PBDC Day 24/31: One of a Kind

This is my class ring.

Here's a look from the other side.

California State University, Long Beach. Class of 2011. Bachelor's of Arts in Theatre Arts-Performance, with an emphasis in Directing.

I couldn't tell you why I've wanted a class ring since high school, but I have. I think it's tied to me being a first-generation American in my family and hearing about how letterman jackets and class rings are often handed down as mementos of family tradition, but I'm unsure if that's exactly it. Well, high school came and went, without the letterman or class ring to show for it. After confirming my acceptance to Long Beach State, I knew that I would definitely be leaving college with two items-a diploma and a class ring.

I don't ever remember being a fan of yellow gold, and I've never really been attracted to the traditional sunburst design of class rings that remind of me of mafia dons and high-ranking clergy. So I opted for the rectangle-cut, shiny, smooth onyx (also because my birthstone isn't the appealing of colors) with basic engraving on the side. There were plenty of other graduates that year who were conferred B.A.'s in Theatre Arts, and as to make it unequivocally mine, I had my name engraved on the inside. (Added incentive, it may not take as long as this guy's ring did to get back to him.)

I didn't go to college right after high school. I spent more than four years working towards my degree. And I paid for college primarily with my own military service through the GI Bill. So yeah, my class ring is a tangible reminder of success through my own path. There are many like it, but this one is mine. #riflemanscreed #usmc #oneflagoneteam

Photo and Blog a Day Challenge-Day 27/28: In Love With

The first school play I was ever in was in the fifth grade, and it was a class play (meaning everyone in the class was in it). It had an educational theme to it, being set in a classroom and pertaining to much of the curriculum that year--states and capitals. Despite my enthusiasm for the production, I was not given the opportunity for a lead role since my teacher did not believe I could focus enough to learn all the lines. So I had one of the smallest roles in the show, a boy named Jimmy Johnson (maybe that's really why I don't like the Lowe's 48 #NASCAR #StandWithSmoke), and my first line in the play was, "I'll say!"

When I was in high school I landed my first lead role-with the church theatre group-and I later found out that I wasn't cast based on talent, but because I was the only male that fit the lead's character description. With my high school drama program I was cast in my first musical, Little Shop of Horrors, and although I felt my nerdiness made me a lock for the lead of Seymour, I was cast to appear onstage as an unnamed supporting role ("Wino) in the opening number, but then sat in the orchestra pit to be the voice of the plant, Audrey II. At five feet, two inches tall, and about 120 pounds soaking wet, most audiences didn't believe that such a little guy supplied the booming voice for the alien plant--but I did. Well.

Through my time at Diablo Valley College I was blessed with an array of works to perform with: Shakespeare's MacBeth, Moliere's The Imaginary Invalid, an original Greek work by Nicole Hess-Diestler and Zach Diestler called Iphigenia at Aulis. There were numerous scene studies, or Brown Bags as we'd call them, where I was given great opportunities to delve into pieces by John Patrick Shanley (Frankie and Johnny), Emily Mann (The Execution of Justice), David Rabe (Hurlyburly). And there were even a couple of musicals, Bat Boy, a contemporary rock musical, and Some Enchanted Evening, a Rodgers and Hammerstein revue.

At Cal State Long Beach I played a cholo (Los Lobos de la Noche), an Indian boy (A Chance, an original piece by Chetan Sanathara), a Shakespearean father (Gentlemen Redux), and a gay man (Our Lady of 121st Street).

With the shows that I have been fortunate enough to be in, I've been challenged and stretched and corraled and set free. And even with my tattoos (which are something many of my theatre classmates considered to be taboo or too cumbersome to have to work around), I didn't have to cover them up in as nearly many shows as I was asked to show them off. Actually, for my role in Los Lobos they actually added more tattoos. And through all of this: Shakespeare, Greek, Moliere, cholo, Indian, gay, original pieces, I never had to be naked onstage. In a piece I directed, The Big Funk, by Shanley, one of my actors had to be naked, and I mean fully naked, no socks, dance belts, or nothing, but I myself had never been naked on stage.

