"Look at me! I'm as straight as a one-dollar bill!"

--Homer Simpson

Strange times being older.

I think I was just hit on by a dude in the bookstore.

Whilst perusing the magazine section of Borders, I found a copy of "Cinefex" with General Grievous from "Star Wars: Episode III" on the cover. I sat down at a small table to flip through the special effects magazine and noticed two guys sitting at a table nearby. When I glanced over, the one who was facing me made eye contact.

I looked away, not really thinking anything of it, but then I thought "Oh wait, maybe I know that guy or something. But hey, you better not make any sudden moves," so I continued to flip through the pages, looking at partially completed FX shots for "Sin City" and "Constantine".

A few minutes later, I looked up to the guy.

And he's locked his eyes on mine again.

Okay, crap, I don't think I know the guy. But I play it cool, continue to read, and never look up from the magazine again.

After about ten or fifteen minutes maybe, I get up to put the magazine back on the shelf, but I did one of those got-up-too-fast-and-now-I'm-momentarilly-dizzy-and-disoriented feelings, and had to lean against the upper part of the magazine shelf to brace myself and keep from falling over in public, which could be quite disastrous.

While I'm leaning over the movies/photography/creative writing/art section, eyes closed, trying to get my bearings back, I hear a faint voice behind me:

"Any good photography magazines?"

I open my eyes and look around, unsure if the question was directed to me or not. I turn to the right and see that Guy again as he looks through the section. Oh crap, he's following me. His friend has already walked off another four feet, not realizing Guy, as I shall now call him, has stopped to chat or look through other mags. And then I realize he was talking to me.

But I'm still a bit off-balance and in the middle of recuperating and all I can muster is an impolite "What?", instead of the standard "I'm sorry?" or "what's that?".

"Any good photography magazines?" he asks again.

"Oh, uhh. I don't know. Haven't really looked."

Now, I'm not prepared to leave my favorite section of magazines, so I continue to look over the covers of "Creative Screenwriting" and "Premiere", which has a saucy photo of Jessica Simpson promoting "Dukes of Hazzard". Guy's friend walks back to us, and they start flipping through photography mags.

"I really like the black and white photos," he says, to either his friend of me, I don't know.

A few minutes pass by, and I think I'm in the clear, still playing it cool, but also trying not to make any sudden moves that will make the guy think I'm either interested in continuing a conversation, or that I'm scared of him and running away disgustedly. Because that would be rude. But still, I try to keep a minimum of three feet between us, using other people who walk by to look at the magazines as an excuse to step off to the side. Body language is key in instances like this.

"Thank God for this air conditioning."

I look up. "Oh, uh, yeah--"

"--It's brutally hot outside,"

"Yeah, uh, sure is," I say.

Okay, I think he's officially hitting on me now, making pointless small-talk even I probably couldn't bring myself to begin if some attractive young lady were in my place and I were in his. I bury my head back into the pages of the magazine.

He continues a moment later: "You see Batman yet?"

"Oh?"

He's pointing to a magazine cover with Bale's Batman on it. "See it?"

"Oh, uh yeah. Seen it twice. It's good stuff."

"So it's good? Oh, well, you've seen it twice, I suppose so. I should go see it."

At this point, for a split second, I'm wondering if he's gonna come out of left field and half-jokingly suggest we go see it together.

"I'm really looking forward to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory anyway," he says instead, and then he walks past me to another section.

"Oh yeah, that should end up being really good," I say in return as I unfold a pinup/centerfold style photo of Jessica Simpson from the "Premiere" and admire her curvaceous good looks.

Guy and his friend casually move off to check out more magazines. I wonder if he was pretending to be interested in photography, or if he was just waiting around and wasting time, trying to figure me out by throwing out baited bits of conversation in the hopes that I'd bite.

Sorry dude, you're not reeling me in.

Either way, I move off to other parts of the bookstore and just act normal. Success. I don't see Guy again.

