The Comfy Corner

Train travel: a method of travel which popularly attracts smelly people of lesser mental stability, people who highly enjoy talking about themselves and their problems to strangers, and a few normal people who are just trying to save money or avoid planes. I proudly label myself in the third category of train travelers. At least I wear deodorant (usually), I hope that I'm fairly mentally stable and I don't think I talk about my problems too much (except on this blog). I was lucky enough, however, to experience all types of travelers on first-time ever, long-distance, 13-hour train trip to Ottumwa, Iowa. Here is my story.

I arrived in Denver a couple of hours before my train was to depart. Plenty of time to grab a nice dinner, take care of my banking needs and relax at the station, right? Wrong. All of the Bank of Americas in Denver have permanently closed down (but they annoyingly still pop up on Google Maps taunting me like a mirage in the desert), Union Station is under construction so the Amtrak station mysteriously moved to a secluded, hard-to-find part of town (WHO MOVES A TRAIN STATION?!?!), and all of the searching for stations and banks left me with zero time to have dinner. So when I finally found the station (imagine me lugging all of my luggage around the sketchiest part of Denver) it turns out it was packed with approximately 300 high school Christian singers who wanted to constantly practice their Jesus tunes. These were to be my train-mates for the entirety of the 13 hour journey. When I boarded the train, however, I was lucky enough to not be seated next to one of the high schoolers. No, I was seated next to a very large, bald man with a ton of piercings who reeked of weeks of not showering and continually sniffed his shirt and asked me a ton of personal questions. Meanwhile, the mentally unstable, elderly lady in front of me asked on a continual loop, "Where are my socks?" while her twenty-something chaperone kept feeding her yogurt ("You like yogurt, don't you grandma? Isn't this train nice? Do you need your sweater?" meanwhile, "Where are my socks? Where are my socks?"). I desperately attempted to drown them out with my music, but I was sat in a seat that made me go backwards on the train. So there I was feeling slightly dizzy, surrounded by crazy strangers, absolutely starving, and all the while watching the outside world whip past me as I traveled backwards to Iowa. On top of all of this, I took a small sedative to help me sleep. This, however, affected me in the most negative of ways. I got so drowsy that that I couldn't get out of my seat to get water or use the bathroom without the fear of falling on my face. I arrived in Iowa a battered boy and extremely loath to train travel.

The ride back to Denver, I must admit, was much much better. I secured a seat all to myself going forwards not backwards. And I even took advantage of the dining car. I had a lovely dinner with wine (no sedatives this time!), however, they made me sit with strangers. More crazy people who were just competing with stories of how awesome and crazy their lives were. The type of people who talk but don't listen. Beyond that, the trip was amazing. I doodled a lot, read some, listened to music, slept a little, and had a great trip. So Amtrak, you redeemed yourself, sort of. I've decided that there is potential for a comfy corner on a train. But I will never forget the stress of my first-ever train trip. Stay comfy y'all.

It's funny to me. When I am negotiating contracts for a job I always insist that I am given at least one day off a week to relax and explore. However, when I am in the city, building my own work schedule, I don't give myself the same luxury. I always fill my schedule to the max with work, class, errands and chores and I give myself a day off every month if I'm lucky. It's cruel! But New York has this weird way of making me feel like I'm wasting my life away when I'm sitting in my apartment. When I'm at home, I always feel like I'm missing some amazing opportunity. And I probably am, but there are just too many amazing opportunities occurring at any given moment for one person to take advantage of. It's a constant anxiety for me. So I suppose I just have to embrace the fact that I'm not gonna catch everything that is happening in the world and enjoy my days off, kinda like I enjoy my days off here in Creede.

For three of my days off I have ventured down to this magical place called Pagosa Springs. I say this place is magical because it has all the things Creede doesn't have: Mexican food, pizza, a movie theatre, Sonic and the most amazing hot springs I've ever seen. It's like a real life heaven on earth! There are probably about thirty hot tubs hugging the Rio Grande and you can take a dip in each and every one of them. Some of them have waterfalls, some have jets, some are 115 degrees. It's our planet's very own comfy corner! If you are feeling adventurous, you can even take a dip in the river and then dry off by the fire that is always going. Every time I've gone to Pagosa, I've had a lovely dinner, seen an amazing movie, and then watched the sunset (and the rainbows, there are always rainbows!) as I soaked in the healing sulphur waters heated by the core of our beautiful mother earth. And the whole time I've felt completely at peace! I haven't felt like I was wasting time or missing something important or letting life pass me by. I've just embraced my relaxation and lived in the moment. I suppose it's a pretty easy thing to do, though, since I'm surrounded by old biddies who sneak flasks of white wine and whiskey into the hot tubs and drunkenly talk about absolutely nothing in particular. They know how to relax. They've spent their whole lives perfecting the art.

