SiteMeters are crazy little things.

I have to admit, it's a weird feeling to know that someone you used to date that you don't talk to anymore is regularly checking your webpage.

Hi Abby! How's it going?

I have no idea when or if I'll ever talk to this chick again. No way to determine what's going on in her life. But, since I told her about FadeIn oh so long ago, she gets to check in on me for free in perpetuity.

I can't say that I blame her, though. I know for a rock solid fact that I would do the same if the situation were reversed. There are plenty of people out there that I don't talk to anymore into whose heads I would love to have a semi-secret daily peek.

I remember once we were talking, and I started telling this story I had apparently written about. She got a strange look on her face, having read the entry in which I wrote about it, and said "I shouldn't know that."

So, yeah. It's kind of like that, except multiplied. I'm not going to do anything about it, like switch names, or password protect, or block her IP#, because that = lame. It is just one of the many benign consequences of public journaling, like weird "fan mail" from 13 year old Canadians, or getting IM's from people who refuse to tell you who they are.

You accept, you move on.

So, in less bizarre news, I had a good night last night which helped cheer me up after a day of stressing over job woes.

I had improv class, and yet I didn't have improv class, because our new teacher completely forgot to show up. He's subbing for our regular teacher who is out of town for three weeks, and last night was supposed to be his first class, which completely escaped him as he was out to dinner with his girl.

He showed up at the IO long after class was over, and apologized profusely to all of us individually. None of us seemed to mind all that much, allowing him this one space out. They'll add an extra class to make up for it.

The cool thing is that, despite the lack of a teacher, we took the initiative and decided to give ourselves something of a class anyway. We warmed ourselves up, and then divided into two groups, one group being the audience, and the other group performing the Improvolympic signature long form piece, the Harold.

That link points to a definition and discussion of the Harold form, so named because, after Del Close developed the form, he was asked what he would name it, and simply replied "Harold." People like to point out that this is much akin to the famous reply George Harrison gave in Hard Day's Night, who, when asked by a reporter "What do you call that haircut of yours?" answered "Arthur."

Brief, brief digression: I'm loving the improv lately, as you well know. One of the coolest things to me is how relatively new this artform is. It was created by a group of University of Chicago students only about fifty years ago, as a theater exercise. It wasn't even intended to be funny originally, it was just intended to explore truthful, spontaneous response. It just so happens that when you explore truth in a certain way, the results are interesting and unexpected and therefore funny.

The only thing that really comes close to improv before the 1950's was commedia del arte, and to a lesser extent, certain vaudeville acts. To me, personally, it's just a really fascinating reality check to realize that I'm a small drop of water on the crest of a wave of a form that, in the grand scope of human art, is so new.

So, yes. Here endeth the lesson. Go in peace.

Last night: After class, I'm hanging out with my classmates. I love those people, and I have no qualms whatsoever about having sacrificed the PA gig on Curb so I could stay with them.

I'm talking to a girl, Rachel, who is a new addition to our group. She tells me her boyfriend is a story editor, and offers to let me email my resume to him. Score. Then, she goes on to give me information that's potentially more interesting.

She tells me that she waits tables at a restaurant in Venice. She makes about $150 per shift, and only works three of four times a week. She's leaving the job in a month so she can become a masseuse. She told me that, if I were interested, she would see what she could do about getting me a job there.

So. I'm seriously considering waiting tables.

In: Los Angeles.

So: I can keep my days free.

And therefore: Audition.

Yes.

Big news, I know. I didn't see this coming when I moved out here to write. At all.

I'm 99% certain I'm going to throw my hat into the ring and join the rest of the actors trying to make it in Hollywood.

God...I'm fucking crazy.

It can't be denied, though. Acting and performance and comedy were always my first loves, ever since I experienced my first round of applause and laughter as a chubby five year old boy in a sailor suit doing a bit at my childhood church talent show. And being at the Improvolympic LA has just confirmed that for me. Writing has just been a long term affair. Besides, it's not like I can't see writing on the side. Acting, thankfully, is laid back, and very cool with the idea of an open relationship.

If I don't get the gig waiting tables, I'll temp for the rest of the summer. The loose goal, right now, is to have headshots ready by the time the fall season starts, and to definitely have them by the time pilot season starts next February.

Can you believe this? You have no idea how excited I am. Really. It feels so good and so right.

I'd use my old Chicago headshots, but they need a bit of an update, because...

...I have no fucking idea what I was thinking with those sideburns.

Why did no one tell me?