Behind the !@#$^%!

Okay, let's be honest.

If you're reading this blog, you're either REALLY REALLY bored or you know someone in MOSAIC REALLY well. Or, most likely, you are in MOSAIC.

That being said, we can further the honesty.

Things have not been going well in MOSAIC town. We've had a bunch of canceled shows and just as many with 3 - 6 people in attendance. We've lost a member to a well-deserved do-another-show-hiatus and another is part-timing it for the same reason. And last week, a shelf almost killed Lynne. We've got our country's 500th anniversary to plan, our wedding to arrange, our wife to murder and Guilder to frame for it; I, for one, am swamped.

Which is why I am posting this post for the 3 people who may read it and spread the word.

Ten Years of !@#$^%! is not going to be just another show. Ask anyone in the group. We've been making our lives out of putting up quality theatre -- some shows more quality than others depending on how drunk we were that week -- but quality shows that are genuinely unlike anything else happening in Boston. And we've done it with very little audience and I am proud to say that we've carried on and pleased the audiences we have had within inches of their lives. Well, usually. Again, we do our best, and generally we succeed.

I'm not saying this to toot our own horn, because we certainly make our share of crap from time to time. But this show -- THIS SHOW -- will make up for any crap we might have thrown on stage in the last 3, 4, 7 years at any point. And frankly, it might be the last show we ever do as an ensemble. And we want to go out -- if we are going out -- with a bang.

And if we're not going out, we just want to, as always, delight you. As best we can.

I shouldn't speak for everyone. Okay, but I will say this: everyone seems really excited about this show. About the material. About the concept. About the way it's coming together. We have so much to offer.

You will not be disappointed. Even if you are regularly disappointed by theater . . . film . . . circuses . . . you will not be disappointed by Ten Years of !@#$^%!.

Put that in your piggy bank and go right now to your email, facebook, blog, twitter, wtf you do with your online time . . . and make plans to come. Now.

You will be glad.

And if you aren't, I'll still be proud. Because your bad taste is not my problem.

*sardonic wink*

A Letter of Warning to the Middle Class from a Massachusetts Taxpayer: Demand the Public Option

A Letter of Warning to the Middle Class from a Massachusetts Taxpayer:

Demand the Public Option

The following is a letter I wrote two years ago, when Massachusetts' earliest health care reform measures were starting to take effect. Where possible and reasonable, I have updated the information to reflect the current state of the commonwealth and the nation.

The eyes of the United States are on Massachusetts. Nationwide, analysts eye our health care initiative as a model for broader reform. They want to know if this plan will work for the nation as a whole. Shuffling through overwhelming data, they examine the complications of this new system, its strengths and weaknesses.

Let me keep it simple for them. It isn't working. And the reason why it isn't working should serve as a sharp warning to anyone making between $33,000 and $50,000 a year: Demand real health care reform, including a public option, or you will have to settle for more of the same.

If Massachusetts is the microcosm, the testing ground, for United States health care reform, then I am its everyman. I'm single; I'm 28; I'm generally healthy.

In fact, I have advantages. I'm well-educated. I have a college degree from a prestigious private school. I work. A lot. I work as many as 5 different seasonal, part-time and contract jobs a year to piece together an income. I even enjoy those jobs, and I've worked hard to create opportunity for myself. I'm an active citizen; I believe in contributing and making one's voice heard. And I'm not alone. There are hundreds of thousands like me in this state, and we should be able to get by.

And yet I've spent the first few years of my adult life struggling to stay out of the welfare system when it comes to my health. I've jumped from one type of health insurance I couldn't afford (and didn't use) to another. Sometimes, I simply couldn't pay the premiums and went without. Now, I don't have a choice.

The goal of the new health care laws is simple: every citizen must purchase health insurance or pay a penalty. Accordingly, the state is to provide affordable options for its people, based on their income. The deal even includes an expert-created affordability chart that measures, income bracket by income bracket, what each citizen can reasonably afford to pay for health insurance.

You can imagine my excitement at the concept. After staring for years at the choice between $500 monthly premiums or inadequate coverage, sugarplum dreams of $100 per month quality health plans filled my head. I would be able to work health care into my budget. Massachusetts was a leader and an innovator, and I was ready to enroll in a health care plan I could afford.

