I'm Back, Bitches

The astute and non-visually impaired of you might have noticed that I, um, blogged yesterday.

From August 5th to September 10th it was mighty quiet 'round these here parts. That was because I didn't have a job, and I felt like a sort of assmonkey sitting around blogging when I was supposed to be lurking around on Craigslist, searching for if not meaningful than at least gainful employment.

As luck would have it, I may have found both. I don't know yet-- I start on Monday. So... we'll see.

It's going to be kind of a different scene for me. Going from working with talented children to the mentally ill is a tad of a shift, but some of the same techniques and personality traits of mine may prove just as useful with my new, er, population. And, I mean-- how different could it really be, right? Children bite. Psych patients.... um.... bite.

Yeah....

Of all the jobs I have held since college, this may end up being the one for which I am the least qualified, and I've never really been totally qualified for any of the jobs I've held. But, oddly, that doesn't worry me. I supposed I'm used to being under-qualified. The woman interviewing me for this position referred to me as "overqualified," but then, she doesn't know me very well. Prospective employers know what they see on paper and, if you wear a tie, they get a little horny. Wear a sterling-silver tie-bar, and you can practically watch their trousers get soggy.

I suppose I'm also not too concerned because I know that this job is only a stop-gap on my way to securing a career in law enforcement. Once the economy turns around and police departments really kick their recruitment/hiring initiatives into high gear, I will be ready. I have been kicking ass and taking several names at the gym, and I can now successfully lift 83% of my bodyweight. Admittedly, that's only a couple of bags of dog-food, but it's still an accomplishment to me.

Mostly, I'm proud of the fact that I have secured employment at all. In this economy, it's no small feat. It's maybe even large-ish. The fact that there were three job offers (well, two-and-a-half if I'm completely honest) on the table shocked even me. I guess that's what happens when you aim low while wearing a sterling-silver tie-bar. The trousers of many an H.R. representative got moist in southeastern P.A. over the course of the last two weeks, I'm proud to say.

One of the things, of course, that lightens my spirits these days is the fact that, now that I have a job, I feel a bit more "right" about blogging again. Sure, it wasn't something that took up huge amounts of my time during the day, but it was an admitted distraction, and something I knew the world could do without.

(You all survived, didn't you? God, you're beautiful.)

It feels very, very good to be doing this again. Married as I was to stalking such inglorious sites as Craigslist, Careerbuilder, Monster, and whatever other awful sites, it feels a little weird to not be checking those sites out anymore on a near constant, eye-drying basis. Reading banal, non-descript postings for jobs I didn't want, but applied for anyway. Easily the most colorful job offer I got (oh, wait-- that's three-and-a-half!) was an erectile-dysfunction clinic that wanted to hire me to give IV infusions to flaccid patients.

"You'll be proud to witness men get their first erections in years," I was told, "right there in the office in front of you!"

Better than behind me, I thought.

What Do You Expect?

Last night, I got an email from one of my precious few readers who has the misfortune to know me not just as a blogger but as a human being. The email directed me to a post on a blog called "The Art of Manliness" and the post was called What Can Manly Men Expect of Women.

You can read it here, if you're the bookish, sensitive, intellectual type of person who likes to know both sides of a story before just blindly trusting me and letting me touch you in the dark while you're asleep.

What?

The post makes the argument that men ought to be manning up, in many various ways, but that women ought to be expected to follow suit-- by feminizing up, as it were, because that-- like the handlebar moustache and the word "hosiery" seems to have gone out-of-style.

The article even quotes some "professor" as stating the following:

"But the younger generation is looking at getting dressed up and making their mark,” Mr. Cohen continued. “It’s a real generation gap here. I teach at three different colleges, and I am amazed how dressed up some of the students are. Girls still come in their hoodies and pajamas, but boys come in their suits.”

That's funny-- I care way too much about my suits to come in them.

But seriously, folks-- where the fuck does this guy teach-- the Sorbonne? My freshman year roommate barely attended class and, when he did, he sported a wifebeater and track pants, if he was feeling chipper. The amount of smelly, unshaven, hair-across-the-eyebrows guys who came to class wearing flannel pajama bottoms and hoodies outnumber the amount of recall notices on the Ford Pinto.

