines, but my quickest often is, and between 11 AM and 2:30 PM I wrote 11 pages double-spaced on health care, with plenty of citations (note however, I was only able to use the 6 or so articles he provided, and they were pretty much all about Clinton, not current stuff.) The concept of the paper was to summarize the issue and what can be done about it, not to form an opinion, so I'm not all that proud of it, but it was workable. It's maybe a 70, which would be right on par for me in this course. I guess American Government just ain't my thing, although it's still better than I was doing in Shakespeare, and that, I thought, kinda was my thing.

So I managed to get the 3:40 train to Union (because after that time the schedules get rush-hour wonky) and get to class about 40 minutes late, in time to hand in my paper at the halfway point. I guess there's not more to say about it than that, and I deserve whatever mark I get on it, so if I fail, I deserved it, but I felt like my general sense of the project was enough that I should pass, just not.... excessively.

On the way home, I ran into RyLai, we talked about music, life, people we know.. the usual overly bold conversations in plain hearing of any random commuter.

So now I'm just unwinding. I'll have quite a bit of reading to catch up on for the last test, but I've got other stuff I want to do and now can. Like, for instance, blog. Hell, I've only done 8 entries in this whole month!

I must be a busy guy.

Or a boring one.

I'm trying - trying - not to focus too hard on what I hate about my life lately. The whole bored-directionless-lonely schitck I drag out every now and again. Even I get tired of it after a while, but it's what I do. But I'm trying not to, because my life doesn't totally suck and I should realize that.

This has been, almost without comparison, the best summer of my life, even notwithstanding the bullshit of school and the usual malaise. For God's sake, I did Half-Past Eight PM, and even with all my angst and anxiety and insecurity that was an unqualified success. I had at least a glimpse that maybe, maybe I'm on the right track, and it felt good.

Well, it felt like a lot of things, but good was one of them.

2009 has been a big one, yes kids.

But sometimes I wonder...

what is... the Humpty Dance really was our chance... to do the Hump?

In totally unrelated music stuff, I'm listening to Aerosmith more lately, some of the less iPod-worthy stuff. I'm rediscovering how much fun Get a Grip is to listen to. Maybe because that album more than anything else reminds me of my carefree prepubescent days when I had no idea what all the lyrics were about and I had fun imagining.

I love Rocks, although it reminds me of Grade 7. Just Push Play reminds me of Grade 8. Pump doesn't remind me of anything in particular, although it hits close to Get a Grip. Get a Grip is the order of the day. Because I was raised listening to the albums over and over, I equate Steven Tyler's voice with a level of comfort and security that is probably just shy of unhealthy.

Well, I'm stalling now. This entry ended like twenty minutes ago. Well, twenty minute of writing, maybe three minutes of reading. Still too long.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

VII: Chlorine

Decent weekend for our man.

Per usual, it began with coffee with Manda. There was naturally a lot of wedding talk, but most of her stuff seems in place so it's not like she's freaking out at all. Well, she's having surrealistic nightmares about it but other than that, no big deal. I defrayed a lot of it by talking about unimportant, unrelated stuff. Like webcomics, which she's always glad to discuss. I talked about getting back to work on my own, and how if I deliberately lowered the quality of it, I would earn more forgiveness and good faith from the webcomic reading community. I think my next one will be done on looseleaf lined paper.

I told her a story, which I had meant to share on this blog last week, about last Sunday night when I was asked to come over to my dad's place for Deb's 50th birthday. It was one of those "would you like to come over?" invites that doesn't really sound like a question, like I really can't say no. Not that I would want to shun the invite, my brothers and I really like Deb and are rather close to her, so we really wouldn't want to be rude in that way. We picked up a bottle of wine and a card. The thing was on "From 3 'til whenever" so we decided to come over after dinner. We expressed concern about how long we were obligated to stay, and determined "The length of a drink" to be a good measurement.

So, we got there, and it's basically dad, and Deb, and a bunch of Deb's 40-50-60-year-old friends sitting around talking. There was a pretty decent spread, so B. and I each grabbed a plate full of, like, crackers and meats and cheeses and vegetables, and a beer. Then we sat and listened while these ladies sat around talking about the first time they gave birth, as women of a certain age like to do. It was among the most awkward situations I've ever found myself in, quite honestly, because all I could do was sit there and listen very reluctantly. And all the while dad's got this look on his face like "Yeah... sorry guys."

At the end of the drinks came cake, so we stayed for that. As seems to happen everywhere nowadays, the conversation turned to the death of Michael Jackson, and this one lady was going off on how offensive she found the media coverage, how a monster like Jackson was overshadowing a saint like Farrah Fawcett, who battled cancer so publicly and bravely, whereas he was a vile human being with no redeeming qualities.

Well, I opted to point out - and I have no idea why I was compelled to do so - that Jackson at one point was in the Guinness book of records for being most the entertainer involved with the most charities, that he used a lot of his money and influence to do good in the world, and that while he was clearly a troubled human being, with severe emotional issues, his contributions to the world could not be dismissed so easily. As I cleverly put it to Amanda, things aren't so, ahem, "Black or White." Hot-cha!

Well, the lady was unconvinced by my argument. In the end of it all I felt embarrassed for even bringing it up, since it wasn't exactly the Algonquin goddamn round table and nobody was really there for a subtle, nuanced discussion of the nature of fame and charity. "Whatever, he's still a bad guy as far as I'm concerned." I don't personally care all that much, but it bothers me when people only see things from a certain point of view. I like to be contrary. Devil's advocate.

Around that time, cake was done and I decided it was time to go (dad very eagerly opted to drive us home, saying he was thankful we came.) As I was putting on my shoes, one of them asked about my recent playwrighting experience, so I quickly ran through the story on my way out the door, highlighting what a great, transformative experience it was.

Then we left.

So I told Amanda about this and told her how I had been invited, for later that day, to a pool party. The party was for a friend's birthday, Alyssa, a girl whom I hadn't seen in quite some time. I was flattered she thought enough of me to invite me over, given how long we go without talking to one another. I chalked some of it up to being in Oakville, as she had come back to her parents' place for the party.

So I was having my doubts, because I knew I would know nobody else there, but she sent a message saying "Dear maybes - if I invited you, it means I want to see you, please come." I appreciated that, and it gave me the incentive to go, although I was still sweating it a bit.

"Everybody hates pool parties," Amanda assured me. I don't know if that's true, per se, but there's a self-consciousness that comes with them. The weather was looking uncertain - a little chilly - and I was feeling uneasy about the situation. "If I bring a swimsuit it's like 'Hey I wanna swim' but what if the weather's no good" and blah blah, stupid nonsensical neurotic bullshit. I was probably overthinking it.