I kept my eye on the developing plan. I watched the Commonwealth's health care web pages on a weekly basis. I was tired of struggling just to afford to stay healthy. I wanted in.

I found I was still distinctly on the out.

There is a gaping hole in the state's new health plan, and it begins at an annual individual income of $30,630*. At this point -- three times the federal poverty level for an individual -- income ceases to matter and someone who makes over $30,630 is essentially left to fend for himself.

To clarify, imagine two fictional individuals, Sue and Joe. We'll give Sue the larger income. She makes $30,631 for the year. Joe makes $30,629. For those who didn't major in math, that's a $2 difference in income. But it puts Sue over the magic $30,630 mark, and Joe under.

Joe qualifies for the program known as Commonwealth Care, which provides him high quality health care options at an affordable price. It's a program for anyone who earns up to three times the federal poverty level, which is our magic number -- $30,630 annually. Joe can pay a premium of ~$130 monthly (~$1,560 a year) for a plan with $5 co-pays when visiting his doctor, $10 co-pays when visiting a specialist, $50 emergency room visits and prescription drug coverage ($5 generic) -- and he won't have to pay more than $250 a year beyond his premium for medical services. The most Joe can possibly pay for standard health care, including his prescription drugs, his medical services, and his insurance premiums, is just over $2000 a year. That's about 6.5% of his income -- tops.

Sue is less fortunate. Because she doesn't qualify for Commonwealth Care, Sue has to find her own insurance. Luckily, the state provides what is known as Commonwealth Choice. Sue can go online and browse discounted plans to keep her healthy.

To her surprise, when Sue arrives at mahealthconnector.org (home of Commonwealth Choice), no one asks about her income. She inputs her family size (1), her zip code and her occupational code. She arrives at a series of plans. The cheapest plan is $167.40** a month ($2008.80 per year). That's already 6.5% of her income. That's already as much as Joe could possible pay all year for all health expenses.

It isn't a very desirable plan, either. It requires that she pay $25 to see her doctor, $100 to go to the emergency room, and it doesn't help her at all with any prescription drugs. It even has a $2,000 deductible that Sue will have to pay before she starts receiving benefits in most situations. And the plan's $5000 out-of-pocket maximum for the year is misleading -- it doesn't include what Sue pays for doctor visits or prescription drugs, as well as certain other services.

That's the cheapest plan available to old two-dollar Sue. It means that if Sue got sick, her state-sponsored insurance plan would still require that she pay $5000 out of pocket, plus $2008.80 in premiums. That's over $7,000 -- a whopping 19% of her annual income -- and it doesn't include prescription drug coverage.

Sue is confused. She only made $2 more than Joe did. And yet, because she has bypassed the $30,630 mark, she is in health care hell. She still can't afford health insurance, but now she is supposed to buy it. She should have bought some cigarettes under the table instead -- and gotten her annual income below the magic number.

But what about the affordability schedule? Remember that? That was the magic chart that tells us what the experts determined we could afford -- the very experts who helped put together this initiative. It can help Sue avoid penalties -- it could be Sue's saving grace. She scrolls back and looks at the chart. How much do the experts tell Sue she can afford per month in health insurance premiums?

Here's the surprising news. According to that chart, the most that a person of Sue's income can afford to pay a month is a $150 premium.

Sue's eyes bug out. What? She's only deemed able to afford $150 a month in premiums?

Then why is the cheapest plan available to her on the same web site $167.40 per month?

She should be baffled, because it's not just her. The Commonwealth Choice plans are rated in four categories: bronze without prescription, bronze, silver and gold. Only 3 of the 14 silver- and gold-rated plans (the plans with reasonable coverage) available from Commonwealth Choice are affordable to someone with an income under $50,000***. How do I come to that conclusion? By using the commonwealth's own affordability schedule. That's right: the commonwealth is offering plans it says itself you can't afford.

The good news for Sue (and others) is lukewarm. Because the commonwealth has determined that she can't reasonably afford Commonwealth Choice, she won't be penalized on her taxes. She's free, instead, to look about on her own for more health insurance she can't afford, or simply to go without. Sue's back where she started.

But Sue and Joe are fictional characters. What about a real life example? Let's use, oh, say . . . me.

Last year, I turned my back on my workplace health insurance. It was available for around $235 a month. At the time, that was 14% of my paycheck at that job. I couldn't afford it, and neither could others with whom I worked. Besides, health care reform was coming, and I just knew something cheaper would be available to me.

