More proof that The Simpsons is the greatest product of pop culture ever: they got Thomas Pynchon to do a guest voice on tonight's episode. If you know anything about Pynchon, you know how miraculous this development truly is. I watched it tonight and waited for the credits to see if it was really him. Fuckin' awesome.

Shake ya ass, watch ya soap / Shake ya ass, show me who's a prison bitch...

Tonight's entrée: Sweetbreads of grass-fed aphasic writer, sautéed in brown flop sweat sage, finished with an artful drizzle of blood squeezed from a stone.

Tonight's atmospheric music: "Pressure" by Billy Joel

I've been at my computer for 4 hours or so, blasting tunes, knowing all the necessary details are in my head, but still laboring to coax them down to my fingers. The first solo performance class on Sunday was exhilarating. I sat, talked a little about my one-man show idea, then was massaged by the teacher into describing a portion of it (my long-distance date in Missoula, MT) from a first-person perspective. Holy shit! This could be viable! It felt really good to begin the process, even in the most exploratory manner. And then I spent 3 days sitting on my hands, spending quality time with G, tending to the day labors, and indulging in all the usual procrastinationaria (which I've buffed to blackjack-like bluntness to knock my creativity on its ass).

The assignment was simple: write a discrete passage from my fan club travails. I've lived it. I've related the tale so many times to so many people. I've got screensful of online missives to observe the trajectories of every salad day. And when I have to write it down, I get constipated between the ears. But I soldier on. So far: ¾ of a page, single spaced. I think David (my teacher) said a page equals 3 minutes of stage time. And I haven't even gotten to the juicy stuff yet. Not even close. Which gives me hope - I'm only sweating the beginning details.

I have the feeling I'll need to carve out writing time with a carbonized scimitar. Especially this weekend, with Java class, an audition in Mountain View, my company's holiday party, and a memorial service of a family friend to attend. I swear, anybody who knows me knows I'm the antithesis of Type A. Yet my schedule would have you and me believe otherwise. Pass the crack pipe.

Aw fuck. My favorite downtown Vegas casino got shut down. The 'shoe is a legendary part of Sin City, and it looks like it's been pissed away by Benny Binion's fucked-up kids. Wonder who will pick up the mantle of the World Series of Poker, ESPN's most popular non-sports event, started by Benny B. 30+ years ago.

What a swinging Saturday night I'm having: surfing aimlessly, plying my MusicMatch Jukebox with guilty '70s/'80s pleasures (Mountain, Joe Walsh, Ted Nugent, BÖC, Cheap Trick, Journey, etc.), ignoring the overflowing hamper in the corner, steadfastly not working on the life plan that I should be committing to paper.

Today I had an audition in Berkeley, part of open season tryouts for a prominent Shakespeare company. I should've worked harder on polishing my monologue, but I'm not going to stress too hard about it, because the audition came and went, I didn't fuck up my lines, I stayed fairly focused and I don't think I embarrassed myself. So funny that I spent the early part of the day drilling myself on the monologues (I also had a second one prepared in case they wanted one - they didn't); got to their offices in the afternoon; spent 20 minutes waiting, staving off butterflies and pins and needles with deep breathing and tai qi exercises; then in I went, did my thing, and 90 seconds later, it's done. Hours of slow-cooking anxiety all for a minute and a half of blink-and-you-missed-it. I need to audition more this year, and at least feint an iota of sangfroid.

Next weekend, I have another spot in a season audition call, with one monologue (to be determined - criminy) and one song (my brand-new old warhorse, "If I Were a Rich Man" from Fiddler - can someone help me with an incantation that'll infuse me with the spirit of Zero Mostel?). I need to turn off the TV and find a good monologue, methinks, or dust off one that works.

Tomorrow morning, I start a class on workshopping ideas for solo performance pieces. It's the first concrete step I'm taking on the "fan club" one-man piece that's been passively quasi-fomenting for months, much like the laundry in the corner. The class runs until the end of March and culminates with a performance of 20 minutes' worth of material developed in class. I'm a-scared, ma. Hell, if it's scaring me, it's even more imperative for me to do it. Right? Repeat after me: dare to suck, dare to suck, dare to suck. I pick the shittiest mantras.

Yesterday I filled out my calendar with my new commitments - namely, the solo class and the continuation of my Java class on Saturdays. Weekends until the end of March - booked. Lots of ink covering the calendar already. And I made a conscious effort not to be as busy as I was the last few months. Why do I feel like the laziest busy person on Earth?

Strange dreams recap from the last month or so:

At a vocal recital (which echoed the finals of my just-completed singing class at City College of S.F.), Donald Rumsfeld got up and was about to sing - he was trying to charm the crowd in his, well, unique Rummyesque manner. Looking at the program, I noticed that I was supposed to sing before him, so I stood up and interrupted as politely as I could. "Uh, Mr. Secretary, I'm first." Then for some reason, I didn't even sing but left instead, protesting that I didn't want to seem like a one-trick pony by singing "If I Were a Rich Man" again. (I sang that in my waking life for both midterms and finals for the singing class.)

In another dream, I was performing in some cooking/singing-type entertainment with Mario Batali, except I kept forgetting my parts, especially the singing parts which I ended up humming. Mario looked pissed, which is kind of out of character from what I've seen on Food Network. Heh.

Last night, I went back to a recurring motif - going back to college - except this time, it was a weird mix of liberal arts and military academy. Archetypal drill sergeant R. Lee Ermey was there to strike fear in us all. Yet it was a theatre scene study class. Weird. Just wacky.

I'm listening to Gov. Schwarzenegger's State of the State address. My ears are bleeding from this load of horseshit. Patton Oswalt is right: California's motto should be "Who Wrote This Shit?"