The post then goes on and on to whine about the "double standards" that exist in this world that have heavily stacked the deck against men. Well, let's all just back away from our monitors and have ourselves a good old manly cry about that, why don't we? Of course, if you look at the media, you start to see that it's true. Look at any situation comedy. You've got a rail-thin, high-titted, intelligent, world-weary wife inexplicably married to some semi-retarded, usually obese fuckjob whose job makes inappropriate choices like it's his job-- if he has one. You want to rise up and say, "Hey, wait-- that's not fair!" until you realize that all of these fucking shows were created and written by men.

Oops.

The post then goes on to point out the following contradiction:

"Could we perhaps say that equality shouldn’t mean embracing and outdoing men in things that were traditionally considered masculine? That making out with other chicks for attention and lifting your shirt for beads and getting smashed and burping the alphabet and dressing in sweatsuits really has very little to do with being “liberated?”

Wow. Sounds like the writers of this blog (apparently a hubband-and-wifey team-- awww!-- almost makes them immune from critique, don't it?) have been watching too many "Girls Gone Wild" videos, or at least too many episodes of "COPS: Live & Tasin' at Mardi Gras" to me. What percentage of the population of 18-24 year-old women behave like this, I'd like to know? And, while we're on the subject: how many of them have webcams?

The article also makes lots of claims, presenting them as fact but without citing any sources or evidence, such as "did you know that 2/3 of divorces are initiated by women?" Well, define "initiated." Does that mean the actual legal proceedings? Does that mean bringing it up at the breakfast nook? Does that mean that she was the one who took her ring off first?

Oh, and does that figure include all the instances of divorce that began due to the husband's sticking his dick in a hole where it didn't belong at a Motel 6 during his lunch hour?

The post ends by asking a very simple question, though, and I think it's a question that I should be answering on this here blog of mine because, really, I have a big mouth and sometimes I feel like I need to use it for something important.

And the role of men and women in our society is important. Isn't it?

Here's what I expect from women as a whole:

Nothing.

And I hope to God they expect the same, or less, of me.

You know why? Because I'm a human being, and I fuck up a lot. I say the wrong thing and I use the steel wool on the bundt pan and I zone out at work and I can't spell "synagogue" correctly without really thinking about which vowels go where and I spend too much time fantasizing about owning some impractical, crazy fucking car like a 1973 Mercedes 220-D with tan leather interior and wood inserts on the dash and I have anxiety about dying all the time and I'll never play the banjo as well as Steve Martin.

We're all hopeless, even those of us who make it big. Especially those of us who make it big. Christ-- look at Steve Martin. If you think his Inspector Clouseau is funny, you can just un-follow this blog right now, because you're dead to me.

Actually, maybe I mis-spoke a while ago when I said that I don't expect anything of women. I guess maybe I expect them to not be assholes. You know what I mean-- the kind who feel they are entitled to things. When a woman budges in line at the post office or reams me out at work, she's a bitch. When a man does the same things, he's a dickhead.

But those are just words-- they're just names. Would I be some kind of kerchief-mouthed revolutionary if I started referring to annoying women as "dickheads" and annoying men as "bitches?" Look, I'm too tired and too insignificant to start reinventing the wheel. I already tried that with "LMT" and "Keep Fucking That Chicken" and I don't think it worked.

I just want people to be good to each other, for Christ's sake. Figure it out, people. Start fighting fair with each other. Stop accusing and blaming, take responsibility. If one of you doesn't like doing laundry, then make that your thing. She'll walk the dog or iron your pants. Who gives a shit? Stop looking for excuses as to why your life is so unfair and why your race is so downtrodden and why your gender is so maligned. Stop complaining to each other over cosmopolitans or coffee. Stop writing into Dear Abby. Actually, don't do that.

Today, my wife and I went outside three times and did battle against a foot-and-a-half feet of snow with a shovel each. First we dug out her car, and then we dug out mine. She shovelled the walkway, I shovelled the sidewalk. Why? Because we're goddamn partners. I didn't go out there myself because I felt the need to prove that I'm "the man" with my big dick and balls, and she didn't do it to prove that she's a modern, empowered woman with a clit of steel and a snarky New York-state-of-mind disposition.

Man-- fuck that.

Gender roles and gender stereotypes are what we make of them-- they were invented long ago and we insist on either inventing new ones or perpetuating the old ones. Either way, we do a disservice to each other when we do it. What do you expect of women? What do you expect of men? You have to start smaller, by expecting things of individuals. We wouldn't permit, as a polite society, reading a post entitled, "What Do You Expect of Blacks?" or "What Do You Expect of Jews?" would you? Let's just take each other one at a time.

And those of us who are lucky enough in this life to have partners, well, we can start there.