This summer, I reluctantly enrolled in one of those Commonwealth Choice plans the state admits I can't afford. I paid $224.26 a month in premiums alone ($2,691.12 a year, or 8% of my total income). I had to pay an additional $25 to see my doctor or $40 to see a specialist. I paid over $100 if I had to go to the emergency room and 30% of any outpatient surgeries. It didn't include prescription drug coverage.

Luckily, my out-of-pocket maximum was $3000 for the year and there was no deductible. Still, if I got sick, I could pay as much as $5,700 this year for health costs. That's 17% of my total income. Like Sue, I'd be out of luck.

In fact, I've already felt the squeeze. This summer, trying to be preventative in my health habits, I had a mole examined and, upon recommendation, removed. It cost me, even with insurance: $25 to see my doctor, $40 to see a specialist (upon my doctor's recommendation), $25 to see a surgeon (upon the specialist's recommendation), and a total of $246.50 to have the surgery. In addition to the $1121.30 I've spent on five months of premiums, my health has cost me $1,457.80 in the last five months. That's 13.5% of my income during that time period -- and I haven't even been sick. For comparison, I also spent 13.5% on food.

The commonwealth affordability chart was right. I can't afford Commonwealth Choice. A year after turning my back on $235 a month for decent health coverage, I'm returning to the fold and enrolling with my workplace. I still can't afford it, but at least for $10 more a month, I get decent coverage.

In a very real sense, I am right back where I was before all of this reform took place.

Maybe I sound familiar: a single individual who makes between $30,630 and $50,000 a year; someone who wants to work and contribute to the culture he lives in; someone who, unable to afford this new initiative, is still without a solution to his health care needs.

Do you want to know if this plan can work for America, or even Massachusetts? Look at the thousands upon thousands of middle-income individuals here trying to do the right thing.

The nation's eyes are on Massachusetts. The nation's eyes are on me. And without a real public option, I will still be on the out.

We will all still be on the out.

*The number is now $32,496.00.

**The cheapest plan is now $220.88 a month, or $2650.56 per year. It is exactly the same as the plan described in the text of the letter (except $600 more expensive), but includes prescription drug coverage -- at 50% cost after a $100 deductible.

***There are now no options for "bronze without prescription." More importantly, only one silver plan, and none of the gold plans, are now affordable as measured by the commonwealth's 2007 affordability schedule.

Life Experience: Epilogue

The New Age

Despite my pre-conceived notions on old people and technology, it turns out everyone at the tournament has a Facebook account. Well, Larry doesn't, but he has a Geocities webpage, so, he's sort of tech-savvy. I'm currently friends with John and Rick. Rick's site has links to pretty much every Tiddlywinks resource you could ever want, and John's a pretty cool cat for a high-schooler. Speaking of links, if you check here you'll find that I'm currently ranked 36^th in the world, due to a halfway decent showing against some of the top guys in the world. I'm also on the Yahoo! Group for updates to the winking world, including scheduling for upcoming events. The guys are trying to organize a national doubles game before year's end. We'll see who I can rope into going.

Matthew Fayers has since returned to his home in London, but we had an opportunity to play a couple friendly games before he went. One of them he beat me 5-2, the other, I got him, 4-3. Maybe it wasn't a tournament, and maybe he wasn't trying his hardest, but it was a great feeling, finally getting the ups on a guy who taught me so much about the game.

It was a fun experience, despite the beat-down I took for most of the games, the wildly uncomfortable water-bed I slept on for two nights, and the headache I had with JetBlue both to and from D.C. I booked the right flight number and schedule according to Matt, but I didn't check the day. I ended up booking the flight for Monday instead of Sunday. So, my options were to stay an extra day in Virginia, or pay a premium to get re-scheduled.

Bless Larry and Cathy's heart, they offered to let me stay there, but, I had no means of traveling, nothing to do during the day, and I was burnt out on the trip in a number of ways. So, I paid upwards of $100 to get my flight home. When I got there, I immediately indulged in three things notably absent from the trip; salt, beer, and the loving embrace of a woman.