The morning wore on. I got a haircut, trading the usual banter with my girl. I like having one barber that I always go to because I can just say "I trust your judgment, do whatever." Then Amanda picked up some stuff she had ordered to get engraved, and we parted ways. And I was left t contemplate pool parties.

Added incentive: B. went out to the zoo with his friend Steve, so I would've been cooking dinner for one had I stuck around at home. After going back and forth I decided "Fuck it! Fuck feeling anti-social. If I feel awkward I can leave. Just get out of the house. Just go." So I went. I stopped off at the White Store to pick up a card -- I felt this was the opportune time for the "little kid card" gag (complete with fingernail stickers) and stuffed a lottery ticket in there for good measure. Greatest gift ever? Perhaps not, unless, you know, they win. The thought is what counts.

So I biked up there, feeling queasy with angst and eventually worn out from the uphill bike ride (fuck my stamina is down.) I got there and people were mainly hanging out in the kitchen and I was still trying to catch my breath. And I thought "Is this what it is?" I even started by rambling about how I might not stay long, because I wasn't feeling well, which was true to some degree.

Before long, thankfully, the party did move outside, so I joined in and started meeting people. It was rather like a party I went to at Jasmin's place last year. On that occasion, like this one, a lot of people didn't know each other (although again I was probably the only person who know nobody but the hostess.) I got to introduce myself a fair bit, talk to people about various things, and didn't feel like too much of an outsider.

The same happened here, although most of Alyssa's friends know each other through some form of swing dancing or other, or else they at least have that in common. Or they were her HT friends.

Eventually, even though it was a bit chilly, people started getting in the pool. One girl I had spoken to a bit, whom I later heard referred to as "The lesbian" (so I assumed as much about her but never asked) was one of the first in the pool, so I went in after, although the breeze gave me a harsh case of near-hypothermia when I was standing and we were playing volleyball.

At this point, yes, you re free to picture me with my shirt off. Just try not to, you can't. Not in this entry anyhow. I assure you it's exactly as pale and skinny as you imagine. Exactly as irresistible, too.

Considering my blue lips while in the pool it's probably no surprise I spent most of the afternoon in the hot tub with various randoms - mostly Asian, and yeah, mostly dudes, although I did catch the attention of one girl, as often seems to happen at these parties.

I never understood until recently. I thought it was up to me to go find a girl and bother her until she rejected me, but now I understand my role. I don't find the girls, they find me. Any girl I've ever picked out for myself, that's ended badly. But usually there's one that will at least pay me some mind, I just need to wait for her to come to me.

We got out of the hot tub and hung out a little bit while we dried off. I gave her ample occasion to ditch me and find someone she knew, but she didn't take any of them, so it was like, "Okay, let's go with this."

Well, okay. This isn't one of those stories. Nothing all that interesting happened. Maybe I wasn't drunk enough to be charismatic and bold. I alternated witty banter with painful silence after the conversations died down. Didn't really do anything but keep her company, and the occasional Grade 6-level physical contact. It was nice, though.

Maybe she was waiting for me to be bold. Maybe she was waiting for a chance to shut me down. I could over-analyze it all I like. Before this party I was recalling to myself, various girls I thought I might've had a chance with, one time or another, just for an instant, if I'd been more bold. Maybe I ought to put some of those regrets to good use and learn something. But it wasn't really that kind of party.

After all, I hadn't even brought booze. I came by bike, I'm not even sure how I would've transported it. I did occasionally borrow a drink from others, but, well, that's not really going to get me to that "Hey baby what's up" phase. I think I'm just no good to anyone sober. I'm gonna have to live with that.

Frankly, I was just glad for the company. Gave me a reason to stay, a way to say I enjoyed myself. Got out of my comfort zone for a night. Met new people. Had fun. Beats sitting at home playing Pokemon.

The night ended slowly. Several people filed out at once and then it was just me, Alyssa, random girl (I know her name but won't do her the disservice of specifying it) and another guy, whose tales of kung fu craziness were far more interesting than anything I could conjure up. Before long, we were joined by a friend of Alyssa's who had been around earlier but had to go to work. I would've liked to be the last to leave, or at least after the other guy, but it was not to be. As 1:00 approached I thought "I'm not doing much here, it seems like the right time to leave." So I said my goodbyes and biked home.

And well, that was that. I've just been kicking around all day today, being unproductive. I should re-focus myself on school. I should follow through on my renewed dedication to the webcomic. I should do a lot of things, but well I'm not. I can live with myself. Relaxation feels good.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

VI: It's only a thing

Not surprisingly, especially for longtime readers (if there are any? Well, people who know me,) the theme of SWP is self-obsession. A lot of the time I get wrapped up in my own little world, my own business, my own hangups. I obsess, I fixate on whatever's bothering me, which is usually myself or at any rate, the world immediately around me.

That was yesterday, of course. I had a lot of big, frustrating things on my mind. and they're still there, but I've been grounded a little bit.

For starters, I made chitchat with a homeless man today outside a McDonald's. I'm starting to lose interest in the Poli Sci class, my attention wanders, I'm just trying to keep a jogging pace. I feel a little guilty when I start to think about writing because even though it's so important to me, part of me is terrified that it's a dead end. So I started to think about how I have a tendency to put myself into miserable situations, that I'm not very good at helping myself. Blah blah blah, self-loathing. Right? Okay.

I had this test a while back, the second test in the course. I was pleasantly surprised by my first one, which I thought I'd pass by the skin of my teeth but had a comfortable B(minus.) So on the second test I actually applied myself, did some readings, wrote notes. Mind you, not a ton, I'm still not the greatest student in the world for this kind of thing, but I thought, okay, I'm putting ni the work.

So we got it back today and before handing out the papers the Prof goes on this spiel about how the marks are trending a bit lower this time, not surprisingly because the test is harder and the expectations are higher. So I hear that and I start to grit my teeth. Times like these I try to think of a number, in this case maybe 65, that I'd be comfortable with. I prepared myself to get a lower mark even though I felt like I'd gotten myself a higher one when I walked out of the test. So I got the mark, and it was just a couple notches higher than the first test. Pretty much what I was hoping for. Not excellent, you know, but this isn't my subject, I'm just glad to be able to discuss it intelligibly. So I felt pretty good about that.

So after class I hit McDonald's, because that's the routine these days. I get out of class at 6 and I've got myself and hour and some of transportation, so I might as well just eat, cheaply. After all, I got kinda bored with the roast beef sandwich thing after Short Story ended. So I go to McD's, I buy the cheapest stuff that could possibly satisfy anyone (fortunately I'm not a huge guy) and when I get out I see this guy on a milk crate - I wonder is it always the same milk crate the city or McDonald's provides to the homeless dudes who squat out there, or if the homeless guys supply their own and just lug them around but I always see homeless guys on milk crates out there. A lot of the time I just shake my head and walk by but today I was feeling charitable. So I go up to him and ask him how he is while I dig through my wallet for change. We start talking about how hard it is to get food and just live and stuff ("You seen Super Size Me? That's me, man.") He talked a bit about "when I get a place" so I asked if he had any ideas what he was going to do with himself. Not that I could help him; I can barely help myself -- but he did have some thoughts. So that gave me some appreciation, you know, of what I've got, what I'm capable of and what advantages I have.