And so I've come to the conclusion that actors don't know how to relax. They party hard, they work hard, they are in class all of the time, in rehearsal, waiting tables, making rent, performing, on the road, but they don't plan vacations often enough. They book a job near a beach and consider that job their vacation when in fact it isn't. It is still a job. Too often do we mix work and free time. We aren't wasting our lives away when we go to the spa or take a summer off to see the world. No, in fact we are giving ourselves the fuel we need to do what we do better. Theatre is gonna keep happening y'all. Auditions are never gonna stop occurring. So why not live life for a bit? After all, it's kind of hard to imitate life on stage when you're too busy making art to live the life the art is imitating, right? So I will soak in my earth water comfy corner guilt free. Because my body deserves it. Stay comfy y'all.

Last week I was waiting tables when a woman stopped me by grabbing my arm and asked me (in the most stereotypical way imaginable), "You ain't from 'round here are ya?" I responded in my usual way, "No mam, I'm not. I live in New York." She then smiled a toothy smile and knowingly replied, "Yeah, I could tell by your pants that you've never stepped off a sidewalk before." To which she slapped me on the back in that joking Southwestern way and I politely laughed and then walked away in that state of confusion where you are trying to decipher whether or not you should be offended. I don't feel particularly "New York." I've only lived there like four months. I was just wearing dress pants. Yeah, they were skinny and fit me well, but I didn't think they particularly screamed, "I've never left a sidewalk!"

So several days later, after digesting this comment and analyzing it, I have decided that yes, I am indeed offended. I'm from North Carolina. I'm a Southern boy at heart. I spent the first 19 years of my life not caring what I was wearing just like the rest of the people here in Colorado. Hell, I was practically born in a pair of cargo pants! And I'm an Eagle scout. I've probably walked more miles on trails than I have on sidewalks. And I've probably canoed more miles on rivers than this woman ever will in her life.

So, yeah. I've changed a lot on the outside since I left the South. My clothes fit a little better, I own more than one pair of shoes, I moisturize with Mary Kay facial products, but deep down I've still got grit under my nails, I can tie a clove hitch double half hitch no problem, and I've still got a pair of waterproof camo pants in my North Carolina closet (where they will remain until I'm in the wilderness). I may have a taste for fine wine, but I can also drink Tang and eat corned beef hash with the rest of these Coloradans.  So sidewalks be damned, New York City, you will never take that away from me. Stay comfy y'all.

So I often wonder what Harry's life would have been like post Hogwarts if he hadn't had to defeat Voldemort and destroy the horcruxes. Like, what if Voldemort had died the day he killed his parents and that was that? What if he graduated an aimless college grad like the rest of us? I imagine he would be going through what I'm currently going through. He considered grad school for like .2 seconds and decided against it. He then wandered from job to job trying to figure out what direction he actually wanted to take his life in. He interned at the Ministry of Magic for a summer (he hated it but he learned a ton), then he moved to London for a bit to experience city life (felt lonely and ADD), then he decided to travel the world for a bit (met a bunch of awesome sorcerers but missed that sense of home), and then he decided to visit Hogwarts again and ended up spending the next summer pouring butter beers for peeps at The Three Broomsticks and complaining about poor tips. These are essentially the lifestyles I've experienced over the past year and can't decide which I prefer...

1) The intern - I started my internship the day after graduation arriving slightly hung over with emotional remnants of the previous night still visible in my slightly bloodshot eyes. Just like Harry's internship at the Ministry, I learned a ton, made some amazing friends, but I also worked my ass off and finished the summer battered, broken, and in need of about a month of missed sleep.

2) City Boy - I spent the next few months a slave to New York City. As is the case with most new, young New Yorkers I experienced 3 months of crazy ADD. So many things to do, so many places to go and not a single idea of where to start or where to focus my energies. I spent too much money, had some horrible jobs, some awesome jobs, saw a lot of amazing theatre, took a lot of classes, but somehow managed to feel like I was going nowhere and the city was flying past me as I scrambled to pick out something useful from the rush. In the end, I picked out a tour.