Life experiences: day 2

I didn't come to lose

That's my attitude when I go into any game (or any activity, really). I don't necessarily expect to win. In fact, when I woke up that morning, with the one guy near my level and age, Jonathon Lockwood, gone home to focus on his work, and the old salts wearing their lucky shirts from decades gone by, I was mentally bracing myself for a repeat of the tiddly-beatdown I took the prior day. But I never go into a game to lose. Or even to win. I go to play my best. For what it's worth, my best was way better this day. But as those 80's glam rock icons twisted Sister once said, "If that's your best, your best won't do."

My first match was with Dave Lockwood, the gruff father with intensity in his play. His "intensity" today was blunted by some sort of migraine headache. Or aneurysm. Or something. I doubt anxiety towards playing me was the cause. In between his grunts, clenching his temples in one hand, and wearily rising and falling form a cheap metal chair in the room, he still managed to hand me a 6-1 beating in the end. And after I got chocolate and sliced tomatoes and cold water for him! I guess bribes aren't gonna work in this league.

Editorial note: Most head-aches are brought on by stress, dehydration, and malnutrition. Tomatoes are an ideal pick-me-up in many regards, as is chocolate, at least short-term.

 

Under Pressure

During Day 1's action John was hemming and hawing about this shot he had to make. He went back and forth, preparing to make the shot, walking away, breathing, commenting, returning, and repeating. I wondered what his deal was. Then I got slapped across the face with the hideous truth; we take this game far too seriously.

I was one shot away from winning my first game, 4-3, against Rick Tucker. A single squop at about 2-3 inches is all I had to do. It was a shot I had made many times that weekend. The entire room is watching the game, and everyone, including Rick himself, is silently hoping I tag this shot. I'm back and forth, trying to relax. Then I walk up, lean in, and prepare to make the shot like it's any other shot in any other game at any other time.

I flick.

And fall short.

3-4. Loss.

Let me tell you, chucking a squidger across the room isn't as dramatic as you want it to be, but it conveys the right amount of frustration to the people in the room who know what a squidger is. I never got that close to a win again. But to know that I could've won, that was a decent enough feeling. It was said by a few people that I had a much better grasp of the game, its tactics and technique, than anyone else who had played as long as I had.

 

Everything New Is Old Again

After the tournament there was enough time for a quick doubles match before everyone said their good-byes and headed home. The match was a doubles game between Bob, Larry, Dave and Ferd. For those keeping score, that's about 200 years of Tiddlywinks experience. Even cutting out one's formative development years, it comes out to about 120 years of these people playing winks. And while they're playing, someone gets the idea to flick on Larry's old sound system for some mood music. And what do you think of when 'Mood' and 'Music' come together?

The best of The Moody Blues, of course.

Try to put yourself in my shoes for a second while I paint a picture: 4 of the oldest friends playing a game together for so long that to beat it you have to go into such childhood fare as Marbles or Piss Sword Fight (or whatever you guys called it). 200 years worth of old men, huddled around a table, chatting about the olden days of winks, while Knights in White Satin is playing. The whole thing was surreal, sad and glorious at the same time. It was the perfect way to end the tournament.

Of course, JetBlue has a way of fucking up a climactic ending. I'll get to that in the final post.

The happy stories

Recently my roommate posted on my facebook status "Guess what everyone? Josh hates EVERYTHING", in response to a status about how the federal government stopped funding ACORN at the first whiff of controversy, while Blackwater (now Xe) is still being funded after numerous incidents. She was kidding, sort of. There is truth in comedy and this joke had a lot of truth in it. I post a lot of shit on my facebook wall about the terrible state of things. Healthcare, gay rights, torture... I've got statistics and stories on why each of these things is worse now than it was ten years ago, and how its not all due to W.

But heres the thing:

No one wants to hear the good stories. We dont like the bad so much either, but we'll listen a lot longer to the "this the 18 little things that went wrong today" story than we will to my amazing weekend. Everyone wants the intimate details of the dating failures I've had recently, from the hook up with the sword swallower to the girl I flirted with for two hours before she let slip that she had a boyfriend to the friend who is just a friend but whom I slept next to. But no one wants to hear the story of the first time I made love and how it was a wonderful experience. They want awkward. They want uncomfortable.

I'm not sure why this is. Maybe its misplaced humility, as bragging is a terrible social faux pas that is easily avoidable. Maybe its a trust issue, where if someone tells you their true joys you've somehow agreed to undertake making them a happy person. Maybe we're just distant. I'm not sure. But I know the cycle of negativity wears on me. I want to tell the good stories. I want to tell people about things that I love. I want to get over that mild uncomfortable feeling I get when someone tells me a good quality that I have. I want to believe I'm not the only one who feels trapped telling the same horror stories and never really talking about what I love.