There are other things, too, going on today. I've tried to put it down in words, but it's not for the blog. Let's just say my main concern lately has been to be a good friend, to be someone who can be relied on. It gives me a great deal of comfort when I get an opportunity to do that, and I hope everything is okay.

There's not much I can say about it, I guess.

I'm more tired at this point tonight than I usually am. Then again, it's like 1:30, so I guess being beat isn't out of the question.

I think tomorrow I'm gonna clear my plate of random, non-moody stuff. I do occasionally think about other things.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

V: Ejector seat

Coffee, Coca-Cola, beer, water, repeat. Wake up, Scotto, where are you? Don't you know you've got work to do?

I feel like I've got a significant night of writing ahead of me, but not the new play. I was very excited about it while I was writing it, but my feelings have cooled.

The kid is most definitely down tonight. Our hero is bummed. He's not a big fan of himself right now. I feel like this is going to have to be two entries. One, a very quotidian update about the stuff that's been going on in my life since my last entry. The other, a very lengthy, self-loathing flavoured rant about all the different ways I suck and how the next sixty years are going to be very unenjoyable for yours truly. I don't know which one I'd rather write. I think for once I'll attempt to be a writer and blend them.

So there hasn't been a lot going on this week. Sort of. ("There hasn't... sort of," what a weird syntax I just invoked.) I did end up finishing the script for the new play, sort of. I mean, it was only a first draft, I knew I was far from done with it. I just didn't know how far. Cary - whom I've no doubt is reading this, hey Cary - mainly told me it needed to be longer. I agreed, but he clarified by saying it should be twice as long, as in, like 90 minutes, which is of course a daunting task. It calls for the creation of an entire act's worth of material to allow the premise to play out. Do I disagree? Not really. I feel like this is actually quite possible. And not outside of my ability as a writer, in fact, quite an exciting prospect. Let me break it down.

What I gave Cary was about 16 pages, primarily of dick jokes and the occasional throwaway reference to a character's background. The charm of Half-Past is that you get to know the characters very quickly, and the comedy comes naturally. Half-Past also had the benefit of not really having a plot. It was all character. I took a very different approach with the new play (which goes by the name "Whatever it Takes.") Understanding I was probably not going to directly re-create Half-Past, I attempted something markedly different and was really not satisfied with the results. I could sit here and dissect why I am frustrated with myself all night, but only Cary really knows what I'm talking about, and even then only from the perspective of someone who has read the play. There's a whole other psychodrama going on in my head.

So, we talked it over on Monday, and it starting to come together in my head, how this can be a better play than its initial conception, how I can really bear this fucker out and make it something we can be proud of. It's starting to, but it's not there yet. Give it time. In five years, we might have it. I kid. The main idea is to give the characters more life, which naturally would inflate the play. The other one is to adjust its framework to encompass two spheres of action.

In the meantime, I'm getting other ideas for probable one-act plays that I might never have a chance to write or produce. One is mostly an adaptation of a story I was starting to write that was based loosely on the life of Joe Chammas, and indeed included Joe as a character, with his permission. It would work better as a play because then we could involve music. Now there's a thought - get Joe up there to play himself and basically do a version of his act, integrated into a show. Cute idea. Maybe not practical but I'm putting it in my pocket.

Here's my main problem, why I'm so frustrated with myself. It's not that I can't write the larger version of this play, not that it's beyond my abilities (as far as I'm concerned the limit of my writing ability is at least something the length and quality of Summer at Sixteen, which would've been roughly a 2-hour film albeit not a very good one.) It's not that I don't want to - I'm rather keen on the whole project. My doubts stem from a much more abstract place.

This is the "what the fuck am I doing with myself?" place.

I'm working very hard to ensure that July 2-4 2009 is not the indisputable high water mark of my entire life. I had a lot of people - some friends and family, some strangers - telling me what a good thing I'd created, over such a short period of time. It's been a couple weeks and I'm starting to crash from that high. And it's perfectly acceptable, once a high fades, to go searching for a way to replicate it, right? That's healthy behaviour, isn't it?

I have exactly one advantage in life, and that's that I'm a pretty good writer. I'm not the best one ever, not yet. I was born into a generation where communication is increasingly text-based and writing is a much more common activity. When I was trolling websites like POF for girls, there were oh so many who listed "writing" among their interests. And I assumed most of them were probably pretty crappy, and I feel like most people have a right to assume that what I write is crappy too, because that's my generation for you. But it's clogging the job opportunities, which are already scarce. Not that I can really focus on building a career, yet, but my mind tends to go that way. The future is rapidly approaching and I have no idea what I'm going to do in it.

I should create a mediocre but watchable show for CBC or CTV or something. Not much of a film industry in this country, no money in theater. Too many other asshole writers trying to be serious and get books published. My prose doesn't stand out as much as it should anyhow. Every so often Amanda and I will think about this fantasy book concept we drew up a while back, we figure it could be sold, but never get around to taking the initiative to get it done.

Every so often, the harsh reality sets in that I have elected a very impractical ideal career. Writing? Man that's bullshit. I blame the public school system for encouraging creativity. They should've been teaching me how to disconnect a water main. I should've learned to do science or thought about maybe taking the LSATs someday. Gotten an MBA maybe. It's too late now, there's no going back. So I've got this diploma that says I can write for a newspaper or a magazine - dying industries to be sure - or I can keep writing like I do.

If I die this year, my tombstone will read "Scott Williams - Too Neurotic For This Life."

I can entertain people, but they've got to let me. Unfortunately, the infrastructure that keeps other assholes from being successful writers it keeping me out too (because right now I'm pretty much one of those assholes.) And a lot of assholes are successful. There's absolutely nothing to account for Twilight, for instance. What the fuck. I spent so much time trying to learn how to be a good writer, I should've just learned how to make teenage girls horny.

Well, that would've been a useful skill no matter what my career choice.

This is a big old circle of angst and I'm never going to break it, even if I become successful. All I can do is keep writing, it's mainly what I'm good for. People keep telling me I'm good at it.

I'd be happy working at an HMV and writing on the side. I feel like I'm never going to get that elusive job, and be forced to keep coming back and temping like a stupid kid. I saw a new face in there the other day, that was a heartbreaker. I tell myself, reasonably, she's probably a transfer not a new hire, but I don't know for sure and it's killing me. A little managerial shuffle means that soon I'll have no direct connection at Oakville Place, although the former assistant there will soon be at Dorval. Cooper, my favourite boss ever, has sadly moved on. He had stuff going on I never truly understood, having never asked. I should probably update my resume soon.