Being naked is a scary thing for many people. Taking a shower or bath is probably the one thing that most people can be comfortable doing naked. Yes, I omitted sex, because 1. you don't have to be completely naked (#socks #shirts) and 2. being this intimate with someone doesn't necessarily mean you're absolutely comfortable with being naked.

So that leaves showertime as the singular occasion of being comfortable with nakedness.

I write quite a bit about positivity, especially in regards to loving one's self, and although it probably won't come as a surprise, I feel it to be a strong gesture to say it explicitly. I'm not always happy with my body.

In more bathrooms than not, stepping out of the shower usually places me face to face with the mirror above the sink. Nothing like starting your day with a vigorously hot shower, reviving you from your slumber, only to be slapped in the face by, well, your face...above your naked body. This is typically not the best feeling. 

But recently, I've been better about accepting my awesomeness and being happy with who I am. How much better? I took a picture of myself after I got out of the shower today.

With my hair messy and still a little bit wet, unkempt eyebrows center stage, I took a picture of myself at a time when I would normally not want anyone to see me. But today I do. Because I love who I am and I'm in love with myself. Not in a narcissistic way, but in a way that is in reply to, "If you don't love yourself, why should anyone else be?"

I'm a pretty hairless guy. Have you ever seen me with a mustache? Or a goatee with some sweet chops to frame it? Nope. And my hairless back (which I'm not complaining about) pictured above is right in line with my unmanly (by stereotypical standards) hairless chest.

This commercial was a nice reminder that every style is ok. Thanks, Genesis. #CallMe

The tattooed cat is out of the bag, and my upper back tattoos are now for everyone to see in all its bloggy glory. Kanjis for "wisdom" (Connecticut) and "loyalty" (Virginia), an anchor-inspired Sagittarius symbol (NorCal), and a modification of the Alexander Pope quotation, "To err is human, to forgive divine." (Montana).

I used to think that tattoos helped to draw attention away from parts of my body that I did not wish to show off (especially in my beach bum days when all I wore was a hat and a pair of board shorts), but I have since then refocused my appreciation for my ink as I became a curator of my own gallery. The tattoos on my skin are like patches on a cruise jacket-symbolizing deployments, missions, and battle groups.

Being on stage naked was something that many of us talked about in school, mostly in a fearful light. Just thinking about all those people and making eye contact with them afterwards knowing that they saw you in such an adulterated manner without reciprocation. But with live theatre, after the moment it's gone. With photography, that moment is frozen in time forever. 

But what good is a moment unless it's shared with others. So I wanted to share it with everyone (thanks to body positioning and framing a tasteful shot).

I am in love with myself. That's the healthiest, most fulfilling love anyone can have, and everyone should.

Photo and Blog a Day Challenge-Day 9/28: Under

Today ended what was more than a seven year itch. I got my first tattoo in North Carolina in December of 2002. By Spring of 2005 I had seven tattoos from seven different states. Around St. Patrick's Day in 2006 I got my life-sized, seven piece constellation in northern California. And before I knew it, the buzz of a needle gun was just a memory.

Moving to Indiana provided many new opportunities, and today highlights the reopening of a challenge I started for myself back in 2003. Tattoos from as many different states as possible.

First there was this photo. The last known photo of my naked left forearm/inner wrist.

This is the last picture and final account of what will be...wait for it...under my new tattoo. But  it isn't my official entry for the day. The following photo is:

I went under the needle tonight. Almost two hours ago. For the first time since March of 2006. Almost eight years since my last tattoo

Thanks to a coworker's suggestion, I was put in contact with an artist/shop in Niles, Michigan. So, shout out to Lambo at Paparazzi Tattoos for knockin the dust off of my collection and throwin down some new ink for me! I can now cross Michigan off the list of states I've been inked in. And I'm definitely going back for more.

Don't be deceived, that isn't a look of pain on my face. It's an expression of, "I'm not gonna lie. I love this. And I miss it." I must admit, I was a bit anxious having gone so long without a tattoo, so I was unsure about how my pain level would fare.

For those of you who have considered tattoos but have not  taken the dive yet, I won't lie, they do hurt--you're getting stabbed thousands of times--but, at least for me, with the wonderful hum of the tattoo gun, it becomes more tickling/annoying than painful.

