However, due to the long-lasting stalemate, treaties of peace have since been signed and now I am enrolled as part-time student. Though, hold on... I seem to have skipped ahead a bit.
Amidst the struggles for academic supremacy, I had been participating in secret on a reality television (read: YouTube) series while cleverly disguised as a dumbass. Each episode was filmed semi-weekly at Hazel Dell Lanes, and featured a variety of challenges for me to quite entirely suck at. While it can be assumed that having not bowled for three years prior to the filming of this show would mean a distinctive lack of skill, talent, and fabulousness in my play-style, the shifting challenges did nothing to help me gain the experience I needed to improve. Chronic insomnia is also a difficult adversity to overcome in bowling. As is clearly depicted in episode 3, the circumstances of going without sleep for three to four weeks affects a person in such a manner that when forced to bowl for a reality television competition, the person will alternately have a big pansy-ass baby breakdown right there in front of everyone and sing Tom Lehrer songs. Incidentally, I was also later voted the favorite contestant of the season, which just goes to show that the key to victory in television, as in life, is to openly show no sign of skill while being the biggest asshole you can possibly be. Hate is love. The upshot is, my overwhelming popularity (by vote of maybe six people out of the eleven who have watched the show) was enough to land me the position as host of season 2.
My hostly duties were self-summarized as follows:
- Say whatever the director tells you to say, but better
- Be yourself and say whatever the hell you want to say
- You have no overall impact on the show so don't try to usurp us. We are Legion.
- Don't suck as much as the last host (Ha! That... that was a joke... in case my boss is reading this.)
Four episodes have been filmed already, and I'm beginning to get in the groove. The key is to demand my own cameraman. After all, to be myself is to be amazing, and how can I be amazing without someone constantly watching me? If David Blaine seals himself in a block of ice for a year in the forest and no one is around to tell him he's stupid, does he get any real satisfaction from the frostbite? I am doing my best to go above and beyond the duties of sitting around waiting for the crappy bowling to end. I'm actually getting in people's faces and asking the questions people want to know, such as "Do you hate your grandma?" and "Have you ever peed in the shower?" I nominate myself for best host ever, and ride my landslide victory into a big steaming heap of your gratitude for the service I have done for entertainment. You're welcome.
I have missed most of one episode though. I've been sick, but I'm driven to achieve by the fine actors I hear about on DVD commentary who go to work hungover from Sudafed and with mild concussions. If Jon Hamm can get his head split open on the set of Mad Men by the most mortified rigger in the history of television and come back from the hospital to finish to gorram scene against everyone's advice, then the least I can do is show up at a parking lot in a seedy area of town with a cold to tell people to bowl in a very impractical manner. I only have a couple more days to get completely better though, because I cannot miss the next day of filming. It's the Halloween episode. Fear my white-trash costuming skills.
I'm still no closer to getting a job; or a car; I haven't written anything, drawn anything, edited TAD, or spoken to anyone about voice acting in months; and yet I feel more content than I have in quite a while. I have structure now and see my friends on an almost daily basis. Things are fine now, but I'm still concerned for my future. There's so much more that I want to accomplish and I've done nothing. I had intended to speak with the director of Rolloff about a series I wanted to pitch him, but got distracted away from that, and now I feel that opportunity has been lost.
On the bright side: I am Spider-Man.
Part of the bargain I struck with Clark College in order to get my mother off their backs about all of the shit they were putting us through was that they would allow me to attend an acting class. I have no desire to act on stage, and grow increasingly disillusioned with film, but if I can learn how to suck less as a voice actor then I will be academically satisfied.
Part of my success as an overlord with manic depression is that I avoid going on stage unless I have a teleprompter reminding me of the words to "A Boy Named Sue." A monologue, going up on stage in front of everyone and hallucinating that you're somewhere else talking to a person that doesn't exist, is the hardest thing an actor has to deal with aside from the very real possibility that you suck as an actor (which, as previously discussed, isn't that big of a deal if you're a sufficient enough asshole as most actors are.) Our teacher instructed us that our monologue selection should be something we relate to, connect with, and isn't Shakespeare. My first thought was Spider-Man. True, I look up to the greats such as Dr. Doom, Lex Luthor, The Shredder, and Gargamel, but when it comes to real emotional connection to story-telling, quite frankly that's what Spider-Man is known for. Most dedicated Spider-Man followers will tell you that the reason they read Spider-Man is because he's a loser like them. Spider-Man was my first instinct, and I should have gone with it.
Instead I chose a re-written monologue from a play called "Fishing" by Micheal Weller, who, thankfully, is a playwright from the 1970's who writes stories about youthful and energetic partakers of the magic cookie bush. The dialog is witty and often nonsensical. It's perfect for me. The particular monologue I chose was not.