Monday morning was my course selection, which occurred a couple hours earlier than several of my friends, which is odd. A lot of 3rd year courses get filled up by 4th year students (this, for instance, was the trend in my AmLit course last year.) I generally got some pretty interesting courses, including American Popular Music in second semester. A lot more half-credits.

The schedule is... iffy. I won't be up too early, which is nice, but at the same time I'll be out quite late, which can also be stressful for a commuter like myself. Facing facts, nothing's ever going to be ideal, but I'm predisposed to make myself suffer no matter what, which explains why I'm still commuting. I must really fucking hate myself. That part of me that keeps saying "Move, move, move to Toronto already!" is getting louder every year. I don't know what to say.

Whatever, whatever, man. All I can do is write and try not to lose my mind, or not to lose myself within my mind.

It's probably going to get worse before it gets better. This is not the headspace I want to be in when I get back to writing. I've got a lot ahead of me. Worst comes to worst, I'll start writing anyway and attempt to use that to cheer myself up. But the plan is to lay off a while, get some perspective on the script, and start fresh.

And you all, keep on rockin'
-Scotto

IV: Let's not wait until the end

There are times when I neglect SWP, and that's a shame. I've had a lot of decompressing to do since the play has ended and the summer is transitioning into the relative inactivity of my remaining school days and whatever else.

So when we last left off I was building toward starting writing this new play. That night I got a huge start and wrote what basically amounts to half of it - assuming it's to be about 20 pages like Half-Past then yeah, I'm just a bit over halfway through, which is impressive to me and hopefully you. I mean, it needs work - it's as sloppy as anything, some of the jokes I think are misfires, and blah blah, but to dive into it, to hit the ground running and create something new, I'm pleased with myself in that respect. We'll talk more about it when I'm done this draft.

While we were doing Half-Past, Cary pitched me the idea that not only should I write a new play but we should collaborate on something (him, me, Chris Ferguson and Pat,) to put into Hamilton Fringe, raise ourselves the entry fee and of course keep the profits. And at the time I kinda blew it off a bit, going "Yeah, that's a possibility, whatever," because I was mentally trying to unravel this other play I was already planning, why should I divert my attention? It was a bit annoying. And then, unfortunately, I got an idea.

The big theme of Thursday was, I was riding high on all the output I'd done the night before, and then, when I was on the GO train, inspiration hit. I found myself sitting on the upper level, not the middle in the Scottozone. It was quiet, until Clarkson, when this family of 3 or 4 got on, I didn't really notice how many there were, but the dad was talking on his cell phone in French. I began to think about, you know, other people on trains and stuff (gee whiz, that certainly hasn't been a recurring theme in my life lately,) and that's where the new idea came up - the idea of a handful of strangers on a stalled Subway car (altered from GO for staging purposes.)

So I spent Thursday mulling over this idea. I even took RyLai up on an earlier suggestion that I at least try to walk from Union station to St. George/College. It was a bit tiring, and quite sunny, and pedestrians can be jerks, but I spent that entire time fine-tuning the new idea in my head. Then when I got home I pitched it to Cary and Chris, and they both dug it, so we got the ball rolling.

Friday night I was in need of something to do, so I hopped on my bike and went down to Greyfriar's, where Lauren Wing was bringing people for drinks on her birthday. OIf course, I mis-gauged the timing a bit and wound up quite early, and by myself. Or so I thought.

I ran into Scott Conorton, whom I hadn't seen in months. We caught up a bit and he ran into some other people he knew, and eventually left. I was drinking alone a while when these other people said for me to come drink with them, so I thought "Well sure, why the fuck not." So I sat with this dude and his brother and we talking a bit. I was a bit dodgy, as I tend to get around new folks, and just as I was finishing my beverage, Lauren Wing and company showed up.

Well, the night hit a speed bump when Pat Vis was caught by the bouncer finishing off a beverage maybe 100 meters away from the pub, barring him from entry. As chate as it was, I had to shake my head because it's pretty stupid to have an open alcoholic beverage in public, because that's illegal. But whatever.

So Chris and Pat began to formulate a plan, attempting a mass relocation to Monaghan's. It's only 20 minutes down the road by foot, and really I wasn't digging the atmosphere at Greyfriar's. Well, that whipped up a bit of "should I stay or should I go" drama, centering largely around Tyler, who was playing mediator. The three of us were joined by a couple other guys, who kinda slowed us down by dragging their feet and insisting we revise the plan and just go back. Eventually, we cut them loose and the three of us soldiered on to a pretty decent chill night at Monaghan's.

So we sat we talked plays, both Half-Past and to some degree the one we were about to attempt to write. I talked up the new one a bit. We talked about people we knew, recent scandals and whatnot. I noted I hadn't actually drank at Monaghan's since that time I came down with RyLai to watch a UFC show back in September. We only had time for one drink, but it was a good one. On the way home, I bought a tube of Pringles and proceeded to immediately lose the lid.

Today, I was awakened by a terrifying, window-rattling thunderstorm. I was a little nervous due to the severe weather and phones Amanda to let her know I'd be delayed in getting to the mall for our usual hangout, trying to wait out the storm a bit. Well, by the time I got out of the shower, the sun had come out and the rain was tapering off, so really, it was no worries, I was maybe 10 minutes later than usual due to lying in bed being tired from waking up amidst a thunderstorm.

The afternoon was spent in Pat's backyard with him, Chris, and Cary, all of us pitching ideas and writing this play idea. It's coming along well and the thing I like best about this idea is that it's ideal for those guys to fill in the blanks left by my main idea - "Who are the characters? Where are they going, what do they need/want?" Cary had a really astute idea that I was initially a bit hesitant of but once we started working on it, it's become quite a good entry point. We worked for about 2 hours and got only a couple pages, because really, we do tend to get a bit off topic. Breaking into teams might be productive in later meetings.

After dinner, I watched Forgetting Sarah Marshall and just tried to get into a writing mindset, but really I was distracted due to UFC 100. I usually don't care about UFC, but RyLai and I had made some bets, which he came out ahead of me on 2-1. My main concern was that Brock Lesnar won, which of course he did. Still though, I owe RyLai at least one drink.

So I haven't dug that much deeper into the script tonight, and I'm a little annoyed by that. I guess ideally I'd be able to keep up the pace I set on Wednesday night but I've slowed from a flood to a trickle. It happens. The first draft is, of course, mainly to get it on paper. I like what I'm doing, I just need to keep doing it.