For the first time in my (now) 15 tattoos, I was live tweeting a couple of Instagram posts because I felt compelled to share my tatventure, aside from the day's blog.

And before I knew it, Lambo's light hand was done with my newest piece in the collection. I present to you, The ghoti fish.

Inspired by Craig Fleming, a professor from CSULB, whose Writing for the Theatre course inspired me to start writing again, I chose to bring the ghoti fish (pronounced "fish fish") to life for all to see.

If you've had the pleasure of Craig's inspiration, wisdom, and passion, this may look familiar to you. If not, and you'd like to figure out how it says "fish," then go ahead, I'll give you a moment to roll that around...

[insert commercial break here]

As many of you know (or can tell) I love writing. And this past November I participated in (and won) NaNoWriMo 2013 (sidenote: I'm wearing my NaNo 2013 Winner tee in the above pictures.) I take pride in my work, and have been accused of taking my job too seriously.

I love to have fun, and this new piece will help remind me to not take things so seriously all the time. Especially when it comes to words, which I thoroughly enjoy wielding with confidence.

And so, the explanation of how GHOTI is pronounced "fish."

GH--as in words like "tough" or "rough" provides the "phh" sound.
O--as in "women" sounds like a short vowel "i" or "ih."
TI--as in "action" and "direction," provides the "sh" sound.

Strung together...go ahead and sound it out if you haven't already...

phh--ih--sh.

FISH.

Ghoti fish. Fish fish. Nailed it.

I love words. I love stories. And the more I learn about English as a language, the more complex it becomes. But maybe that's part of what I love about it so much.

Don't let it stress you out there, because taking it too seriously will drag you down. How far down? Really far...under.

I'll be here all month, folks.

Thanks again, Lambo and Paparazzi Tattoos!

Photo and Blog a Day Challenge Day 3/28: Metal

A bannister from the second floor. I've lived in a couple second floor apartments. Quite a few two-story buildings at that. House, townhouse, and apartment building are all checked off on my Not A Homeowner Bingo Card. Although stairs make moving a bit more complicated, living on the second floor has it's benefits.

But I'm not here to talk about the second floor today. And it wasn't until I opened up my Blogger Dashboard and looked at the empty text box that I knew what I was going to write about. Not many people know this story, but it's one of my favorites.

If you don't believe in signs, then you may just get a kick out of the grand coincidence that it will share, but if you do--like me--then well, yeah, it's a sign if I ever saw one.

In the weeks prior to Sarah's graduation a couple years ago, we were driving one day with her mother towards the campus to scope out parking spots and to show her where everything would be. Beach alumni herself, it had been a quite a few years since she had been by campus, so we wanted to come by since we were in the neighborhood. Sarah drove with her mother sitting shotgun, and I in the back.

A couple miles away from the campus I mentioned that the first apartment I lived in in Long Beach was  "down that street."

Admitting she lived in an apartment in that area herself when she was attending CSULB, she asked which building I was in, saying that she used to live on Orizaba Ave as well. I described the complex to her and the gears were turning, but she couldn't quite remember which one she was in.

A few days later, she sent me a picture message of an old piece of mail that had her address.

We come to discover that of the hundreds of apartments in Long Beach, (not to mention the scores that were probably built in the years in between when she and I both attended LBSU, we rented an apartment, on the same street, in the same complex. The same upstairs unit, last one on the left, and the exact same room, the first one on the right with its own bathroom.

And the kicker? When my roommates and I found the apartment, our landlords were Gloria and...wait for it...Jesus.

Go ahead, you can say it, we did.

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

I had always believed in signs as far as I can remember. Sometimes, I'll make what some may call as obscure connections, but I'll connect things if I feel they're to be connected. With this, it was indisputable.

Back to School!

So it’s Back to School season, and for the first time in [mumble, censor] years, I’m not getting ready for classes or working at a campus prepping for the onslaught of stampeding parents and new students.