That is, until twenty minutes later, when I exit the building and see he and his friend standing off to the side. At this point I change direction and march off in the opposite way, pulling out my keys and cell phone and then pretend to listen to some old voicemail.

Whoo. I'm in the car. I'm in the clear.

Still, that's a first for me. Unless you count that really weird, androgynously voiced phone call I received in tenth grade in which said boy-or-girl voice asked "I have a friend and he wants to know if you're interested?"

I'm sorry, did you say "he"?

*Click*.

Damn these devilish good looks. I guess I don't look like I'm sixteen anymore.

So that's a plus.

--Cbake

"Do what now?"

--Meatwad

Well, I did plan to blog tonight, one of those rare nights in which I'm at a residence with internet access.

But like most ideas I have, the ones that I fail to write down on a notepad or napkin while it's still fresh in my mind, the topic I was to write about this evening has up and vanished "like a fart in the wind".

I'm sure I'll wake up in the middle of the night, bolt straight up in bed, and cry out "Eureeka!", or some other saying of equal worth and meaning.

And to make this post more meaningful, I'll just say that... within the next week, I should be finished with a first draft of a manuscript for my children's book.

But it's only a picture book. So that will only be about five pages long anyway, but it's five pages of rhyming stanzas that can be incredibly difficult to think of and be satisfied with in the end.

When I travel to Pittsburgh for the 4th of July, I'll meet with an old friend of my grandmother's, someone who is involved in publishing, and if he likes it well enough, he'll pass it on to his friends that work within children's publishing, and then we'll all just keep our fingers crossed, throw salt over our shoulders, knock on wood, pin tails on donkeys, throw black cats under ladders, and all that other superstitious stuff.

--Cbake

PS: Anyone who reads this blog and gets here by following the link from my AOL IM profile might want to start bookmarking it instead, as I'm no longer online often enough for people to catch me and thus my link. Seriously, just let me pretend there are enough of you out there that are affected by my lack of interweb connection.

"And they mostly come out at night. Mostly."

--Aliens


Who's afraid of the dark? At 23. Not me. Psssh. Nah uh.

.....

Yeah okay well here's the deal.
I no longer have power in half the house (the most important half: computer room, bathroom, and bedroom).
I don't have any television sets in the house anymore (they've been moved to my dad's new place).
I no longer have internet (due to power being out- I'm currently at my dad's).
The two dogs, aka the alarm systems, now reside in my father's new garage.

So this means I now live in a place devoid of light, laughter, and love. The dogs brought love.

When I come home at night, there are no dogs in the backyard to greet me, so I have to trust that my footsteps are heard by whatever manner of creature may be up on my back deck. Without Burrito around to thin out their numbers, I'm sure the raccoon and opossum population is flourishing in the woods. And I really don't think I could handle having one or two spring out at me in darkness, white teeth flashing, shrill shrieking (mine or otherwise raccoon/possum's) echoing into the night. Yeeesh.

Without either dog around to bark at anyone who comes near the house, I have no idea if anyone is walking down my driveway or running through my backyard to get to safety after a police chase (which has happened from time to time).

Without television, I have nothing to use for background noise in the dark, quiet house at night. Without internet, I can't entertain myself or communicate with anyone before bed.

I am utterly alone.

And without power, I stumble around the house. I really have to hope my aim is true when I step into the bathroom. That's crucial.

So then I settle into bed. And that's when the craziness sets in. See, I used to just set the sleep timer on my television and let the soft, soothing sounds of Adult Swim lull me to sleep. If any noises were heard in the house, I could blame it on the dogs downstairs in the basement. If ever there was a sound outside the house, I could trust my dogs would scare it away.

Now, I have NOTHING to pin those creepy night sounds on. Instead, I lie there in the pitch blackness of the bedroom, listening to every creak, every shudder that reverberates through the house.

Are the rats back and have they found a way upstairs?
Is there someone on my back deck?
Has the ghost returned?

