Alberty's Blah Blah Blog

I once had a friend who I thought was all mine. His name is Tintin.

Now, I’m guessing that, until the last few months, most of you would have said, “Who is Tintin?” And I liked it that way.

I liked having a friend no else knew about.

I grew up with Tintin like my friends grew up with He-Man or GI Joe, Cabbage Patch or My Little Pony. He was my action figure, not a handheld plastic and filament action figure, but he leapt off the full color pages like a real flesh and blood friend.

If you don’t know by now —thanks to Steven Spielberg— The Adventures of Tintin is a comic book series created by a Belgian dude named Hergé. It’s been around forever, and chances are pretty good that if you are a middle-class European boy you have read or at least know about Tintin. I know about Tintin because I grew up overseas where Tintin is huge.

I wanted to be Tintin. Well, only kind of. I really wanted to be Capt. Haddock because he was funny. He was also a drunk, but whatever. Tintin was always going around the world and having an adventure. I still want to travel, and I think it’s party due to Tintin.

I’m pretty sure that my love for silly humor comes from my experience with the Thompson twins. No, not the band. The real Thompson twins are bumbling identical twin detectives. They are utterly hilarious.

I loved Tintin. They were my brother’s books, lovingly worn. And I absolutely lived through them. I can still envision specific panels from Tintin in Tibet and Cigars of the Pharaoh.

There was a time when people might ask what my favorite childhood book was and would sometimes answer Tintin. Sometimes because, quite frankly, I liked keeping him to myself. It was something that made me feel special, unique. But now, Tintin will probably sweep through American culture. So, this little secret that I was planning on letting my kids in on will now become passé.

It makes me a little sad.

But having said that, I hope that you read him before you see him. I’m sure that the movie will be fine, but the thing we often like better is the thing we first experience. So having first withheld this friend from others, I now wish to seed the world with his stories.

Go out and get Tintin in Tibet or Cigars of the Pharaoh, Flight 714 or The Calculus Affair. Get your mind wet with the text before you go out and see the film.

I’d like you meet him before he gets famous here in America. Because you know when he gets famous here, it’s only a matter of time before he starts dating Paris Hilton, then it’s just a text message away from snorting coke off of Bree Olson’s ass in Charlie Sheen’s New York loft. Winning!

So, before that happens…friends, meet Tintin. Tintin, these are my friends.

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Okay, I recently blogged about consumerism in American and how much I hated the bald-faced nature of it. The idea that workers in China are producing the useless shit we buy hand over fist and they still can’t afford three meals a day.

I know, because I am a reflective human, that my petty day-to-day underskinners and on-my-nervers are embarrassingly petty when placed on the human continuum of getting-to eat-a-handful-of-rice-today, on the low end, to the-help-didn’t-replace-my-roll-of-all-cotton-toilet-paper-this-morning-so-I-should-fire-them, on the high end.

Nonetheless, I became an Ugly American today. Not really, I guess, but it sure made me feel petty and all ugghragaga.

I went to one of my favorite coffee shops in town today to do some writing away from my house —I get my best writing done away from the house— and I ordered a cappuccino (dry) “for here.”

First, they brought out an espresso. Which would have been great if I had ordered an espresso. Then when they brought out my cappuccino it was in a “to go” cup. Look, I ordered it “for here” for a reason, people.

1)    I am staying here. Giving me a drink in a cardboard travel mug when I have clearly made my desire to stay is like saying, “Here is your drink. Now go away.” That is simply bad customer service —not that many companies care about that any more. And it’s rude. “Hey, friend, good to see you, now get the hell out. We don’t want to have clean your table.”

2)    I ordered cappuccino for several reasons, but a major reason is the foam. When done correctly it is a beautiful cloud-puffed canvas on which some choose to create aesthetically pleasing images. Shoving it into cardboard and topping it with a black plastic lid considerably cuts down on the aesthetic value of the order. I know that I am a dying breed —those who like to look at their food before they shove it into their mouths like every meal is a speed eating contest— but come on, people.

3)    I am not one of those who like drink their coffee at a temperature that melts the esophagus as it goes down. I am not interested in pharyngeal burn scars. And since I know the optimum espresso temperature is nearly 200°, and I am a temperature pansy, I know that I like my coffee products to cool a little before I consume them. Again, the reason I ordered it “for here.” A broad-mouthed, open-topped cup gives the drink much better opportunity to cool down than a “to-go” cup.

Which is exactly the reason I ordered it “for here.”

So, although I really want those kids in Sudan to get a meal tonight —a good, filling, nutritious meal— is it too much to ask for me to get my ridiculously overpriced, froofroo, hipster coffee drink order right? Come on, people.

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Sorry, gang. I’m taking Thanksgiving week off. I had the boys for four days while the wife was in Denver. That with the recent drop date for the upcoming SPT Writers’ Room show has wiped me out. Going to rejuvenate.

Please come back next week for more Blahblah.

*Side Note: I did a search for “Turkey in an easy chair,” and he tenth image that came up was a photo of Lady Gaga. Go figure.

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I can’t stop thinking about this Penn State thing. Every time it creeps into my mind it fills me with anger and sorrow and a sort of blind indignation.