3) Tour - Tour, for me, was kinda like an internship on the road. I learned a lot, I made some awesome friends, saw a lot of awesome places, but I finished a battered and broken boy. What I loved about this lifestyle: I didn't have to wash my towels, make my bed, or clean my room. What I hated: having no sense of home. I learned that I am a homebody. I like to have my bed, my keyboard, a kitchen.

4) Retirement - This is my current lifestyle. There is a direct ratio between how hard I'm working and how many blogs I publish each month. And I am currently twiddling my thumbs doing a show once or twice a week (the life of being in one show at a rep company). This is a welcome change to my previous lifestyle, but I am still missing that sense of home.

So what lifestyle do I prefer most thus far? I've learned more in the last year about myself and my craft than I probably did in four years of college. But I must say that the lifestyle I prefer most is my senior year of college lifestyle. I was living with an amazing room mate. I had amazing friends that I saw regularly. I was comfortable in the city I lived in (even though I wasn't the biggest fan of that particular city). And I had a sense of momentum to my life. It was headed in a clear direction with a clear goal at the end (graduation). So I think what I need to do is recreate those circumstances as best as I can. Move back in with Vanessa, set clear goals for myself, have a weekly thing to look forward to, and focus my energies on a couple clear things instead of throwing a wide net at the entire city of New York. Stay comfy y'all.

2:30AM on a Tuesday night, I am awoken by the raucous chatter of young hooligans beatin' their gums loudly in my kitchen as if it were a regular speakeasy. Blearily, I stumble out of my bedroom door to tell the young rag-a-muffins to pipe down and I remind them of the time of day. The next evening I settle into my bed with a blanket and a cup of tea and watch "The Truman Show" with a candle burning and a chocolate brownie cheesecake in my hand. The morning after that, I go to get my mail (a linen pocket square that I've been waiting for anxiously). On my way back from the mail, however, I ran into some buddies of mine and shot the shit for an hour and a half on Main street, complaining about the pace of New York City and how you can avoid getting mugged by simply screaming the word, "WHAT?!" at your pursuer, and the practicality of those new-fangled toe shoes and how they might cure an aching back. This conversation was quite taxing so I settled in for an afternoon nap post retrieving my mail. Now I find myself sitting on the porch on Main Street, sipping coffee and blogging.

What does this say about my personality? Well, I am an old man. A regular wet blanket through and through. I avoid activities that might excite my weak heart. When I go to bars, I go to quiet bars and I drink gimlets. I am a home body. I prefer candles and Ella Fitzgerald to a night of clubbing. I prefer cooking an Ina Garten meal and listening to Michael Buble than going out to dinner. I prefer nostalgic comedies to loud thrillers. I prefer Rodgers and Hammerstein's classic melodies to the busy music of today's composers. Okay, so maybe it is also just says that I am a big homo, but in general I think it says that I just prefer my peace and quiet to the incessant noise of a juice joint.

And I've come to realize that this isn't necessarily a great quality of mine. This is a part of my personality that I have to actively work on. I know that I need to get out and explore the world and I know that I'm not going to make any connections or get anywhere in life sitting in my bedroom. So, I sigh loudly and put on my club outfit on occasion and bump and grind with the best of them. But, it's just so much ya know? The loud music, the people hitting on you, the embarrassing drunken confessions of your friends. My senses can only handle so much! If only we could go back to the days of sitting around in our drawing rooms smoking cigars and drinking port and we could call that a crazy night. But alas, we've reached a point where a "crazy night" involves hash being slipped into the hooka and then that crazy Australian girl from the Cirque trying to give you a "space cake" and you waking up inside of giant metal tube with your pants off and no recollection of how you got there. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I can't keep up with kids these days! I haven't the energy and if I tried, then I fear the ole ticker might give out. So I'll content myself with my Ella, my port, and my blog and occasionally, when I'm provoked  enough, I'll put on my red pants and hipster glasses, get wasted, and pose for Warhol-worthy photos in the clubs with the rest of them. Stay comfy y'all.

It has been a mere six months since I walked away from my last restaurant job, the dark sleet of New York's skies washing over my tired skin, as I let the sweet burden of horrible-job-syndrome lift off my aching back, celebrating the freedom of just having quit a survival job that was sucking away the soul of my being. Now, I celebrate a return to the restaurant business in an environment that does the opposite of suck soul. It injects soul. Feeds my soul. It is called, "The Far Dog."