Adult Content Warning

The blogosphere is still a mystery to me, even after all this time.

Every time I think I'm a seasoned veteran, I stumble upon people who claim that they've been blogging since the Ford Pinto was considered safe, and while I question some bloggers' protestations of extreme longevity, I do realize that thousands and thousands and thousands of bloggers have been laying some serious smackdown on their keyboards for far longer than I.

And I respect that.

Some aspects of bloggery perplex me-- like the apparent etiquette surrounding comments. Many bloggers feel that it is appropriate and reasonable to respond to each comment they receive. Well, that's hard for me, and I don't always see a reason for it, so I don't do that. I also don't understand certain bloggers' propensity to use profanity, but insert asterisks where certain strategic vowels would reside. If you feel the profanities are warranted, and you're going to use them-- goddamnit, use them, motherfuckers!

While we're on the subject of profanity, it ties in rather nicely to my biggest confusion concerning the blogosphere: the adult content warning.

You may have noticed that this blog contains, on occasion, some, um, I don't know-- "adult themes." Some "peppery language." Some drug use. Oh, no, wait-- there's none of that. But there's plenty of fucks and shits and goddamnits, because that's how I speak and I figured, well, that's how I ought to write, otherwise I'd be presenting a false picture of myself.

And that isn't nice.

Of course, presenting an accurate picture of yourself sometimes necessitates presenting an inaccurate picture of yourself-- like an avatar instead of a picture, like a pseudonym instead of a name. It's necessary, if you want to keep your job. And, while I'm often ambivalent about it, I'd much rather keep it than lose it.

Since I've started blogging, one or two people have written to me or left me a comment asking why I choose not to utilize an Adult Content Warning, visible to anyone who happens across my blog, a hurdle that one must either vault over or back away from.

On http://www.blogger.com/, they give you a choice about whether or not you want to use the disclaimer. So that you can see what the disclaimer looks like, I've copied-and-pasted the Blogger disclaimer that appears before Leslie the Pirate's blog: "Swashbuckling Through the Murky Waters of Online Dating" Here it is:

"The blog that you are about to view may contain content only suitable for adults. In general, Google does not review nor do we endorse the content of this or any blog. For more information about our content policies, please visit the Blogger Terms of Service"

I Understand And I Wish to Continue -- I Do Not Wish to Continue

Obviously, if you click "I Understand And I Wish to Continue" you get to be bombarded with an onslaught of pornographic images and vitriolic obscenities the likes of which not heard since Sam Kinison slammed the car door on his penis. I've never tried clicking "I Do Not Wish to Continue" but I'm assuming, if I did, it would take me to a website selling Neil Diamond MP3s.

Frankly, after viewing Leslie's site, I don't really think it necessitates the Adult Content Warning, but, then again, I don't think mine does either, so I guess that's not saying much. For my part, I've never answered any of the people who've been bored enough with their own lives to bother to ask me why I don't use an Adult Content Warning for my blog. Since I haven't done that, I figure that now is a good enough time as any to say why:

I don't want to.

----------------------------------------------------

Surprised?

Well, don't be. That's right, put those cute little eyebrows down, please. I just don't really feel like it.

First of all, the adult content warning kind of surprised me, its very existence. I didn't understand why it was necessary. When I first started blogging, I thought innocently that the blogosphere was a place for angsty, neurotic guys with dainty fingers and glasses to spout off against the injustices of their own private, sheltered worlds. The couple of blogs that I had eyeballed back in those heady, perfumed days of last year were so vanilla, so innocuous, so... boring, I couldn't even conceieve of a blog that would necessitate an adult content warning.

Obviously, I hadn't met LiLu yet.

It never even occured to me that people might be reading things on blogs that would offend them and, if they did, that they would actually get indignant enough to do something about it, like reporting a blogger to the Blogger CyberPolice. I mean, children read blogs? Talk about a thought that never even entered my mind. Seriously? Really? Minors?

What, I ask, could a minor possibly want to read a blog for. I mean-- minors don't... read. Do they? Okay, maybe they read, but, if they do, they read "Twilight." Or "The Ya Ya Fucking Sisterhood" or whatever the hell it is. Do teenagers really need to be protected from... bloggers?

Jesus. I had never thought of that.

Of course, now that I have thought about that, I'm not really sure that I care about that. Maybe I should.