I have been, however, shoulder deep in Back to School retail, and have been witnessing the masses purchase stacks upon stacks of…not books…but pants and polo shirts in navy blue, white, khaki, black, sky blue, and cardigans, and backpacks. (This almost turned into a post about wanting children, which would be fitting since this is the first time I’ve blogged since I’ve gotten married, ah thank you very much, but that wasn’t the goal. Another time.)

A few folks from the village are heading off to college, as is the younger brother of my best friend back in NorCal (high five, EJ!) and at a college send off party/fiesta, we went around the table and shared our bits of college advice. That really got me thinking about starting college, and being a couple years after the diploma (and still without the itch to start grad school), it felt a bit refreshing to think back on that first semester at community college and then at the transfer to The Beach (Go Beach!).

College is an interesting adventure—everyone’s experience is different, there are varying goals, definitions of success, and multiple ways to go about it. (How did this just become a post about losing your virginity? I’ll say it again…Another time. Maybe)

You probably already know to always wear sunscreen, so I’ll share some nuggets that I may have scribbled inside a locker, under the bleachers, or backstage behind the fly system ropes (high five for techies!)

1. Don’t register for a class before 10am.

2. If you need help learning about it or how to do it, there’s probably an office on campus that can help you with it. (Yes, even that.)

3. Skipping class gets easier each time you do it, so be careful.

4. Practice makes perfect (and yes, this applies to beer pong).

5. Your friends know you’re lying when you say, “I’m never doing THAT again.”

6. Sometimes you can buy books for cheaper from folks who took that class last semester.

7. You don’t need all your books on the first day.

8. Carry extra scantrons.

9. Study groups are awesome, but choose your study buddies wisely.

10. Take notes, if not to review later…to keep yourself active to stay awake.

11. Don’t be afraid to talk to your professors, they’re people too.

12. Take advantage of career centers/counselors, there’s nothing like finding out you’re short on credits when you think you’re walking with your friends next semester.

13. You define your goals.

14. Decide why you’re going to college: A—to get a degree that will leverage your job hunt. B—to follow an academic program in a discipline that you enjoy and find interesting. C—mommy and daddy said to. D—all of the above

15. People will judge your major. Whether you’re going into the arts, engineering, writing, or whatever. It’s your degree with your name on it, so follow a path you want to be on (see #14).

16. If there’s a pub on campus, don’t be afraid. It isn’t there to sidetrack your education, it’s there to hang out with (and meet) friends.

17. Do more than go to class and take tests.

18. Go to sporting events.

19. Join a club.

20. Be friends with your roommate(s).

21. Don’t move in with someone just because you’re friends. There’s a lot more to living together than you think (especially if you’re moving into a place for the first time).

22. Don’t be afraid to cry—it’s your body letting off some energy you don’t need to hold onto.

23. Hug at least five people every day.

24. Compliment people you don’t know when you’re walking by.

25. See a theatrical production on campus.

26. Smile—you’re taking advantage of an education that many dream of.

27. Don’t be afraid to make new friends.

28. Know that your circle of friends will change. It’s ok.

29. Take breaks.

30. Cramming isn’t for everyone.

31. Learn about your school and take some pride in it.

32. Don’t take everything as law, you may get tossed some false information from upperclassmen.

33. Don’t be afraid to ask questions.

34. Call home.

35. Visit your friends.

36. Don’t force yourself to come home if you don’t want to.

37. BUDGET.

38. Research scholarships

39. Find a get away spot on campus. A quiet corner, special bench, or long hallway, somewhere where you can be you for five minutes when it gets crazy.

40. Eat.

41. Drink water.

42. Get there early. Especially if you’re looking for parking.

43. Don’t feel bad about going to a community college first.

44. Be honest with yourself, if a class isn’t working out (for whatever reason: the teacher, the time slot, the material), don’t be afraid to drop it and find another course that fulfills the requirement (if available).

45. Be honest with yourself. (Yes, this deserves repeating, especially for just general understanding.)

46. Bring snacks.

47. One day (but hopefully more than once), you may find yourself on campus around sunrise or sunset before it’s riddled with people. It’ll be quiet, peaceful, and it’ll be one of the calmest moments you’ll have that semester. Stop where you are and take a breath. Remember this moment for later when it isn’t so calm.