Life Experience: Day 1

Scrapper

You know those movies where a plucky young upstart gets beat down by a bunch of veterans, but then goes to train and comes back and shows that with the heart of steel and the courage of a warrior he shows the competition he's a man to be respected? I fulfilled the first part of that trope in spades. I got my ass beat down by the oldest men to play winks. It was like Mr. Myiagi, Pai Mei, Gen Fu, and the old guy from Kung Fu came to Vienna, Virginia to hand me my ass in an ancient game they had been training for their whole lives.

A brief rules primer on scoring: In singles winks, each player uses two colors, on opposite ends of the table. Each uncovered wink on the table is worth one "tiddly." (The term is used to differentiate it from "points," which are different). Each wink in the cup is worth 3 tiddlies. At the end of a game, the color with the highest number of tiddlies gets 4 points. The second highest color gets 2, third gets 1, fourth gets 0. If one of the colors gets all its winks in the pot before game end, they take first place points, AND they take one point from their opponent. These points carry through the tournament, so even a loss can come away with points that matter in the final standings. It also means that you can't take it easy on anyone.

The brackets set the lowest with the highest to start, so the opening games are brutal for me. My new tournament jitters, plus the experience of the room, has me getting trashed back and forth. I keep making bad shots, doing more desperate plays, and getting all my winks covered, or "squopped." It's a vile feeling to have to stand there while your opponent gets to roll the table. Ferdinand referred to me as the "valiant punching bag." I didn't expect to dominate, or even win, but I didn't think I'd get beat down that bad. Or that it would feel so bad. I guess I hate losing, whatever the situation.

A couple noteworthy matches:

I almost beat Matthew Fayers. I had 5 out of 6 winks potted, he covered the other one, then proceeded to show me why he's one of the best. Shot after shot, he clawed his way back, and finished me right at the end. He pots out, I pot my colors, and the game goes 6-1. It was the closest I got that day to a victory.

Jon and I had a really fun match. Where professional players usually end up with a large pile of winks at the cup, ours were everywhere. There was chatting, ribbing, and a general joviality at the table that I simply couldn't have with the other guys. He totaled me, 7-0, but it was a close 7-0. More importantly, it was a FUN 7-0.

For the final match, I was able to scrape out a 2-point game against Rick. I learned a huge amount about the game of Tiddlywinks in that one day. I do have to admit I was glad when it was over for the night. I gained a great deal of respect for the guys who analyzed, practiced, and strove to fully master this game. Sadly, that respect would be blunted a bit by the evening's end.

Wild Man

Anyone who wants wild cards in their poker game is an asshat. There. I said it. It had to be said.

After winks, Larry and his wife Kathy had some guests over, and we all had BLTs for dinner. It's a fine sandwich; I'd eat it any time of day. Afterward, some of the group went to a dancing thing in town, while Dave, his son, Bob, Ferd, and I stayed behind to play some cards. We started with poker. This was an adventure, since Larry has no poker chips; he did, once, but he filed them all down to make squidgers for Tiddlywinks. Priorities, I guess. We end up using glass beads.

The people at the table are smart folks. They're all better than me at Tiddlywinks. So why is it, when I try to explain Texas Hold-em, everyone becomes a shit-flinging retard!? The one guy who gets it is 17, and the 60 year olds are not grasping the concept of betting rounds. It wasn't helping that everyone who had a thought was trying to express it while I'm explaining the rules. It's a bittersweet comfort to see that, no matter how old or young the group is, they'll still make it difficult to explain a game. Kids, remember; ONE person explains a game at a time.

After a couple rounds, we do dealer's choice. When it gets to Ferd, he starts saying "5-card draw, and…"

I interrupt him with, "Ferd, if you put wilds in the game, I'm getting up from the table."

He replies, "There WILL be wilds, and you CAN get up." Yes, I handled that poorly. And yes, I think wilds are the shittiest thing in poker. It's exactly like Free Parking Money in Monopoly; the game devolves into simple chance. You get a wild card, bet, if not, fold. It puts a probabilistic spin on the game that takes out all the interest. When I tried to explain that to a group of smart MIT alums I am met with, "No, it's fairer to say you just don't like it." I don't like it because it sucks! And there's cash on the line. Not a lot, just a few bucks, but if I'm putting money on a game that susceptible to chance, I'll play slots, or Roulette, or blackjack. Poker is a game of skill. Drinking games require more skill than wild-card poker.