(yes, I said ghost)

After instances of having neighbors get robbed, hearing about how my father stumbled upon lawn-mower thieves in the front yard, and seeing police helicopters circle over my house as cops pour into my backyard to search the woods for suspects on the run (among many other stories involving cops parked all in front of my house searching for people that may have escaped into my backyard for cover), can you really blame me for worrying about intruders?

It wouldn't be so bad if I had a TV to drown out every other noise I could possibly worry about. Or if I had dogs to blame. Or if the house wasn't so dark and possibly concealing felons in the shadowy corners of the unfinished upstairs.

And my dad took all the guns back to his place too. And the bow and arrow. So target practice is no longer a possibility.

I might start sleeping with a large knife under my pillow. Like I did my last few days in Los Angeles, when I slept on the floor of an empty apartment. Alone. Yeah, that place is crazy.

Anyway, the situation is really not that bad. But it kinda freaks out visitors now when we sit in the living room to watch a movie on my laptop, and the only source of illumination is a small lamp in the corner because the lightbulbs in the fan-light have burned out.

I just don't want the house to look abandoned, but with the dogs gone and the power out, how could it not look that way to anyone passing along the street? Or the backyard, for that matter, looking for a place to hide?

So now when I leave the house, I just let my laptop play music as a warning to anyone who might end up in the house.

Because come on, if you stepped into a living room and heard Aqua's "Barbie Girl" blaring away through the loud speakers, you'd run as far away as possible too.

--Cbake, who now returns to the long dark of Moria...

Trust me- I'm a professional!

A professional what?- that's the question.

Tonight I received a call. A work-related call. You see, back in the summer of '99, before my senior year of high school, I went to the North Carolina School of the Arts (NCSA) for a summer session in filmmaking. While there, I met a kid named Mark Freiburger, who went to Providence high school and was one year below me.

One year later, the summer after I graduated, he and some friends made a short film (a little over an hour); an action film with me as the star, Agent Steve Ratner. At least, I think my name was Steve...
We rented out a local indie-theater, had sold-out screenings, signed ticket stubs, and basically pretended like we were movie gods in Charlotte.

Anyhoo, we've kept in touch, and he just graduated from NCSA this spring. Now he's involved in shooting his very first feature film, which has received funding from Charlotte rich folk/businesses, and has a small distribution deal, as I understand it, with a theater chain set up here in the state.

A month ago he asked me to help out.

And HELL YEAH I will RIDE his coattails into Hollywood! Hopefully this film will get him recognized and win him an agent, and from there he can start shooting commercials and music videos to pass the time, and inevitably help me get up to his level too.

Anyway, the point is, someone called me tonight, like he said someone would 3 weeks ago. The guy, a graduate from NCSA with a concentration in production, said there's an opening for a Set Decorator, which will be my official credit (look for it on imdb.com, and look for Mark while you're there), and there will be a meeting possibly next week among all the department heads to discuss the look of the film.

During our conversation he went on and on about the look he's hoping we will achieve, how there will be about 4 of us in the art department (the Art Director, Prop Master, Set Decorator (me), and his title, whatever that is), and how we will all sort of bleed together, and then he discussed my probable duties.

And of course, I just smile and nod (if only he could see me doing so), offering such apt replies as "uh huh", "sure", and "yeah, of course" to his remarks. Basically, it seems my job will be to determine what kind of props are needed for each set, figure out what kind of furniture would fit well, and then go out and BUY/ship said props and furniture to Edenton, where we will be shooting.

Oh yeah, I can do this. I've done this all before. Pssssh. I know ALLLLL about decorating rooms, interior design, and fung shooey, no problem...

... Riiiiiiiiight.

So, this is the time in my life where I pretend like I know what I'm doing, and act like I'm in control, like I've done this all before, and pray the guy I just talked to on the phone doesn't read my blog religiously.

And if you are reading my blog, have no fear. I know EXACTLY what I'm doing. Exactly...