We'll see. And I'll keep on rockin'
-Scotto

III: So close to something better left unknown

I was in the car with Robyn a few weeks ago, when the song "Give Me Sympathy" (or is it "Gimme"?) by Metric came on. I hadn't heard it before, as my general avoidance of current music means I tend to miss out on a lot of things. I thought it was a rather nice song, particularly since it namedrops the Beatles ("Come on baby play me something like Here Comes the Sun." How sweet a sentiment.)

Anyway, I stand now on the edge of writing a new play, my first in a long while. Well, I wrote this version of Half-Past in October (with substantial rewrites as recently as April - including many of the best lines I contributed.) I never did write a proper follow-up, hence my reputation as a potential one-hit wonder. How terrifying.

The original idea in high school was to follow up Half-Past with a play called "Funeral for a Freak," but it was over-ambitious and ultimately doomed from the start. I don't think I ever showed anyone, but the unfinished script was on Interneta for a while. Then there was Night Sessions, which was a pretty decent little script, but largely influenced by my group members on that project. I think it was my idea, but I said to everyone "What kind of character would you want to play?" And then the refining process brought it very far from my initial draft, for better or worse.

Then there's the work I've done for others. As far as Fringe scripts go, I still think "Murder in the Wings," which I wrote for Ana Yavari, was as good as the original version of Half-Past. But by the time she took me up on my offer to write it (which I did in an extremely short amount of time) it was too late and the script was doomed to never live. I wouldn't want to put it on now, just because it was inherently a high school thing.

And of course there's "No Way My Life," which I'm also extremely proud of. Like "Murder in the Wings" it wasn't my idea, but I was glad to help Chris and Pat flesh it out, pitch a few jokes here and there. My main contribution had to do with ironing out the end of the play, because the way it ties up, with the secretary being the leak, is very much in my style.

So I never wrote myself a true follow-up to Half-Past. There was Summer at Sixteen, which was mine but written for Ana, which never happened. It's a screenplay rather than stage, and actually somewhat intriguing, worthwhile, but not great as is. It's not like I haven't been writing of course... for a long time I was very prolific, and then my pace has sadly slowed with age. And there was just never any call for anything else, there was always just a new venue to do Half-Past. Meanwhile, books and short stories and poems called. You see how my life intersects with the writer character from "Cast Party."

Outside of a few little scenes, nothing major, I haven't up and written anything brand new for the stage in a long time. Like I said, I had no reason to. And now I do. Suddenly the world is counting on me to follow-u Half-Past Eight PM. But honestly, how the fuck do you follow that up? It's a juggernaut. I'm wracked with self-doubt. I'm trying to purge it from myself before even attempting, which I aim to by the end of this night. I've got a premise and an outline. I've even got a first line. Now all I need is a spark.

It's just proving a bit harder to remove myself from that world than I might've thought. Ever since I wrote it, I've been haunted by the idea that my writing career peaked at 16, that I wrote the best thing of my life back then and everything else since then is deep in its shadow. Well that of course is nonsense; like I said the best parts of this show were written in October or April, or of course ad-libbed. I told anyone who would listen that pretty much my favourite audience moment of the show came at the end when Beth delivers a little monologue about how she and Perry slept together, but he was all needy and that's why she went to England, and then Mark is (in the words of the script,) "Catatonic with shock" until Beth finally puts him, and the audience, at ease, by saying "Mark... I'm fucking with you." A roar of approving laughter ensues every time.

I had no idea how that one would play. Obviously I wouldn't have written it if I didn't think it'd get a laugh, but I was worried it was simply too flat of a moment, but Perkins and Patricelli really nailed the feel of that moment. See, here's the thing. Until this draft of the play, Beth had been a fairly flat character. Like, in the first draft, she was wooden. In the movie, Alyssa breathed some life into her, but the dialogue didn't really serve her all that well, it was still pretty basic. I hadn't done anything to make the crowd excited for her arrival, aside from having Mark talk relentlessly about how much he cares about her, which doesn't do much for the audience.

I think at some point, probably in April, Cary came to me and, amongst his various other notes, must've said "For crying out loud, give Beth something interesting to say or do." Prior to this there was the very ambiguous exchange between her and Perry in the flashback, and then whisking her away at the end - like I said, a flat presence. The icebreaker was the platypus dialogue, which was largely ripped from real life, and helped me finally get a hold of Beth's voice, seeing how she would interact with Perry. Then suddenly she was an interesting enough person that she would have just as much fun messing with Mark as Perry seems to, and it's even a little cruel because she knows he believes her a lot more than he would Perry, but she can't resist. And that of course led to the pitch-perfect "Does she?/basically dominates him/and he?/still cheats/that guy/I know!" exchange that really hammered home how close these two were. I was proud of myself for writing that, and how much I loved seeing them act it out.

And now it's new characters, new relationships, new jokes.

Thinking back to Saturday night. A friend of mine once told me not to mope so much, because nobody likes a mopey person. And I do mope, although not as determinedly as I did back then. I mope, as I did on Saturday, when I am far past the drunk line at a party loaded with people I can't talk to. I hate to come back to that feeling but it really is something. For a little while that night I was just staring at the fire, trying not to hear the conversations around me, wishing I still had my mental equipment so that I could bring myself to be interesting, but at that point, drunkenness had brought it to expiry and all I had was "Hey I know you a little, will you come for a walk with me and help me sober up? No? Fuck!!" Luckily, someone eventually did engage me, as mentioned in the actual recap of the evening. That's all I really want, when I'm sulking off by myself, is for someone to come by and break the ice, because it probably means I have lost the ability to do so myself.

I consider myself a pretty complicated guy, but only because I make everything a bigger problem than it has to be. Eating socially. Meeting people. Dating, or not dating, or whatever. I fixate on problems. There was one draft - the not very good one - of Half-Past where Perry had this gigantic speech to Mark telling him about his problems, and I was proud of it until I sent it to Cary, and he read it and he was not impressed, and then I re-read it and thought "Oh man you're right. I fucked this one up."

That was the draft, the now-missing intermediate draft between October and late April, where all the characters suddenly had gigantic monologues and Cary detested it. I wound up reformatting it to dialogue - and rightly so - but the point of that draft, I think, was for me to find my footing and try to discover for myself what kind of material I was actually going to add in, because it was the first really new stuff I had brought in in years (October's script was largely a reconfiguration of the original as best I could get from the movie.)

So I may or may not be a very complicated guy, and I may or may not fixate too hard on my own problems.

I refer to the line from Saturday Night and Sunday Morning -- "Whatever people say I am, that's what I'm not." You may or may not know it as the title of an Arctic Monkeys album, but it goes back a ways and it holds up.

I ran into Ryan Lai today. Well, not really "ran into," more like met up, I suppose, since I asked him what train he'd be on then went on it, because it was convenient to do so. He told me about one friend of his who'd slept with another's girlfriend. Really shocking business, really. It's just not how you do it.