Originally, I had thought that these Adult Content Warnings were meant to protect bloggers from prudish, thin-lipped web-surfers in Des Moines, Iowa, cruising the interwebz lace hairnets and pineapple earrings. Of course, I don't give a shit if ignorant people like these get offended from reading my blog and, honestly, I like the idea of them arriving here sort of unawares, without being forewarned by some demeaning notice that prepares them for what's ahead.

I'm kinda just sitting here... waiting for 'em.

Here's the thing about censorship, and about these warnings, which are just another vehicle of censorship: people who love them claim that they protect the innocent. Well, they don't. You know why? Because nobody's innocent. The 12-year-old boy with his retarded parents at a thoroughly pornographic, rice-laden live production of "The Rocky Horror Show" last night isn't innocent, and, trust me, that little fucker isn't reading this blog, either. The disclaimer doesn't protect me either, because, if some offendable miscreant stumbles upon my blog and gets her (or his) panties in a twist, it's my ass-- pseudonym and avatar or no. I've still got an IP address, right?

So, I figure, if I'm going down, I want to go down with the ship, and with my dignity intact. Even if My Masonic Apron gets soaked when the Titanic disappears below the surface.

Make Pretty Like

I've always been rather insecure about my looks.

I've never really been moved to do anything about this, it's just kind of a fact. I'm well aware of the fact that what we look like and how we dress and groom ourselves (or not) conveys messages to the people with whom we interact and meet. These people then make judgments about us, and that's not necessarily fabulous, but it is what it is. That's what people do.

You do it too, snarkypoo.

I'm a big offender in this area. I encountered a woman today who is approximately 5'10" and weighs probably in the neighborhood of 200 pounds. She's built, essentially, like an assemblyline product. She was wearing a pair of skin-tight black pants, asspants, really-- the kind that sororisluts wear to keggers so that fratococks can easily find a warm, happy home during grinding sessions--and I swear to you these pants revealed portions of her anatomy that I did not care to see. Forget cameltoe, we're talking walrusfoot. I was petrified, and thankful that there were no children around.

I judged this woman instantly. And, you know what? She deserved it.

Others judge me, and that's okay, too. I've recently come under fire from peers for my propensity to overdress. I work at a small non-profit and, every day, I come into work in a shirt and tie. Now, I own approximately eighty-seven ties, so why wouldn't I trot those fuckers out on a regular basis? It would be a waste if I didn't. They're all colorful-- except for the one reserved for funerals and visits with local clergy-- and some of them sport whimsical scenes, like one rabbit slowly devouring thirty carrots, pigs wearing little sweaters and custom-made appliqued penguins courtesy of Mrs. Apron. My penchant for formality and my love of nice clothes is well-known amongst my long-time friends and associates, but some people just have to say something.

Last night:

Him: "So, do you ever, like, wear jeans or sweats?"

Me: "No."

Him: "Oh."

Silence.

Him: "Never?"

I then proceeded to tell the story of the girl I dated in college who tried to change me (bad idea, ladies) by "strongly encouraging" me to purchase a pair of jeans at Express for Men at a cost of $68.00 a pair, and how I hated and resented her for not appreciating me for who I was and then, after we had broken up, I stuffed the jeans in a drawer and never wore them again. This is the same girl who nagged me and nagged me to attend a formal dance with her our senior year and, after I finally capitulated and spent however much I spent on a rented tuxedo, she looked at me in it, smiled wanely and said, "You're going to look so handsome when you can afford clothes fit you."

I've been thinking recently about this blog, and about its look, and about what that look says about me. I've been in the blogging world for almost a year now, and I've seen a fair amount of blogs, and I respect and admire people who know html (or give frequent blowjobs to people who do) and thus have eye-catching, beautiful blogs that are lavish in design, liberal in their use of color and/or attractive aesthetic elements.

That said, though, I kind of like My Masonic Apron the way it is. I'm not visually artistic in any way, shape, or form. Even my "Hangman" stick-figures look like they were done by a four-year-old with special needs. Therefore, I think that a visually arresting blog with my pseudonym on it would kind of be a bit of a misrepresentation of me-- kind of like an avatar of me holding a camera up to my own face, implying that I'm, like, a photographer or something.

I'm a writer, and, as such, I feel that the focus of this blog should be the writing. I don't want to get distracted and I kind of don't want you to get distracted, too. Sure, every now and then I'm tempted to spruce up the place a little bit, to make pretty like, but it passes because I remember that this is a place for the written word to take the forefront and that, really, I'm rather a plain type of fellow. Give me a white shirt and a cutesy tie and that's who I am. I like that you come here and read even though it's hardly the most glamorous IP address on the web.