48. Take pictures.

49. Make lists.

I am Mr. T.

If this isn’t your first visit to my blog, you may have noticed that my style of blog-writing is very blunt, honestly raw, and (to put it in terms of my theatre-brethren), very stream-of-consciousness. It may be hypocritical of me, but when I share a story on my personal blog (versus a professional online column like the Long Beach Acting Examiner or via website content at work), I tend to tell a story in words as I would say it aloud as if you were sitting next to me at a bar top. To me, this blog is similar to what happens when I’ve had one too many drinks and you aren’t doing anything but listening…

I’m a first-generation American, middle of three children, to a couple of folks that were born in the same country, but didn’t meet until they were both in the California. Being a first-gen kid is an interesting thing, and I’ve thought about it a lot over the last 13 years (since I moved out after high school), but with some new realizations in the last couple of weeks.

I’m getting married in a little over two months, and my wife-to-be comes from large family with many as many similarities as there are differences in comparison to my own. I’ve met members from four different generations on both sides of her family, and it’s quite an amazing thing to really take notice of. Recently, we had celebrated the birthday of one matriarch (on her father’s side), and at one point in the evening, we all gathered in one area of the house so that the parents could share stories of their father, the birthday celebrant’s late husband, so that the younger generations could learn a little more about their family history.

As interesting and engaging as many of the stories were, it was a little challenging for me as learning more about my fiancée’s family ignited the self-interrogative spark and I began thinking through my own family tree.

All four of my biological grandparents have passed, and truth be told, I never met my maternal grandfather because he never came to America and I never went there. My maternal grandmother, Mama, passed shortly after I turned eight years old, and my father’s parents passed in the first decade of this century.

Listening to the stories at that recent birthday party and looking around at the multiple generations and varying ages, with my upcoming nuptials on my mind, I can’t help but realize the magnitude of what I’m actually going to do (very excitedly, thank you very much). We want to have kids (but not right away), and as we’ve been planning our wedding, it really makes you look at your life and your friends, and as sad it is to say, forcing you to choose about who you can afford to invite. (This could be a perfect segue into why people should charge to attend their weddings instead of paying for their friends to come hang out, but that’s another story…)

I digress. First-generation American, getting married, kids. Yes, kids and passing on traditions. However, to pass on traditions there have to be traditions already in place. This is where I get tripped up. I’ve led an interesting life that has included a lot of firsts. I was a member of the one of the first-ever sixth-grade classes at Jack London Elementary (I think the time capsules we buried might still be by the flagpole, but I’ll have to look into that). I was a part of the first graduating class (yes, ever) of Deer Valley High School. (This would also make me the first mascot of DVHS, but I don’t think that’s recorded anywhere, and it was definitely before there was a wolverine suit, so it’s my word against yours, haha.) My dad did serve in the U.S. Army for a couple years before he was married, but I believe I was the first one to join the Navy. I wasn’t the first one in my family to graduate from college, but I am the first Beach Alumni (and my fiancée is also Beach Alumni, as are both her parents, and one of her brothers-in-law…).

Point being, all these firsts, thanks to the opportunities I’ve been privileged enough to grasp, are starting what could be traditions in the family that my wife-to-be and I will grow together. I don’t plan on forcing our kids into the Navy or to go to CSULB, and I definitely don’t plan on moving back to where they would go to DVHS like I did, but what I have to offer them is a very unique blend of American gumbo I’ve picked up over the years through several states.

Let’s just talk about sports. Here’s the list of where my fandom lies:

• NFL—SF 49ers
• MLB—LA Angels
• NBA—Los Angeles Clippers
• College Football—Oklahoma
• NCAA everything else (but primarily MBB and WBB)—LBSU
• NASCAR—Tony Stewart (yes, I’m calling NASCAR a sport…shut it)

And to think in a few months I’ll be living in the heart of Fighting Irish country, closer to Colts, Bears, Bulls, White Sox, and Cubbies fans…at least I already know my neighbors are NASCAR fans.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a wonderful example of carving your own path, traveling wherever the fair winds and following seas take me (Go Navy!), but now that I’m getting married, my perspective has drastically shifted and I can no longer float on the wind like a feather in Forrest Gump or like a plastic bag in American Beauty.