And it’s not about football, though it has become about football for a lot people. It should be about those boys. It should be about those men who passed the buck in the cynical belief that they had done enough.

And, as more information comes out, it just keeps getting uglier and more confusing. So, in 2002 graduate assistant coach Mike McQueary walked in on Jerry Sandusky anal raping a ten year-old boy in the locker room shower.

Did you read that previous sentence? How did it make you feel? Doesn’t it seem that the firing and arrest of Jerry Sandusky is the next logical step? McQueary called his father who told him to talk to the head coach. McQueary then told Joe Paterno who told the athletic director and so on and so on.

Sandusky’s punishment? They took away his locker room key. I shit you not. The man raped a ten year old, three of his supervisors, including the president of the university knew about it. And they took away his key. I can barely contain my anger.

I’ve read a lot about it recently. I’ve read things like, “Well, they didn’t really get a good sense of what he did with the boy. They thought it was just fondling.” Just fondling? Seriously? Great defense.

Look, if you find yourself “just fondling” a kid, you’re a pedophile. Don’t fool yourself. You need help. Go find help. Because if you don’t, you will destroy your victims, their family, your friends, and your family.

There are so many ways I can go on this post. I could write about the endemic misuse of power, and not just in college sports. The financial crisis, the housing crisis, congress’ ineptitude all stem from the same rank weed of cynical power as Paterno’s hubris.

I could write about the fragility of childhood and our desire to ignore the demons we adults create rather than face them.

I could write about the initial reaction of Penn State fans who rioted on behalf of the perpetrators of this crime rather than the victims. Mind…blowing!

But in reality, I can’t write about any of that. This thing has absolutely overloaded me. And I, like many others, I’m sure, just need to digest it all, like a poison. Get it out of me, so that I can assess the damage and move toward some sense of understanding.

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I have always wondered what manufacture laborers in China and Taiwan must think as they are sitting in their stank-filled sweatshop painting the hair highlights on some piece-of-shit Lillian Vernon big-eyed puppy tchotchke. What must they think? I mean here are people who are lucky to get three meals a day. And they are watching a hundred thousand plastic pole dancer alarm clocks go out because people in America are buying it.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not some kind of ascetic. Far from it. I have way too much shit. And I have been known to purchase the occasional big-eyed puppy tchotchke. But I saw something last weekend that absolutely blew my ever-loving consumerist mind.

It was at Lowes, one of the five gargantuan box home stores in our small city. First, let me say, seriously?! It’s the second freaking week of November and their store is filled with Christmas. Come on people. Have we lost our freaking minds? I swear to God, I saw Christmas stuff up at Target before Halloween. It made me a little sick. Because it’s a bald-faced recognition that it has nothing to do with the spiritual nature of the season. It is simply about selling useless shit at the highest volume possible.

So what was this new abomination? It was one of their many available inflatable lawn ornaments —around ten, I think. And these energy hogs…ironically atop the shelves holding the efficiency bulbs.

This particular atrocity is described as “Animated Airblown® Inflatable – Santa’s Outhouse.” I shit you not. Santa’s Outhouse. It is a giant inflatable yard ornament that looks like an outhouse. There is a snickering little elf standing next to it. The door opens and a coy Santa Clause pops his head out. I mean, what…the…fuck?

Merry Christmas! Here’s Santa in the shitter right on my front yard.

God bless America!

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Christmas in the Fall

Our neighbor’s Christmas lights
flash slowly out of place
on our Halloween street:
flashing blues and greens and reds
amid our lighted orange gourds,
gray straw-stuffed ghouls,
and the fake spider’s webs
that soften the fingers of our barren trees.

Last month she found
that cancer had come
and would take her by
Thanksgiving.

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I have come to understand the purpose of boyhood, especially toddler boyhood, is to discover the world, essentially, by destroying it.

I used to think the phrase “This is why we don’t have nice things” was pretty funny. Now it’s apropos and prophetic.

Our house and the things inside it, including my wife and I, are getting systematically disassembled in order to see how it (we) work. It’s kind of amazing to watch. And it’s impossible to curtail. Not that we would want to. Well, sometimes we want to. But it’s a heady line to facilitate, that line between exploration and simple destruction.

I know that the boy creature is pretty well predisposed to disassemble his world. There is some seemingly innate need to hit things, poke things, tear things, run, scream, babble incoherently and just generally cause consternation and mayhem.

But there is also a predisposed need for this man-creature to have some quiet reflection and rest. To not always be on safety patrol, to not always remove the maraca at the last second before it crashes into the dog’s skull.

I love watching the discovery. And I love those moments of tenderness, the hugs, the grabbing of the legs. I even love the sudden jumps from the side table only my unprepared lap.

It’s repetition of the negative (stop hitting the dog) and the constant need for creative redirection (let’s color on this paper instead of the refrigerator) that seem to cause the most wear and tear.

But is sure is amazing how a little smile can fill a crack and a sudden giggle can close a tear.

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So, with great anticipation I installed a widget for my blog site that will give me all kinds of statistics on the site hits. At first it was pretty cool.