I was having an infamously bad morning. My depression led me to believe that I would be ridiculed for picking a monologue out of Ultimate Spider-Man. I was terrified that I would be looked upon as lazy and uncaring. I decided to look through the teacher's books one more time. I stumbled over the monologue, about a guy who was on the brink of killing himself and decided he really wanted to live, and figured it sounded an awful lot like my morning. At the time it seemed like the perfect choice. If I was in a good mood it could be read with a sense of irony, and if I was in a bad mood it could be read well. I immediately went to Powell's to buy the play it was from, because I wanted to make the effort. I'm always to determined to prove how hard I can work. I hate hearing teachers give the class crap about how lazy they are and feeling like they're speaking to me too. I had to do everything I could to prove myself, and I pushed myself as hard as I could. The day I read it was the kind of morning where you wake up feeling alright, but then start mumbling "I want to carve my heart out with a knife" while you're scrambling eggs and suddenly everything goes downhill. After my monologue I ran out of the classroom screaming f-bombs and hid in the trees somewhere. The horrible thing about the Clark College campus is that there is no place to hide and be alone. By the time I got home I was fairly certain I was going to hurt myself. I kept screaming things about wanting to break off my fingers. This lasted a few hours and subsided.
This is an important thing to note, because a hero is not measured by his victories, but by his failures. (I say hero in the Campbellian sense of the term. You must also realize that with the original Greek concept of a hero, what made a deed heroic was the amazement factor, not whether or not the deed itself was good. If you could bring down a building with your bare hands and crush everyone inside you were called a hero. Greeks also believed throwing babies in the fire gave them immortality.) I also realize that Blogger doesn't have the nifty hiding feature that Live Journal has.
This failure taught me many things:
1) Manic depressives shouldn't spend so much time working on memorizing/feeling things about death.
2) Taquitos are magical wish-granting foods that can help you memorize things in the knick of time.*
3) THERE IS NO PLACE YOU CAN HIDE AT CLARK COLLEGE. Plan escape routes accordingly and hide in your girlfriend's car.
4) Orcas get off on rubbing against the smooth rocks along the shores of British Columbia. (Source missing.)
After that fiasco I decided it was in everyone's best interest that I read comic books. In issue 21 of Ultimate Spider-Man, after his second win out of six fights, Spidey is given a chance to explain to the press who he is and why he runs around in tights punching people with robot arms and reality television hosts. If you crop it up right, it becomes a very nice monologue. There are many monologues in Ultimate Spider-Man. Brian Michael Bendis really likes to hear himself write. There's one monologue that spans three issues during the Venom story arc. Three issues of Peter's dad talking about cancer, bureaucracy, and how he has no idea that he's going to die in a plane crash. However, I chose to do what I know: talk about how I just want to do my thing and not care about what people think.
When I delivered the monologue I was still sick. I also had to leave the class once because when I was critiquing another actor I forgot to lead in with what I liked and a girl sitting behind me smacked me with the script she was holding. Granted, if I wasn't already terrified and on edge about what happened last time I went on stage the playful thwap wouldn't have sent me reeling, but I am not master over circumstances. I was able to head back fairly soon, and it wasn't long before it was my turn. Even with little preparation time given my illness and other responsibilities I seemed to do very well.
I will tell you right now that I have missed applause. I don't have the opportunity to receive genuine applause often. In a classroom environment like that applause is obligatory, and you can tell the difference between obligatory applause and genuine applause. For one thing, the teacher was reeling back in his seat laughing and asking me what my monologue was from. Here I was terrified I would be ridiculed for choosing something out of a comic book, and he was actually commending me fore it and was in awe of how creative I was in choosing such unusual material. Most of the class didn't catch on that it was Spider-Man until the end, if at all. People reacted most positively to how I wasn't trying to be a super hero, and that I was just some dorky guy, which was entirely the point of the monologue. The biggest complaint was my exit because I didn't jump up and pretend to swing away. Once people clicked that I was Spider-Man that's what they were expecting. And the teacher gave me the best compliment I have ever received. Even better than "[Veltha] you are the sanest person I know. Which is weird, because you're the only person I know who is certifiably IN-sane."
"I used to read Spider-Man when it first started. And that was a looong time ago. To me, you are how I imagine Peter Parker."
I've been fortunate lately. I finally have a daily routine. I get to see my friends almost every day. I may or may not be acquiring a skill I can use someday if I keep fighting for it. I'm on my way to becoming a local internet sensation. I have an amazing girlfriend. But it was in that moment on stage that I finally felt victory. That was the praise I've been struggling so hard for.
Anyway, there's that. At the time of this posting it is past noon, and I have yet to ingest any meals. I should have had three by now. My metabolism is a mighty force to be reckoned with. My failure to take care of my health will not go unpunished I'm sure. What I need is a warm bowl of soup, followed by a hot shower and a comfy couch. Then... THE WORLD!
Pathos and good will,
Lord Veltha
*Lord Veltha's Guide to Monologue Memorization (because there aren't enough lists in this post):
1) Re-write the monologue in your own handwriting, complete with the subtext of what the character is really thinking written in the margins with a different color of writing utensil.
2) Eat taquitos. LOTS of taquitos.
4) Spend a couple hours half-heartedly struggling in vein trying to memorize the lines. Read it until you really don't want to work anymore but really should because it's important. Then throw the guilt away and come to a complete stop.
5) Curl up with a cat on the couch and watch TV or DVDs.
6) Play video games until you fall asleep.
7) In the morning when you wake up you will know the monologue from top to bottom without any difficulty.
Yes, this is my method for memorization, and yes it worked. Twice.