This tiny restaurant is situated on the main street of Creede, CO and is celebrating its 17 day anniversary. And I am fortunate enough to have been there from the first cup of fresh brewed Lavazza coffee set in front of a customer. You may be thinking, "Far Dog? What kind of a name is that for a restaurant?" Well, the restaurant is named after the owners' dog, Farley. That's right folks, it is named after a puppy. It's a tiny, comfy restaurant, in a tiny, comfy town, named after the cutest puppy that lazes at the front door greeting customers and happily accepting food donations. In other words, it is my comfy corner in Creede. It's the first time I've worked at a restaurant that I actually want to eat at and spend time at outside of work. When I'm not working there, I'm drinking there, or meeting friends there. It is an amazing place filled with amazing food and amazing people.

And the clientele is incredible. The people of Creede are a patient people. A kind, generous people. A people that tips people in fair quantities. A people that is not of the foreign/European/non-tipping variety of people. And it has been wonderful! However, just the other day as I floated about the Far Dog lost in my dream of a waiting job, one customer quickly yanked me out of my cloud and slammed me back to the harsh reality that there are assholes everywhere you go. He was apparently an extra in one of the "Twilight" films which gave him some sort of higher rank among the other piddly little human beings of the world. He is the type of person that would see me in one of them-there theatre shows and say something demeaning like, "You should maybe consider pursuing this as a profession..." As if that isn't what I'm already doing. As if I was just dabbling in the field for a short time. Well, this gentleman was eating breakfast at the restaurant and asked for a piece of toast. And, for some reason, toast is not the quickest thing in the world to make at our restaurant because it has to be made on the grill. So after about three minutes of toast waiting (it was being plated and sent out after three minutes) he stops me and says, "Forget the toast! It's too late now! What am I supposed to do with toast now?!" I smiled at him and said, "Okay!" and then proceeded to feel that sinking feeling in my heart. That familiar feeling of inadequacy and failure. And I started my internal monologue, "I could tell you a thing or two you could do with the toast... SO sorry sir that toast in Creede takes a minute longer that LA toast. I bow at your feet in toast serfdom."

And that is why I've decided that I'm not a good waiter. Yeah, I do the job well, I'm personable and good with customers, but I'm also too emotionally involved. My heart hurts because a piece of toast didn't make it to the table. In order to be a good waiter you have to have a heart of steel. You have to be able to stand up for yourself and not let people demean you or put you down. That's the only way to get respect in the restaurant business. And I don't think I quite have that yet. But, in any event, the one asshole toast experience aside, I am thrilled to be working in a restaurant that is letting me keep my soul. It's a great feeling. Stay comfy y'all.

I'm blogging to you live from the "huge" town of Creede, Colorado which boasts an impressive population of around 400. Oh don't worry, that's the year-round population. It bumps up to 20,000 in the summer! And I must say that this is the most magical place I've ever been to. I grew up in the mountains, so I thought coming here would be like coming home. Wrong-o! Here it is 9,000 feet elevation. Here there are towering cliffs looking down on you. Here I get drunk off of one beer. Here I am winded from walking up a flight of stairs. Here there are hundreds of pretty puppies walking down the street begging to be loved on. Here there are three angry cats that fight outside my front door. Here there are SEVEN DEER THAT GRAZE IN MY BACK YARD! Yes, folks, it's a new world over here. It's like the wild wild west, but I prefer to think of it as... District 12. The mining district. And I've left the capitol to live in District 12.

And you'd think that if Katniss grew up in the Capitol and moved to District 12 she'd be super sad. But, it's quite the opposite (except I do miss my Peeta)! Small town life is wonderful. The food here is superb. Every waiter is perfectly happy to split the check 10 ways. I can walk anywhere I want to. I don't need a car or a metro pass. The grocery store is next store to my home. It's quiet at night. I can see the stars!! And I begin to think to myself, "Self, how have you become victim to the spell of New York City?! You struggle day in and day out and the only place to find solace is in a clean bodega!" Every struggling young person in New York City should strike and move to the small towns of America and live it up. It's absurd really how much better life is in this town. In New York, it is a day long event to do something as simple as pick up a package or fax something. Here, coffee is only a dollar anywhere I go. And if I don't have the money, they'll say, "Don't worry about it! I'll get ya later." NOBODY LOCKS THEIR DOORS! And I actually feel guilty if I don't wave to people that I pass by on the street.

Most importantly, it's not that guy that gives me coffee, it's Kevin. It's not that woman who made me a biscuit, it's Jenny. It's not that cute couple that opened a new restaurant, it's Jess and Erin. I wish I could scoop you all  up into my kangaroo pouch and bounce you all over to this amazing place because despite the crazy cats and grazing deer, it is one of the comfiest corners I've ever experienced. Stay comfy y'all!