There's been a lot of stuff along those lines lately, stuff that will probably inform and influence, but maybe not directly inspire, the new play. The plot's pretty set out, but the mood needs tweaking.

Work, work, work. It's time I did some. If this is to be my job, I ought to be dedicated. It's just a matter of starting. This has been an extreme of procrastination. Trying to unwind myself.

Here we go?

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

II:They say that good things come to those who wait...

This title from "Through & Through & Through" by Joel Plaskett, Cary's aptly chosen theme tune to the production of Half-Past, an irresistible piece of post-pop alt-songwriting. Or something. Anyway, it was the tune that indicated to the audience that the lights were going down, time to start the show. Lyrically and stylistically it was a great pick -- my theme song was the less-on-topic "Where It's At" (by Beck) and the laidback nature of this song fits better with the play than the equally lyrically appropriate "Don't Make Me Wait" by Locksley.

So ends perhaps the most exhilarating weekend possibly of my entire lifetime. I could not have asked for more from a collaborator, a cast, a crew, an audience, than what I've gotten over the past few days, as well as over the course of several months. Cary deserves every bit of acclaim he can scrounge up for putting it all together. Yes, I did write some awesome words, but Cary was the man who brought together the wrecking crew to tear the house down.

Friday night, I was sure to ride with mom, grandma and Brandon, guiding them to the proper destination. I did have to abandon them to go sit in the booth, because the place was sold out again. After two shows, the Half-Past Eight PM/Cast Party double bill was the highest-selling combo in the history of EAS, so I was told. Of course, it doesn't hurt that so many of the old gang, including oh so many people from previous versions of Half-Past, came out on Friday - which by consensus, sadly, seemed to be the lowest-energy performance of the run. So I was up in the booth, hearing the somewhat muted laughter, practically tearing my hair out -- "Laugh, people! You're my friends!" I was probably going a bit overboard, actually. Yes, nothing beats the immediate gratification of laughter, but it seems like people were at least interested in what the characters had to say even when they weren't making people laugh. Even Josh Kershaw was there, and he seemed to enjoy it. He also finally admitted to having had my Bone trades this entire time, which Kyle and I already knew.

Up in the booth, I met the writer/director of Cast Party, who gave me some praise for my writing, which I accepted totally without modesty, and attempted to coherently return. It isn't that I didn't like Cast Party - actually I thought it quite an enjoyable show each time I saw it - I just have a hard time returning praise just because it's been offered to me. It feels like an awkward convention.

So after the show, everybody (except Kershaw) went down to the Phoenix for drinks - on the ever-chilly patio (curse you, Canada!) Much of the early portion of the evening I spent talking to Anisah, CB, Hetherington and Neabel who had been cool enough to come down and be my Gin buddy at least for a little while. After a while her presence was replaced by Erika the assistant director, who was one of the few people on the production who had really broken the ice with me. Like, I'd made chit chat with pretty much all of them, mostly to say how much I like what they're doing, but Erika, and to a lesser extent Kat the stage manager were the only ones I managed to really converse with. Erika was described by Cary, later, as a "gregarious" sort. Clearly. Anyway, I'd gotten pretty comfortable around her.

After many drinks, the group dispersed after last call - I went back to Oakville with CB and Hetherington, Vanessa and Anisah went with Doug, and the remainder stayed the night. Long goodbyes.

Saturday was a long, long day. I got up good and early to make it to the 12:19 westbound train; I was meeting Amanda at the GO station. It was like the traveling version of our usual coffee hangout. So we got to the theater in good time, but on our way over I was called by Eric to alert me that -- riding with my Aunts Lori and Karen -- they were running late, having hit severe traffic around Oakville, and if I could get their tickets for them, to ensure promptness. Well, sure -- although I just barely had $30 on me, and Amanda didn't even have any cash so I had to promise the producer that she was good for it -- I have a certain amount of goodwill with them, I suppose.

Of course, that goodwill was stretched quite thin, I think, by the fact that I asked them to delay the show by about 10 minutes while my family rushed to the theater. I was worried about having a rerun of Thursday, but they made it with only seconds to spare (they were stopped at a red light a mere block away for what felt like an eternity.)

Anyway. It was a little embarrassing, but they all seemed to love the show. Although they bolted before Cast Party, which was kinda awkward, but I guess they do both have kids at home, in the middle of a Saturday afternoon (and Eric had a party later, I believe.) So after the show, Amanda and I went off in search of food, as she had not even managed to eat before getting on the train. I feigned my awkwardness, but eventually overcame with a Tim Hortons egg salad sandwich. It wouldn't seem to be the ideal sandwich for an upset/anxious stomach, but it puts me in a good state of mind usually. I'll have to remember that.

Having more or less four hours to ourselves, we then went over to Jackson Square to wander aimlessly. Amanda bought some socks and I perused dollar store toys.

It was about 6:00 when we returned, so we still had plenty of time, which was largely filled with Amanda reading and me doing Sudoku on the DS. After a while of this, she remarked that she knew we were good friends because we could just sit quietly without awkwardness, doing our own thing.

The last show saw the return of the Ferguson family, as well as my dad and Deb. I introduced Amanda around. It was a great performance to close out the week. The afternoon show had had a couple of hiccups, which were mostly well-covered, but the finale was pretty excellent.

I arranged for my dad to give Amanda a lift back to Oakville, and caught a ride with the Fergusons over to Cary's, where he and I waited for a friend of his before walking over to the cast party. We holed up inside for a little while preparing gifts for the cast. Now, here's where a bit of a theme started to develop, because in this entire process I've been kind of an outsider. I'm not in Hamilton, I wasn't really active in the preparation, I was just around sometimes, being an enigma, the mysterious dude who originated this script. I know, I've interacted with everyone to some degree by this point, and I got on well with them all, but...... man, fuck it. I didn't get a clock. I don't know why I care, I guess there just weren't enough on the shelves (seriously, between Cary/Erika/Kat and the cast distributing clocks back and forth as gifts, they appeared to have cleaned out at least two
Dollaramas.)

But before the drunken moping came the schmoozing, and boy did I schmooze. Now, my drunkenness accelerated at a previously uncharted level due to Michael Herman's distribution of a shot known quaintly as the "Rocky Mountain Bearfucker." So drunkenly I chatted up as many castmembers as I could, telling them how brilliantly they brought the character alive and all that feel-good shit we've been slinging around for so long. Not that I didn't mean it, but you can only say it so many times, right? Or seem like I was just fishing for compliments? And was I? Maybe. Actually, I think it would've been fascinating to hear some, like, criticism. Maybe not too harsh, but maybe a bit of a more rough critique to bring me back down to Earth since basically at this point I feel like I've written the most brilliant piece of theater since A Streetcar Named Desire.