I like that.

I like you, too.

Even though I do, I'd probably judge you by your appearance, but I'm sure you'd reciprocate.

Also last night:

Her: "I just wanted to tell you that the beard's really not working for you."

You know what, though? It's kind of nice to be the kind of person that people feel comfortable enough around to be honest with. They're not afraid I'm going to get offended or pissed, or cry, or pull out a Tec-9 and shoot them in the face. All I'm going to do is write about it in my basic, stripped-down, no-frills, roll-up-windows kinda blog.

Unless It's Mean

I pissed somebody off in the blogosphere recently.

This should not be altogether surprising.

I don't like upsetting people, but it happens. In my insatiable quest to be humorous and entertaining, I realize that I will inevitably rustle a feather or two. It can't be helped. I mean, some people are sensitive. And others are Catholic. I think one or two people might even be a combination of the two.

See what I mean?

I wrote a comment on a blog that hamhandedly suggested that someone's 90-year-old grandfather might have "something in common" with a beautiful, blue Beta fish which, unfortunately, had a life-altering ailment. This person thought I meant that her grandfather was "on the way out, like the fish." That wasn't what I meant, but my remark wasn't carefully thought out, keeping in tradition with 99.7% of the remarks I make on any given day, and the young lady freaked on me, old school. Well, I guess actually it was more like "new school" since it was done in the comment section of a blog and utilized a keyboard, as opposed to on the mulch pile at an elementary school playground, utilizing fists, and/or a tire-iron.

Flip comments get people into trouble all the time, but they shouldn't. Look at the tumult and backlash that poor Joe Biden created when he said on the Today Show that he would advise his family members not to get on a subway or a plane during the apex of the swine flu outbreak. People freaked-- namely, people who routinely get on planes and subways, because they don't want their way of life jeopardized or questioned, even if it's for their own good. So everybody went ape on Big-Mouth Joe. I don't see what the big deal is. If I had kids, I would bar them air, ground and sea travel as well, and I would place them in isolation during such an outbreak, home-schooling them while wearing matching wet suits and scuba-gear.

Part of the problem isn't just the people who make flip or cavalier comments, it's the people on the receiving end. There are some people out there, lots of them, actually, who like to get offended. They enjoy being outraged, or slighted, or indignant. They, well, kind of get off on it. You know who I'm talking about-- the woman who hears someone swearing in the bread aisle at the supermarket. She thins her lips, crosses her arms in front of her chest and exclaims, "Well, I never!"

Sure you've evered, biatch, and don't tell me you haven't.

There are just these people out there who will look for any excuse to get their nose out-of-joint. And that's okay, really-- that's their thing. Some people have a fetish like that. Other people are obsessed with... other things. There's a woman on my street who, every time she sees me picking up my dog's shit, she thanks me and launches headlong into a monologue about how her husband would have stepped in that if I hadn't picked it up. I've heard this now several times.

That, I guess, is her thing. And I admit that it makes me feel awkward and weird to stand there holding a bag of shit while I get praised for it in a rather mechanised, rehearsed style-- but I also admit that it's damn better than getting laughed at and ridiculed by the young, black children in the ghetto for picking up after my dog.

I think it's kind of funny that there are some bloggers out there who are very sensitive to anything less than ego-enhancing praise left in their Comment section. I mean, it says "Comments," right? It doesn't say "Affirmations" or "Supportive, redundant missives." If a blog is a place for you to say anything you damn well please, then your comment section should, really, be a place for your readers to say anything they damn well please. There's a blogger out there whose comment section has a warning that reads something like, "Leave it here. Unless it's mean. Then either click that red box/circle in the top corner, or try email." So, it's okay to be mean to you in an email, as long as your readers don't have to see it? Hell, we all know they'll see the mean comment the very next day, when you write a blog post about how mean someone was to you, and you lambast them with all the clever retorts you were able to brew up in your head during the night.

Come on. "Unless it's mean?" Grow up, buttsuck.

Maybe it's because I used to frequently engage in the socially ill-advised practice of writing editorials and commentaries, and a book that advocated for the continued imprisonment of convicted cop-killer Mumia Abu-Jamal that "mean comments" really don't bother me very much. I've had people threaten to kill me, and my family. I had one person threaten to burn my house down, and he even went so far as to mention my neighborhood, which kind of freaked me out, but it never happened. At a book signing event, the book store received threats and contracted the services of two uniformed police officers and one plainclothes officer to protect me and others who might have been caught in the cross-fire. Nothing bad ever happened, because most people are just angry and full of shit-- only a choice few are actually armed and insane. But those episodes, the hate and vitriol that has been spewed in my direction by people who love freedom of speech as long as you agree with them has definitely changed my view on the whole commenting thing.