And this is where the oversized gold chains, mohawk, and poor fool pitying comes in—I’m the T in “tradition.” Where will our family’s traditions start? With my fiancée and I. With the ones that we share and tell them about, and you know what? Maybe they’ll change. I can’t say I’ll be a fan of all of the aforementioned teams together, I can’t promise that. Say for example, we end up having kids in Indiana and we start going to Bulls games, or Cubs game, or Colts games…those memories I could be making with my family could shift the thoughts I have now as we start our own traditions.

So yeah, I’m Mr. T in my future, and that’s no fault of anyone, that’s just how the decades and generations landed. Someone had to start somewhere, I just realized that that someone is me. I probably won’t go for the mohawk, but I may pity the poor fool who doesn’t realize that anyone could be that T in “tradition.” Don’t be that fool. Be that badass.

Every veteran has a different story

I have a lot to say, and much of it I shouldn’t, so what does make it out of my head often ends up in a blog.

Before the age of 22 I had graduated from Navy basic training, Nuclear Powers school, qualified submarines, trained in firearms (9mm, shotgun, M-14, and M-16), went on deployments, and separated from the military as a disabled veteran from a service-connected disability.

I am not a combat veteran. I was never deployed to Iraq, Afghanistan, or anywhere in that part of the globe.

In junior college I had taken a speech class as a requirement and one of our projects was to present an argumentative speech. I chose a topic that centered on I don’t know what else to call but deployment guilt.

I graduated from nuke school the weekend before 9/11/01 and, with good reason, was asked by all of my friends and family if I was deploying to the Middle East with the orders I had just received. After separating, whenever my veteran status came up in discussion I was posed the question if I had served in Iraq or Afghanistan. When sharing with them that I had not, and that I was on a special-ops submarine (aka sans battle group), their mood often changed, seeming disappointed that I was not a part of the military that was the focus of every media channel. I don’t remember the exact statistics of my speech, but I remember the proportion of it. Of all the service members of the United States Armed Forces, approximately a quarter of them deployed to Iraq and/or Afghanistan. For a fairly recent article with more credible sources, click here.

Now, I can’t blame the general public for inquiring about my location of deployment, and this is in no way a statement against those that did deploy to (or currently still are in) those locations—this is just the opinion of one veteran with one story. Contrary to the belief of a couple of my professors through college, I am not the singular spokesperson for the military, my experience is not indicative of everyone’s, and I am not making the decisions that send our troops over there.

I just occasionally feel like my time in service was negligible.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not asking for some national commendation, a movie deal, or a free lunch, but with the recent events of seeing Ajax in Iraq at CSULB and attending the Vet Net Ally seminar for CSULB staff and faculty, the story of my own service has been fresh in my mind.

Aboard the (now decommissioned) USS Hyman G. Rickover(SSN-709), I lived and worked among men—only—no, really, there were no women on board, and many times, these are the guys that I want to go grab a beer with after work, watch football with, and talk about what’s going on with my family, my upcoming nuptials, and life in general. We were brothers, fathers, sons, boyfriends, uncles—we were shipmates. We were all very different, but because of our isolated world of the silent service, we all held a common bond. On liberty, you may have different interests and drink in different bars, but underway, in the waters that have absolutely no regard for your skin color, your age, your creed, or even what flag you fly in port—we knew what it meant to get a job done. We left our families, friends, homes, and everything we knew for weeks at a time to do a job that we all voluntarily signed up for. Yeah, sub duty is voluntary. Many other details are assigned, often with preference, but submarine duty is something you go out of your way to take part of.

For weeks there is no sunlight—just fluorescent, buzzing ballasts and maybe a personal incandescent lamp. There are no windows, and fresh air is determined by the efficiency of the fan room. You smell of carbon dust, lube oil, and tin cans. After two weeks, your crew has already gone through all the fresh vegetables and fruit and you’re back to canned tomatoes, breaded chicken patties, and what resembles scrambled eggs. Emails were few and far between, and even then it’s extremely limited, and it’s probably mission-related. Television was limited to whatever movie the crew’s mess voted on after each meal, and if you’re lucky, you can stay awake for a couple games of spades or maybe a jam session or two with the guy that brought his guitar (or bought a violin “just because” in Norway).