The closest thing to that, actually, was the night before, when Adam Hetherington said he didn't really care for the movie, and I told him he was pretty much right, that the movie wasn't much of a product, just something that was fun to make. Well, sometimes stressful, but at least I got to spend a summer hanging out with people (*although across the board the performances in the movie were better than the original version, with all due respect.)

The other thing Hetherington said was noting how Perry had said his fiancee was "getting out of school" soon, but also that she had "gotten a promotion" four months earlier. I told him that was well-observed, and that I had actually thought about it myself -- not while I was writing it, but afterward, as things like these tend to escape our notice until funny times. I had decided that there were a couple of possibilities. First, that Kara is an extremely busy person, juggling both school and a career. Second, that Perry is a liar. Both are equally valid.

So I spent the bulk of the night doling out compliments, receiving a few in return, and getting a few standard questions. A lot of people want to know to what degree the play is autobiographical. I always feel the need to come up with some snarky remark in response to that, because hey, can't something a young writer does just be fiction? What a novel idea! I wrote it when I was 16; there wasn't much time for a love of my life to move to England.

The closet thing to biographical details in the play was that we name-dropped Conorton's after-party, which was indeed a memorable night. Also, the conversation about whether or not a platypus was a mammal, which I'd had with Amanda a while earlier, and it was a conversation that lasted for seemingly 15 minutes, and neither or us really had a good case.

The other hot topic for me was what would be my next project. I alluded to the play I am currently attempting to start writing, which I have pledged Cary a draft by the end of July. I didn't say much about it -- all Cary knows is that it's "about lesbians" and it takes place in an apartment. Really, that's all you need to know, and it sure beats "It's about a guy waiting at a bench and talking to people."

AJ, one of the producers, pitched me the idea of "Half-Past Eight PM act 2" which I think would have to be "Quarter to Ten" or perhaps as late as "Nearly Midnight." I told him that actually, when I first wrote it, I saw it as the middle act of a story with no real beginning or end. This was the attitude I took with the movie, and ultimately bore somewhat disappointing results, possibly because I went with the controversial decision to have Beth reject Mark and (again ambiguously) seem to be set up on a date with Billy. There are things about the movie I like, but really, it's not right.

I think in the nonexistent "Act II" (which would possibly be called "The Perry Robbin Show," as I had partly conceived a nonexistent followup for the next year's Fringe,) Beth would initially reject Mark, and then be convinced that perhaps she does indeed have feelings for him by the wisdom of Perry.

But no. No more of the world of Half-Past. It only exists from "7:45" until "8:35" or so in that reality. Time to move forward. I pledged I would get cracking as soon as Half-Past was done. I've gotta get cracking. I haven't mentioned it by title - I've got a title, but I'm holding off on publicizing it until I've confirmed I'm going with it. For a little while, Half-Past was known as "What Time Is It?" which is a stupid, dumb title. There were also a few early examples of me forgetting myself and referring to it as "Eight Thirty PM" which is less snappy. It sounds like something Noel Coward would come up with (because it basically is.)

Drinking, drinking at the Cast Party, more schmoozing. At one point I was introduced to a girl and she started asking about my writing, what else I do, and somehow I got onto the subject of Curiosities (a book project I've been working on slowly for some time) and if I could've stepped outside myself I probably would've been amused by my attempt to drunkenly summarize the concept - not that it's complicated, just that...... I was drunk and incredibly fascinated by myself.

Eventually I began to sulk off by myself, frustrated by the fact that I had really nothing left to offer these people, having been intoxicated into submission. Cary was asleep someplace. All I really had was Erika, and there's where awkward came in. I was not going to be "fun drunk Scotto" tonight, friends.

I found out a little later that Cary had forewarned Erika and Kat about my tendency to seduce his friends. Now he neglected to mention that for the most part, these women seek me out as much as I them, and that any time I actively try to initiate something it is doomed to go horribly awry. So with this hindsight, it's not hard to see why Erika was suddenly not all that keen on talking to me.

Is it so hard to believe that I really just wanted to take a walk and sober up? That she was the only conscious person at the party I felt like I could converse with at that point?

Okay, let's face it, as true as that all is, we all know I probably would've tried something, and it probably would've ended badly. And fair enough that it didn't happen. It's probably for the best on her part. But at the time, all I saw was this girl who was pretty keen on talking to me yesterday was now very uninterested in anything I (drunkenly, incoherently) had to say. I didn't realize she'd been tipped off, and from her perspective I must've been terribly obvious, and I feel like a bit of an ass for it.

So I found someplace else to mope, and that's when I ran into Kat. And we had a bit of a talk. First she said it seemed like I didn't care for her much, which I told her was absurd. I'm just socially awkward, I didn't mean to shun her. Then, recalling an earlier "closing night" prank she and Erika had pulled, she decided to pull up her top at a passing car.

That passing car was of course, a cop car.

Not, like, an undercover one, either. It said "police" on it in big block letters.

Well, the cop had come over to get us to tone it down (the party was largely outdoors) and the flashing probably didn't help matters, but he was pretty cool about it. I decided to calm her down, and we had another talk.

She had noticed me plying my game on Erika, and was the one who informed me of Cary's warning about me. I fed her my sob story in brief, which for some reason I feel the need to pull out whenever I'm drinking and things aren't going well. Actually, I pull it out when I'm sober too, but I'm less obnoxious about it then.

She then commiserated a bit, referring to a fella who'd been around earlier, with whom she had history. Then she she started to inquire as to why I was taking shit so hard, articulated in the brilliant line, "What are you, looking to fall in love tonight?"

So anyway, we kept each other company for a while, cheered up. Naturally there's a bit more to it than that, but the details are hazy. And the details that I do recall, you're not getting. Eventually, Cary woke up and said it was time to go, and when we got on the road, I drunkenly accused him (repeatedly) of "betrayal." Yeah, I'm mature.

After some talk, it was time for sleep around 4 AM. Cary said I shouldn't do the disappearing act like I often do, but I said it was hard because I often wake up early after a night of drinking (I don't know how I do it) and I'm not sure how long I'll feel like waiting around, and won't want to wake him up too early either.

I ended up waking up at about 8:30 AM, which is absurd, considering I had fallen asleep watching Friends a mere 4 hours earlier. So I did manage to roll over and fall back asleep until about 10:30 or 11, at which point I laid around waiting for an appropriate time to go knock on Cary's door and go "I'm leaving." That time ended up being quarter to 12. Sadly, no "doing breakfast." I walked down King, got some Tim Hortons, walked on to Main, to the GO station. The logic here is that I've found that then Hamilton bus typically drops you off at the GO station just after the bus for Aldershot departs. I guess the thinking here is that while places like Oakville have embraced the transit-GO relationship, Hamilton actually resents it, and sabotages it as much as possible. They don't even have a co-pay. Dicks.