Mean comments? Sure. Why not? You're allowed, aren't you?

On the old blog, I wrote a review of a concert I attended with Mrs. Apron. The opening act was Sean Hoots. I didn't like him, I thought he was a phony and a narcissist, so I wrote about it. A couple months later, his friendlettes and hangersons littered the comment section of that blog post with criticisms of my review, some were downright abusive. Did I delete their comments or tell them to stop "being mean" to me? Fuck no. I just let them go on and on, and, in doing that, I was able to let them show everyone else how petty, obsessive and stupid they were. See? People generally take care of things like that themselves-- especially idiots and assholes.

I guess what I'm trying to say is: lighten up, world. Don't be afraid to speak your mind, especially here. If you don't like something, speak up. I don't mind. I'll still love you in the morning. You don't have to stop reading just because I made a comment that offended you, or burned you, or pissed you off or made you put your dog in a headlock. It's okay. We're human. We do that shit to each other. But don't just read things you agree with, and don't just leave warm and fuzzy comments that mimmick everybody else's. Don't be afraid to stir up the pot. Don't be afraid to disagree.

Don't be reluctant to speak your mind-- because nobody's going to do it for you. The blog is the champion of mind-speaking. So speak it, bitch.

Apparently, I AM the Very Model of a Modern Major-General

In the heady excitement of stripping wallpaper, scheduling allergist's appointments and generally running about like an epileptic chipmunk, I forgot to mention that I got cast as Major-General Stanley in "The Pirates of Penzance."

I now get to share the stage with a bevy of adopted daughters, dodder and mince around like an affected prat, and sing the immortal song, "I am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General," a piece of music which most Americans think is from "Animaniacs."

This will be my fourth principal patter role in a Gilbert & Sullivan operatta, and I'm proud to be ticking them off, one by one. Only ten left to go. It's a good thing I'm still young.

The audition was okay, as auditions go. I feel like my singing showed improvement while my comic timing was on the decline, but I guess the auditioners didn't feel that way. Or maybe they did, and there was just nobody else. I don't know, nor do I care that much either. I got the part, and it's always a nice thing to be wanted, except when it's by the police.

Rehearsals don't start until September, so it's difficult to get really excited about the show, and I have trouble getting excited about shows in general. Part of me thinks it's a waste of time and energy-- do audiences really give a shit about who's in a certain role in a given show? Does it really matter? There are many, many people who could do the part just as easily as me-- why does it have to be me? Sometimes I browbeat myself about doing community theatre. I could probably get paid work if I dusted up my resume, sent out headshots and put a little effort into it. But I don't.

G&S doesn't require serious acting chops (some would argue there's no acting involved at all, and that's true sometimes, but only if you can't act) and it satisfies my longing to pretend I'm British. Also, the Gilbert & Sullivan patter roles are relatively easy and comfortable for me-- it ain't Pinter and it ain't Arthur Miller or Eugene Ionesco. Not only do I appreciate and respect the talents and work of the two men intellectually, but I am over the moon for the music and the wit.

The thing I do have to work hard at, though, is the music. I can barely read music, so I fake a lot of things. I listen to recordings constantly to augment my meager sightreading abilities. Mrs. Apron tutors me privately, coaching me. I sing the songs constantly so that it is more muscle memory than anything else.

I'm pleased to have another opportunity to perform. I feel like I get better each time, and that's saying a lot because, the first time, I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. If you had told me, six years ago, that I would be singing solo operetta roles I would have laughed so hard I would have soiled myself, and you. But, here we are. I'm pleased to have the opportunity because I feel like I do have some talent-- certainly not enough for film or Broadway or even Philly professional theatre, but, there's something-- and, as long as there's something, then it should be shared.

I suppose that's why I have this blog instead of a diary. It serves the same basic function, a record of thoughts and musings and feelings-- and that's what it's for. I suppose, if it were just for me, I wouldn't try as hard-- and there certainly wouldn't be funny, hyperlinked pictures-- but I recognize that this is a place for you, too. You're here for some reason, and maybe I don't know what that is, and maybe I don't need to know, but I'm glad that you're all there, sitting in the audience, clapping away as the lights go down.

It's a little army, I know. But I'm proud to be your Major-General.