For example, it shows me that on November 3^rd I had 846 page views, while on the 6^th there were only 200.

It tells me that 77% of all page hits come from within the US, while .65% come from France and another .65% come from Russia. Another 4.5% come from I-uk-ua, which I’m guessing is some kind of Ukrainian mob thing. A final 16.7 percent are unknown, which I must assume is my extraterrestrial audience. I really don’t know what any of this stuff means, but, like most American’s these days, I am absolutely dazzled and hypnotized by meaningless statistics.

It also informs me that of the hundreds of page hits that I get each day, only about 70 are actual human beings. I am, naturally, extrapolating this assumption because the lion’s share of hits are something called “bots.”

I’m able to see many web names of people who view the page as well. While some are totally open like Rob, Heather, W, and Marty, a few really make me wonder. I can make guesses. Like I’m pretty sure that “lavabuttram” is you, Mischa. Funny. Disturbing, but funny. I’m only guessing it’s you because I know how much you love jalapenos.

Anyway, the thing that surprised me the most was the search-link function. It allows me to see what searches brought people to my site. While the few “Jason Alberty” searches are flattering and ego building, some, like, “tahu goring” made me wonder. It ended up attached to my Indonesian food posts. Then there are searches like — I shit you not — “funny picture for clear blue oups you are fucked” that are totally incomprehensible.

But the ones that I find nightmarishly disturbing are “old woman curlers housedress,” “ten titties,” “zeus ogling hera,” “creamy cremey stylez pie,” and “granny sex porn.” Each of these searches somehow linked to my blog site. And, while I can deduce which posts may have tripped theses searches…seriously? And, and, and —get this— it tells me things like “zeus ogling hera” was accessed from a machine using Windows 7, and “granny sex porn” was accessed from a Blackberry. A Blackberry? Seriously people, is your commute that fraught with solitary boredom that you’re googling “granny sex porn” on your Blackberries?

Some things I just don’t want to know.

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I just opened up the script for Gross Indecency, my next directing gig for Theatre Cedar Rapids. That means the near total immersion will begin within the week. And auditions for the show aren’t until mid-December.

Most people have no idea what goes into producing a high quality stageplay. And I guess that’s okay, because it really does need to be a bit of magic, like some diaphanous vision that condenses to clarity for an hour or two then disappears forever. That’s one of the things I love about theatre.

I always turn the script into a pdf and layout the page to my liking. I’m a bit of a control freak that way. It gives me room to write. Write my thoughts. Write my blocking. Write my scene breaks. The usual stuff. Market scripts just don’t give you any room to write. I honestly don’t understand it. You’d think that publishers that focus solely on scripts would make them more user friendly for actors and directors. Oh, well.

Anyway, Gross Indecency is an interesting script. It’s not one that really grabs me emotionally as a director though. But it’s one of those whacky Moisés Kaufman interviewed docudrama style plays, which makes the preproduction work and the rehearsals particularly interesting.

There are around 40 characters with only nine actors. That’s really where the challenge comes. And, unlike most plays, it really doesn’t tell you which actors should play which roles. It’s gives you a general sort of idea for the major roles, but the rest is up to you. So today I have pulled out the Excel and have started creating the actor/character/scene/page number spreadsheet. Nightmare!

Then, this is a topic I know almost nothing about, so there is a good deal of research to do.

Then we’ve got some preproduction meetings to work the set and the costumes.

All this is, of course, coming intertwined with finishing up Alice in Wonderland, as well as the ongoing writing and performing in the Writer’s Room Series. I’ve also been asked to write a short thing for an upcoming United Way conference.

Whew! It’s going to get pretty sporty here in December.

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I so love pleasant surprises. And when they involve creative people and creativity it’s even better.

Last night I just finished the next draft of my Alice in Wonderland adaptation and was sitting, staring at a blank MSWord page in the Theatre Cedar Rapids library. It’s where I get most of my good writing done. I was staring at a blank page because I was working on the upcoming SPT Writers’ Room show: “Trivial Pursuit.” Nothing was coming. And, quite frankly, I’m panicking because we have a ridiculously short turn-around on this show and I have precisely zero sketch ideas.

Anyway, I hear a knock on the door and in comes this dude that I haven’t seen in a while. I had done some industrial video acting with him and we had discussed theater and video a couple of times.

Turns out he had been looking for me. He had contacted me on Facebook and we had swapped some info. But he came into the room like he was on fire.

He wants me to act in a web series he’s created. Those of you who know me know that I don’t jump on just any project. It’s got to be something pretty sweet or I am usually cool the idea.

I have to tell you, this dude absolutely sold me. It’s a sweet premise. It sounds like a fun gig. And he is so excited about it that he infected me with his confidence.

And it was absolutely out of the blue.

Now, I’ve been seduced by great sounding projects before that don’t turn out. That’s why I’m so choosy. And I’ve turned down a couple that I absolutely regret turning down. I mean painful regret. But I get a good vibe from this one.

And I will tell you more if /when it comes to fruition.

And even better, the moment, like a little fairy muse has gotten the old juices flowing. I might actually have a couple of sketch ideas brewing.

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