As for other details, it looks like I'll be starting work the second week of July, shooting is in August, and they will have arranged a place for me to live during that time period. So yep, I'll be moving to Edenton in the next month, I assume, if all goes well.

Wish me luck, look me up if you're in the area, and uh, if you have any old furniture/props that resemble things from the Old South style- lemme know.

--Cbake

I'm back! With new and improved nipple!

First, let me play the sensitive boyfriend part and say "Sorry."

"I'm sorry. I never meant to do you wrong."

I never meant to leave my fans hanging on the Cliff of Waiting, teasing them with ropes of false promises of blog updates on topics that are now too old to touch (who really wants to hear my thoughts on the deaths of Pope John Paul, Terri Shaivo, and Johnny Cochrane now? Or my Easter stories for that matter? That's right- NO ONE! Well, only you Mamere, I apologize. Please don't cut off my wednesday night dinners).

My internet is down. The power is out in half of my house. And I'm lazy.

I had wanted my next blog topic to be an indepth analysis/review of "Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith", but I've yet to see it a sixth time (the time I can take notes) and I had a mental block that prevented me from even contemplating a different posting in its place.

But, it's time to fly that train and finally get back into the habit of blogging. So let's start with today's trip to the dermatologist, a trip that prevented me from heading to Chapel Hill and seeing some old Student TV folk who were up from way outta town.

A few months ago I had what I thought was a splinter in my foot between my ring-toe and pinkie-toe. But the splinter never came out, and the small cut grew and grew and in time became more and more annoying as I walked. Fearing it was more than just a splinter, I showed it to my mom, who with her powers of deductive motherly reasoning determined it to be a Planter's Wart (don't ask me, I never heard of them before). So she set up a meeting with a dermatologist in July to take a look at it.

And while I was there, I was to have him check out a dark spot on my chest that appeared in maybe the past six years. I used to joke that it was my "superfluous third nipple", but lately it looks like it's gotten darker and has the faintest feeling of being slightly raised above my skin.

Cut to a few days ago when I get a call telling me the appointment is this week, not next month, effectively cancelling my trip to collegetown. Well I go to the dermatologist's office today at 3:55 (my appointment is at 4), and I wait. And wait. And grumble. And complain (silently of course). I'm there for two hours waiting for my time in the office. And there is NOTHING substantial to read while passing the time away.

What kind of doctor's office has "Parenting", "Southern Living", "Sport Diver", "Dancer SPIRIT", "Dressage Today!", and "Hispanic Business" all over the coffee table in place of "Time", "National Geographic", "Newsweek", and "Entertainment Weekly"?! Are crazy housemothers and horseback riding, sport diving, dancing-latino-entrepreneurs the only people around here with skin problems?

I think not. Last time I checked, I dance horribly, don't have any kids, and dive as well as I ride.

Sigh.

Well, I finally get into the office and see the doctor. He's surprised I'm here alone (maybe he thought I was a young kid?)- "Oh, you're 23? An old man!"

OLD man???

Anyway, he takes a look at my foot. Yep, it's a planter's wart, and he proceeds to spray the thing down with what I assume is liquid nitrogen. Then I take off my shirt and show him the dark spot under my right breast.

Tell me the truth Doc, is it bad? Is it cancer?

"Well, this doesn't look harmful at all," he says casually, peering at it with his light. "In fact, it looks like the beginnings of a false third nipple."

Wait a sec. Scratch that. Back up.

"Did you say third nipple?"
"Yeah, it's harmless"

You gotta be kidding me. After six years of jokingly telling people that I, like Krusty the Klown, had a superfluous third nipple, it turns out to be TRUE?

Who would have guessed? So laugh it up, Fuzzballs!

On the drive home I talk to my friend Laura and tell her the humorous news.

"Uhh, I wouldn't tell that to too many people," she says.

Oops. Well, you guys promise not to point and laugh, right? Don't make me be that guy this summer who wears a t-shirt into the pool.

--Cbake