SO, knowing that one way or the other I wasn't leaving Hamilton until 1:40, I decided to walk rather than spend money on the bus and wait. I was only a couple of blocks from the station when the bus passed me, so I applauded my call.

So I got back to town about 2:30, and have basically been kicking around ever since, trying to unwind and relax after the most exhilarating week of my life - which I believe is where I came in on this entry. It has been a long one, and rightfully so because this entire experience has been the stuff of legend.

I started writing this one at 12:30, it's now just almost 3.

Well, it's all out there now. Tomorrow I start a new journey. I've been preparing for it in my head for some time but you never know until you begin to walk. aside from this play, I have a shitload else to write. I relaxed today, tomorrow will be busy again.

Such is life. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Keep on rockin, you're beautiful.
-Scotto

I: Nothing but good intentions and a bad tendency to explode

"Chemistry" was an underrated song. It was Semisonic's follow-up to "Closing Time" and was not only a clever but incredibly listenable piece of radio pop rock. Maybe it came a bit late. Sadly, in the late 90's, unless you were a Max Martin project, you didn't get a second hit.

As you can probably understand it's been... a somewhat eventful few days for me. With each passing day I say to myself "Man, when I get home I'm gonna write such a blog." But I'm too wiped/distracted to do so. My life has suddenly accelerated to such a pace that I can't even keep up with it.

Obviously the important central factor of it is that Half-Past Eight PM opened today. I can't believe in the time I have been writing this blog (the long, very long time) this is the third version of Half-Past Eight PM I have reported on. People keep saying, joking, noting, that this is the one thing I'll ever do, which is fine because so many people don't even get one, any maybe I've got another in there. Mom asked me what the title of this thing was, and I told her, and she said "Oh... isn't that like your other one?"

But far and away I am most proud of this one, simply because it is at a whole new level as far as writing, as far as production. This isn't the Drama room and this isn't my brother's computer's editing program. Regardless of how good the cast is (and they're excellent) it's just better because it has the capacity to be better, and Lordy is it great.

I went down yesterday, Canada Day, to check out the dress rehearsal. I've been up and down that GO line so many times this past week, it's amazing. And while the dress rehearsal would have been something to marvel at in its own entry, obviously I've seen the show in a packed room by now, which means that's the focus.

I was so bloody nervous all day. Not, like, afraid of it not being good, but just... dealing with anticipation. I never know how to explain it, but as you probably know by now I'm intimately acquainted with my nervousness. I couldn't focus on anything but the show. I didn't go to school, which I'd honestly planned on doing, until I actually started to gather my stuff and head out. I figured, fuck it, this is an important day. I can miss one class.

So rather than taking the GO train in, I caught a ride with Robyn (and her dad, who seemed keen on coming along) while Mom, Grandma, Eric and Brandon went ahead with a map from Mapquest, and I went with the Dalgleishes with a map from Mapquest, and we got there first; quite early in fact, and nearly a half hour went by before I finally called them and found out they were lost.

Long story short... they didn't end up making it. It was kind of a bummer.

But I was immediately cheered up when the lights went down and the play started and the laughs started rolling out. As I've said before, that play is a fucking blockbuster. It's a crowd-pleaser. There were some stretches along the way where there weren't many laughs but by and large, the laughs were all loud and long and hard. And very, very fulfilling for yours truly. Some of the biggest laughs were for things I haven't thought were funny for years. Some were for ad-libs that I love. And some was jsut all in the performance. It's such a great experience, I'm so glad I get to have it three more times.

The room, I ought to note, was packed, and they were turning people away. Chris and Pat, Lauren and her boyfriend, Cassie, and Cary's family were all present. Occasionally I'd be revealed as the writer, and people would ask me things, and I'm very happy to answer, although some questions ("How long did it take to write" have weird answers "Uh... 6 years I guess?") also praise for the expansions of the script beyond what it had been previously.

On the way home, Robyn's dad was very complimentary toward the play's emotional "realness." I'm very proud of the fact that it feels so authentic on that level while also existing on this incredible, impossible level. Cary, in the program, put it quite eloquently by saying it was a play of questions.

The show after was called Cast Party. I'd feel like a dick for criticizing it, because it was a fun play, but I have to admit I'm biased toward mine anyway. There was a certain emotional edge that was (deliberately) absent from Half-Past. Good performances, as all the actors had to slip between two characters apiece. Some very funny stuff, and some "oh, too true" statements about life, the theatre, and writing in general.

But you can't masturbate with a grapefruit. It has citric acid.

Hopefully, with my guidance, mom will come see the show tomorrow. Oddly enough, Jon, an old friend of mine from way, way back when, was there, not knowing I had written the play he was just watching. I guess his girlfriend brought him out. I barely recognized him at first, because of how unexpected it was to see him.

Man. I am pumped.

Part of the theme of the early part of this week - that would've been the more interesting half of a lesser post - was my trials and tribulations in attempting to study for my Poli Sci test. See, I had intended to do some on Saturday night, then I went and saw the Hangover. Then CB gave me a free baseball ticket for Sunday, and that ate up most of that day. (Incidentally, we managed to get stuck next to the one woman in the world who was impressed by the free Burger King giveaway masks. "Them things cover your whole faces!")

Then sunday night I was informed I had a Dentist appointment on Monday, which, honestly, I feel like I should be handling for myself by now. I made the mistake of not booking in advance last time, so coming out of this one I made sure to. It was the usual routine, where the word "cavity" never came up but I guess that's not good enough because they've got to fill something so I'm back in August. Still no word on the possibility of wisdom teeth. Weird.

I hadn't been raining when I took my bike out there, but by the time I got out of the chair it had come down fast. The Jays had gotten 7 strikeouts the previous day, which meant there was a Pizza Pizza giveaway for a free slice, and I damn well intended to use it. So I biked all the way up to Pizza Pizza as the rain stopped and started. I enjoyed my slice and waited, waited for the rain to stop while I drank my beverage slowly. It didn't. Eventually I had to bite the bullet and ride back. It all worked out as the rain stopped by the time I was away from the plaza.

Finally I went over all my assigned readings on Monday night and Tuesday morning. It still wasn't that fresh in my mind and I botched some of the identifications - like last time - and my essay question was a rambling summary of everything I thought I remembered about the judiciary. I expect more or less the same mark as I got on the previous test, although I did actually study for this one so I would hope for at least some kind of improvement, even a modest one.

So, that gets us caught up on this week. Nothing left to do but enjoy my last two days as a hotshot playwright. Sunday I get down to business on the next play. Plus there's plenty of other stuff I swore I'd do when this business was over.

Oh me.

Well, there are worse ways to keep busy.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto