The Complete Urban Guide to Proper Umbrella Usage

The Umbrella

: Some have argued its worth beyond even that of fire, or the wheel, or individually package snack foods. Known by many names--bumbershoot (or bumpershoot), parasol, canopy, sunshade--and appreciated by many cultures, the umbrella is an essential tool in humanity's war against the elements. Canes, hats, sock garters, they've all gone the way of the Dodo as far as standard equipment goes, but the umbrella has persevered in the face of fashion, and with good reason. It is versatile and seemingly infinite in variety, it is simple yet effective, and it's nifty.

This is why, dear friends, after enduring yet another day of the perils of a rainy city, I feel obligated to share with you the secrets of that ancient, nigh mystical martial art surrounding the sensitive and affective use of the umbrella in an overcrowded urban en(and "in")vironment. These many secrets of both external and internal practice have been passed down only orally through the centuries, handed from generation to generation of master, all the while cleverly disguised under the nomenclature "common sense." I think you will find, however, when next you visit New York (or Chicago, Washington D.C., Bangor, etc.), that there is nothing at all "common" about this "sense." Let's begin . . .

• Rule the First: Best Defense for Rain, No Be There.
• I paraphrase Mr. Miyagi, of course. (Pat Morita, it is widely known, was a long-time secret practitioner of The Way of The Not Retarded With An Umbrella In Public.) This rule is pretty simple. If it's raining, don't go out. You won't get wet. Oh sure, you may spill some water on yourself at some point, but come on. Take some responsibility for yourself. While you're at it, call in sick to work. Think about it. Public transportation will be full to the brim with people convinced they're getting to work faster by not driving, all the while slowing down the public transportation with their numbers. In such an environment, it's an act of charity to fore go one's usual strident work ethic, and charity is one of the 99 Virtues of this style.

• Rule the Second: Second-Best Defense for Rain a Hat.
• It's true. Hats still work. It may seem ridiculous to us, but not so long ago our ancestors (read: grandparents) wore hats out that had a little more style than just a logo and a standing deck on the front. These hats were not just stylish, but practical, with lots of air underneath to separate one's scalp from the elements and, more often than not, a wide brim all the way 'round what prevented elements from getting all elemental in our faces. This simple alternative, when combined with a long coat, will protect all the essentials from said elements.

• Rule the Third: You Need a Coat
• No, really. You do. I know, I know, but -- you do. It's the city. Water's going to come at you from directions you never dreamed possible, and it doesn't care how good your legs look in those shoes/pants/eccentric ruffles.

• Rule the Fourth: As With the (Hu)Man, So With the Bumpershoot
• So you are rash, young Padawan, and have chosen the Way of the Umbrella over the Ways of Responsible Delinquency and/or Hat. So be it. First: You still need a coat. I'm not letting go of this one. Coat, cloak, poncho, whatever--deal. Second, you are unique. You are special unto your own self. Your umbrella must reflect this. If you are larger than most, you may need an umbrella of greater radius, with corresponding longer neck. If you are more diminutive, so shall your umbrella be. Play to your strengths! Far more often than you may imagine, someone of insufficient height takes it upon his or her self to wield a Vorpal sword of a parasol, thinking bigger to be better. This is plainly untrue, and further, is contradictory to the virtue of Not Being a Punk-Ass, another of the 99 Virtues of this style. Further still, with an over-large umbrella, you are imperiling not only others, but yourself, owing to still another of the 99 Virtues: Tendency to Kill Umbrella-Punk-Asses.
• Rule the Fifth: Know Your Place
• What is your "place"? TWoTNRWAUIP is a sophisticated philosophy and way of life, not just a highly effective art-form, and it recognizes that set rules and forms will ultimately limit our ability to adapt to different challenges. For example, a person who's 5'10" in D.C. might think of his or her self as a tall him or her. Odds are, however, that such a one will find themselves in the shorter margin of humans at some point on a visit to N.Y.C. Ergo, one should learn to judge one's opponent(s) on an individual basis. This is harder than it sounds. To practice properly, one must meditate daily on images of reeds in the wind, unconcerned about the battles of ego that might occur in rainy urban conditions. There is no shame in taking the lower stance. Especially if you're a 4'9", slow-moving, grocery-shopping grandmother.
• Rule the Sixth: Movement is the Key to Successful Movement
• Herein lies all the complexity of the technique--that formless form that only masters of TWoTNRWAUIP may someday achieve. One must move with precision and ease through the myriad bumbershoots, maneuvering smartly whilst maintaining a sufficient velocity of foot travel, rather like a traceur (a practitioner of le Parkour), or those cooks who chop stuff really quickly. There are many movements, most of which only life can be the teacher of, but the key to them is this: It is not enough to avoid impaling yourself; you must avoid impaling others. Also: Understand that your umbrella is, oddly enough, wet, and can moisten others. Additionally: What is WRONG with YOU? STOP BEING RETARDED.

Dang. I think I need to meditate a little more.

Scito Te Ipsum(am) (o) Dilige Te Ipsum(am)

My Friday entries (when Friday entries there have been) have been characteristically short, and I offer up a similar serving this Friday, but I find this interesting. It's rather my version of a 'blog quiz. (I always did prefer the essay questions.) As I sat in

the deli a block from work

this morning, drinking my bean juice and trying to finish up

Jitterbug Perfume

before the bell tolled, a curious question occurred to me: Is it more important to A) Know thyself; or B) Love thyself?

Please feel free to share your opinions. If you write at any length elsewhere on the subject, please give unto us a link.

You Never Bring Me Flowers Anymore . . .

No, nor sing you love songs, though that may be to your benefit given my lack of vocal training. Furthermore, I never write. Have not I feelings? Care not I about the individual attentions demanded by the sheer accessibility of all my friends and relations? Should not I, as an actor, be interested in being in constant, continual contact with every person I've ever worked/played with who returns the effort? Doesn't the sheer ease of text messages and email obligate me to at least try myself?

Probably: Yes. Nevertheless, I rebel.

Understand, please, that I'm not making a stand on some moral principle. It would be easy as all hell for me to spin it so. I could claim that the ease of communication creates an environment of a whole lot of words to very little effect, or that the millions of emails and

MySpace

comments that fly about every day have no social impact on anyone, anywhere. I could even plane that edge a bit, make it less proclamatory and just claim to be nostalgic for the days of yore, when letters were written to be saved, and people had to meet in person to catch up. I shan't, because I'd be fooling myself even more than you. No, the reason I'm rebelling lately is because (in my humble self-assessment) I am just sick of it.

I am. I'm grateful for being able to network with friends from the comfort of my day job. I thrill at the ability to communicate with business associates via text messaging when I otherwise wouldn't be able. I do sincerely dig checking out my peeps on their respective 'blogs, dipping a finger in the batter of their creativity. And, I am sick, sick, sick of writing people.

One of the wonderful, wondrous things about a stage play is that it captures, very simply, the beauty of someone entering a room. We have these hundreds of entrances and exits throughout each day of our lives, and they spin by, for the most part unnoticed. Of particular interest, as entrances go, are the moments when one person joins another in a space. You don't even need to know the first thing about the history of these imaginary two to appreciate the moment they join one another in a given area, do you? In that instant, a story is told. In that moment, a space comes alive, has meaning, and words haven't even entered into it yet. I wish I had a name for that. (The French probably do.)

I'm not saying it's irreplaceable (though I will go so far as to say that it is unique). I can't even properly express all that such a moment means to me. Except, perhaps, to say that I miss it. Sans nostalgia. The longing I have for it is very immediate, in fact. It's strange to feel a longing for something so abstract. It's not for one particular person, but people, but not in a group, and it's also for something more. For time to be still, just for half a moment. That suspension of everything. I'm not saying it needs to be dramatic, romantic, or anything specific. Think of knocking on your parents' door. Time stands still for just a tiny bit. There's no "ping," or "be-deep," or "You've got mail!" Your favorite song doesn't start playing, and nothing vibrates, and a magic window doesn't pop up in front of you, demanding attention, and I find that very, very appealing.

It's entirely hypocritical, this entry. The very medium that allows me to express this thought is what's responsible for all this chiming, thrumming, second-by-second communication I seem to deplore. And God knows, ignoring my email doesn't counteract the syndrome in any way at all. It's a little like fighting fire with fire, in fact. Email is an irrational form of personal communication, and I combat this by behaving irrationally myself? Madness. It certainly hasn't resulted in more visits with friends, or even more instances of substantial phone calls. All it does is further separate me from my homies, in particular those what expect a response to a non-business email sooner than a month later.

It could be a phase. Or, it could be an addiction. But me, I prefer an addiction that keeps me out of my seat, rather than one that ties me to it. So I hope you all understand that I love getting emails from you, keeping abreast (maybe even a thigh or a wing) on all you care to write about. My silence is not rejection, and when I bring you flowers, you'll be able to smell them.

And probably me, from all the entrances and exits I'm trying to make good on.

Frighted with False Fire?

There's been a change at the Aviary. Can you tell what it is? Go ahead. Have a look.

Seriously. It's cool. Look.

Give up? You didn't even try, did you? Come on. You know I'm way too stupid about web jib to do anything fancy; it's not like I could make the background pattern into an optical illusion or anything. (Man, but I wish I could make the background pattern into an optical illusion. [

Sailboat!

]) Try. Go ahead already.

That's right: my "Aspects" (the topics list down left) is now sorted by frequency, rather than alphabetically. I MUST REQUEST THAT YOU RETAIN YOUR COMPOSURE. Just breathe. Relax. We're gonna get through this. I can hear, through this magical series of tubes, your angst-ridden pleas for explanation. Allow me to address that: I don't know. Or, rather: Just 'cause. I've been thinking for some time now that once I had a good number of entries, it would be good to see what I'm writing about most and least often, and there you have it. Generally, that is. I think that, as a weblogger, I am a little topic-happy. There are generally 49 topics for each entry. What can I say? I like that feature. So every so often, if you use it, you'll get an entry that has only one sentence about the topic you were searching for. Sorry 'bout that.

I confess, too, that a little bit of pride goes into the resorting. People that I don't know, at all, are reading my 'blog with a certain nonchalant regularity, and now anyone who visits--assuming they're geek enough to scan the topic list--can see if what I concern myself with interests them or not. Theatre-philes will be pleased. People researching pigeons will probably pass me by. Interestingly enough (note I do not say "suprisingly enough"), as of the date of this entry, number 5 under "Aspects" is . . .

Anxiety

.

Now, this is interesting to me for a variety of reasons:

1. I kind of thought "anxiety" or "fear" would make the top three. In this sense, it's kind of an accomplishment.

1. Just last night I had a conversation with Friend Kate that addressed the topic of anxiety, both in general and as it pertains to yours truly, and it was revealed to me that the anxiety with which I approach many things can be a bit upsetting and tiresome. Why this never occurred to me before, I have no idea, but she's right.

1. Anxiety was an energy that a lot of my acting used to be fueled by, and just lately I've been finding that unhelpful, both in terms of the relative staying power of that energy and the influence it has on my acting choices.

So. Buttons. Where to begin?

Well (to begin,), allow me to say that I believe I have gotten a little better about this whole "anxiety thing." Folks what knew me back in the day (which was a Wednesday; I don't know if you knew that) can tell you, I used to freak out about and be afraid on some level of just about everything. Even things that really had little-to-nothing to do with me personally. Somehow, I found value in taking responsibility for every little thing I could, and I think it had something to do with the idea that I needed to earn love, or something similarly packed with pathos (the bad kind). I'm not saying I've worked that out entirely, but I'm much better now at identifying what is truly my problem, what's my sympathy, and I don't freak out about telephone calls or public places. As often. >wink!<

The issue for me now-a-days has more to do with functioning without anxiety; that is, dropping some anxiety without becoming a total ne'er-do-well. I am addressing this challenge both in terms of life and in terms of acting. I mean, damn, but the way I used to get things done in rehearsal was to rev up the old engine and let it fly, see where it took me. Now, however, things have changed. The acting engine doesn't seem to want to run now unless it's getting proper fuel and recipricol kinetic energy. (Distended metaphor engine: apparently 100%.) That is to say, whereas before my anxious energy translated easily into big, sometimes bad but always boisterous, acting choices, now nothing dramatic happens unless I'm making the right choices and doing so with a scene partner who is right there with me.

In some senses, this makes me a "better" actor. In fact, I would wager that most laymen would analyze this as an obvious improvement, based on the standard that fewer right answers are always better than a multitude of wrong ones. That's not exactly an actor's job, though. In fact, as I have come to understand it, using too much discernment in the moment actually impedes an actor's process, turns him or her into a simultaneous experimentor and critic who constantly self-nullifies. What most people need from an actor is for him or her to come into a rehearsal room and screw up big time, left, right and center, to find the occasional just-right gem of a choice.

It really is a question of fuel. Once, it was sufficient to face the stage (and life) with a heaping helping of anxiety to fuel my ride. It got things done, and it seemed endless in supply. Well, I suppose anything that seems unlikely to change is a thing that will surprise you. That's part of the pleasure of acting, I must admit. It's fascinating work because not only does it never sit still, but one's instruments never do, either. It's like trying to perform surgery on a patient who is engaged in aerobics, and with anthropomorphic tools animated by Disney. (Distended metaphor engine: definitely 100%.) That is to say, the craft of acting sometimes seems to boil down to staying flexible enough to keep up with changes. After all, the only constant in life is change.

And change makes me anxious. >

wink

!<

My Much-Esteemed Friends

Hi guys. Thought for a day I would release the bizarre, quasi-instruction-video-for-non-actors tone this 'blog can often take, and just address the readers I know. You guys know about theatre, some more than others of course, but you all know at least what it's like to have an actor as a friend. So none of that this day. Just a moment or two to address the audience (as all of my favorite plays take some little time to do [see, still adhering to insane parentheses][okay:

The Real Thing

has no direct address, and is a favorite, but you can't deny it diddles with the fourth wall in a delightful way]) . . .

I began to utilize very early on in this 'blog some of the quirkier points of grammar I've learned from side-lining as a proofreader of academic texts. (Case [in {point: quirky} paren-] theticals.) Amongst these quirks, I incorporated the use of informal titles. Most often, this shows up in discussing friends.

Friend

Davey, or

Friend

Kelly. It could be used for anything that describes character identity, I suppose.

Storyteller

Davey, or

Enthusiast

Kelly. This comes from a rule of capitalization, specifically that you only capitalize a title in reference to a particular person, and then only when it's acting kind of like an adjective. (I'm so waiting for someone with a formal education in proofreading to comment on how backward I've got this.) So you write "George Bush is a bad

p

resident," and "I can't believe how incompetent

P

resident Bush is." Somehow the use of this title, this little adjustment, connotes respect.

I started it because I thought it was funny, while serving as explanation for the anonymous readers of the Aviary. I hate name-dropping, even that of less-than-world-renowned folk ("Oh, that reminds me of what Ted did yesterday!" "Who the hell is 'Ted'?" "Oh, you don't know Ted? Oh, you simply

must

know Ted! Why don't you know Ted?"), and using titles lends a old-world sense of irony to my prose, said prose being occasionally overwrought with perfect sincerity. Okay: Often. Okay: I

hope

my irony makes up for it.

ANYWAY, you lot, my friends (and you know who you are ... no need to incriminate anyone additional at this time...) are wonderful. Truly. I don't deserve you, but I try, and you see that, and that makes me feel even more grovel-ly. That is, when I take a moment like this one to receive that feeling. A lot of the time,

most

of the time, I keep myself so busy that I end up operating on assumptions about what you know about how I feel about you. Can't quite explain that. When I was about 11 or 12 (as you can attest, Davey) I was obsessed with serving my friends, defining myself by my relationship to them and how likely it was I might be able to throw myself in front of on-coming traffic to save them. High school into college was somewhat complicated by learning about more amorous love, but I was still obsessive about really listening and devoting my entire self when a friend (or, to be honest, a hopeful friend ... or acquaintance ... or total stranger...) was upset. We grow, priorities change; I accept that. Now, if you called at 3:00 AM because you were feeling insecure, you are a lot more likely to get my voicemail than me, awake by candlelight, trying to figure out how to end a tormented short story. We grow. I guess all it really comes down to is--

Why don't we see more of each other?

I know, I know: Virginia, California, even New Jersey. And I know: We're adults now. We have responsibilities, everything is tied into what we

do

, and there's not so much sitting around, marveling at the mystery of who we

are

. I get that. Still. I like you. You are rad, and I would like to see more of you.

I'm not laying blame

at all

here. If it came to that, I'd definitely end up holding the burning end of the punk. I'm terrible. I hate the phone, and am made anxious by so-called "free time." Most people fail to recognize me after a haircut, much less after a year apart, so I often let things slide content in the knowledge that everyone changes and grows apart. But the thing is, we haven't. Not really. Sure, there's been change. Mammoth change and minute. But I still count you my friend. And for just a moment (a 'blog entry, even; can there be anything less grand?) I'd like to acknowledge those amongst you whom I don't see enough of. In no particular order, and with the standard Oscar-speech caveat ("I really didn't expect this ... there are so many people to thank..."):

Nat

- Your performance was fantastic, and I really wanted to go hang out for hours with you afterward. I wouldn't have even kicked you in the face this time, I think. We should work together again.

Kate - Through everything, you have always believed in me, which is more valuable to me than you may know. Thank you, not just for recent support on

As Far As We Know

, but for five years of belief.

Melissa

- I loved watching

Gull(ability)

. I love watching you taking your work and RUNNING with it. It inspires me. I only wish we still worked in the same office, or could run into each other at Java'n'Jazz.

Patrick

- For the past six months I have gotten smarter and been more entertained by way of books from you, and I miss you, even though we'd have the same difficulties of scheduling even if you were in-state. I hope you're finding all you're looking for.

Walkinhomefromthethriftstore

- It's become such a time-honored tradition to watch TV with you, I don't know if you know how great it still is for me to spend time with you. I'm glad you're close(er). I'm trying to take more advantage of that.

Harry - Thank you for being so open. I'm still sorry, and I hope we can talk about the whole thing soon.

Sarah - I miss you. Thank you so for the belated card and thinking you saw me in

Spider-Man 3

(you didn't). Let's talk soon.

Mark - I think we're just going to have to accept that we have different goals when it comes to building a philosophy. What we never have to accept is our geographic distance making for more personal distance. I'm glad to banter over any medium, even if we never agree again.

Davey

- You support me so much in my work, and you're not even here, so I never get to show you how much that means to me. You shall be rewarded with fart jokes!

Younce, Dave

- It never ceases to amaze me how much contact with you reminds me of the joy that comes of creating something, somehow even though I spend the majority of my time trying to do just that. I don't get enough of those reminders, but it's not for want of your trying. I just can't get enough.

Youmans, Dave - Your visit was the highlight of my summer, and I wish I could be there for you now. I'm on entirely the wrong kind of schedule to call you this week. Maybe I can make a theatre game out of it, and have all my students this week involved. You'll hear from me soon.

Grant & Val - I am going to visit just as soon as I can -- maybe on one of these upcoming Saturdays off!

There you have it; a great, big, steamy pile of gratitude. This is not a complete list. It's not nearly all the people I have to thank, and on a daily basis. There are still countless ex-cast-members, coworkers, teachers, students, role-players, relatives, etc. Let this stand in than, if your name happens not to appear above: Thank you.

Thank you.