There is no sand, incoming fire, or 120 degree heat (unless the fans go out back aft). There are no 70lb rucksacks, IEDs, or fear of snipers. CNN isn’t sending any reporters to talk to us, and there aren’t any photojournalists scurrying around hoping to shoot the cover of TIME magazine.

I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t challenging, or if I said there weren’t many times I just “wanted to go home.” Likewise if I told you I loved eating those unidentifiable meals or hot racking. I will say that those weeks and weeks underway, and those days I stopped in my tracks on base to observe morning or evening colors are missed more often than not, and that joining the military right out of high school (or technically, while I was still in high school) was the best decision I’ve ever made in my life.

I did what I signed up to do, most of it completely unplanned and usually by orders of people I had never met, but the intangibles that have stayed with me years after my last LES have continually reaffirmed that I learned what I should have and that my status as a veteran is hard-earned—combat veteran or not.

Fortunately, I’ll never truly know what those men and women experienced in Iraq and Afghanistan, and to be honest, had I not been medically discharged, I probably would have tried to go back into the military at different times in the last eight years.

This “deployment guilt” I write about is no result of your actions—it’s from within my own mind as a result of my own environment and I see myself, and as blogs would have it, writing it out has produced another clear realization for myself—every veteran has a very distinctive story, and no person, organization, channel, or medium can diminish that. It is what it is for yourself, and my only hope is that it benefits you in the long run no matter where your story took you.

My Southern California Directorial Debut!!!

Through such catch phrases as "f**k my life" and "epic fail" adorning such minor mishaps as a pencil breaking or a dropped slice of cheese on the floor, many people have lost sight of the greater good. Society has taken a turn for the worse and has become its own worst enemy, sending the masses into a funk of wallowing misery. It isn't that bad, folks. It can always get worse, so enjoy it for what it is and just "live and let live."

The Big Funk,
by John Patrick Shanley
*edited for time

Directed by Marlon Deleon

Cast (in order of appearance):

Jill-Amelia Gonsalves
Fifi-Kristina Philipson
Omar-Steven LeFever
Austin-Corey Leis
Gregory-Mark Dunham

Start Time:	Thursday, March 18, 2010 at 11:00pm
End Time:	Friday, March 19, 2010 at 1:00pm
Location:	Room 24/26 (Showcase Room) in the basement of the Theatre Arts building at CSULB.
City/Town:	Long Beach, CA

NO ADMISSION FEE! Free theatre in LA County!! True story!

CSULB University Players presents...

Cal State Long Beach’s University Players Spring 2010 production of A Human Interest Story.

Somewhere in America, a man fantasizes about his best friend's wife. In another city, a young housewife momentarily loses sight of her children. Elsewhere, a politician relives a tragic second that forever changed his life, and a mother wonders where her teenage son got the gun. And in one town, a man on the verge of committing a horrific act of violence watches all this unfold on his TV screen. A HUMAN INTEREST STORY (OR THE GORY DETAILS AND ALL) is an unflinching portrait of an America obsessed with voyeurism. This mesmerizing, funny and frightening work asks the question: Is the imagination more cruel and unforgiving than reality?

Directed by Edgar Landa

Cast:
Male Voice 1.................Martin Cruz
Male Voice 2.................Ivan Rodriguez
Male Voice 3.................Kyle Jones
Female Voice 1.............Jenna Skeva
Female Voice 2.............Lauren Thill
Female Voice 3.............Cassandra Babcock

Assistant Director: Marlon Deleon
Stage Manager: Natalie Riemer

Opens March 5th 2010 @8pm
Runs through to March 20th @8pm.
Tuesdays-Saturdays 8pm with Saturday 2pm showings.

Tickets are $15 for regular admissions and $12 for students and seniors.

Tickets can be bought at the CSULB Theater Department box office,

or online at:http://ev6.evenue.net/cgi-bin/ncommerce3/SEGetEventList?groupCode=PT&linkID=carpenter&shopperContext=&caller=&appCode=