We play one more round of poker, because nobody's really that into it. In the end, Ferd suggests some 7 card variant where you bet, pass 3 cards left, bet, pass two, bet, and pass one. I fold in the first round of betting. I'll save poker for a different group.

We then play a game called "Oh Hell!" I won't go into the rules here, but as they're teaching me the game I realize it's exactly like a game I've played called Wizard, only less interesting. I dominate. It felt good to win something that night. After that we headed to bed. Bob and Ferd took a late night walk, which was kind of adorable, two old friends sharing a moment in the moon light. After getting some questionable rest on an under-filled water bed, we woke and plunged into the second half of the tournament. I'll post next week with day 2 results, and a recounting of one of the most surreal scenes I have ever witnessed this side of reality.

Life Experience: The Men of Winks

I promised a recounting of the games, but before we get into that I wanted to introduce the men who play the game of Tiddlywinks ((the women were notably absent from the event).

Larry Kahn: Winker 1

From www.tiddlywinks.org:

Larry "Horsemeat" Kahn has been one of the most competitive winkers since he stumbled onto winks at MIT in the Fall of 1971 at Baker House. He holds, by far, the most number of world titles (singles, pairs, and teams), though does not exhibit the intensity sometimes found in others.

The tournament is being held at this guy's house, and most of us are crashing there. Let me tell you a bit about the Larry Kahn, the man, the myth, the winks machine.

First off, he looks EXACTLY like you'd expect a 'Larry' to look. Remember Perfect Strangers? He looks just like 'Cousin Larry,' with one notable difference; he has ptosis, an eyelid condition where his eyes only open as far as slits. So he can't open his eyes too wide, and he can't wink. There's a joke in there, but I'm not going to tell it, because I'm trying to be fucking classy.

When you're number 1 at something, your life sort of revolves around it. Here's what I mean:

I was turned on to the game and tournament by British MIT alum Matthew Fayers. He, his wife Jenny, and I are waiting for Larry to pick us up. When he does, I notice his license plate says Winker 1. Larry's e-mail address is madsquopper*@ (address omitted). His mantle is covered with dusty trophies of all the tournaments he's won, the Sports Illustrated article about him and winking, and he always wears his pink flamingos shirt he's had for years to matches. *author's note: To "squop" means to cover a wink with another wink, so it cannot be played or scored.

One thing I found very cool about Larry; in his basement he has a box of "things he used to throw." In it is his collection of boomerangs, a set of ultimate Frisbee discs (he's played for years), and the oldest set of Disc Golf Discs that may ever exist! They're just regular Frisbee brand discs, different sizes, with numbers so you know whose disc belongs to whom, like tennis balls. Larry played "frolf" before the sport really existed. If you know me, you know how cool I thought that was.

The Old Salts (editorial note: There was no salt in this house. None. Who the hell doesn't have salt?)

Matthew Fayers: The man who introduced me to the sport. He's in his mid-30s, holds a PhD in Mathematics from MIT, and is quintessentially British. Where another man would provide an outburst of emotion, Matt gives a small sigh and says something to the effect of, "Ah, well, could've been a better one, I'm afraid." He is currently ranked 5^th in the world.

Ferdinand "Ferd" Wulkan: At 62 years old, Ferd was one of the 3 aforementioned wise men I met on "Day 0." He's well-traveled, soft-spoken, and ranked 12^th in the world. Gray hair, tan skin, he kind of looked like a cross between Orville Redenbacher and an old warlord, which may be where his nickname "Ferdinand the Bold" came from.

Bob Henninnge: Wise man number 2. Also 62, he was Ferd's roommate when they went to MIT. They were, I believe, the founders of the MIT Tiddlywinks club. These guys are the oldest of friends, and it was delightful to see something like that endure all these years. Bob's current rank is 9^th. He's got a short face and one of those long beards that sticks out in front of him.

Sunshine: Born David Shenison, Sunshine (or Sunsch, as he came to be called) no longer plays competitive winks (too hard-hitting, I guess), but still finds time to visit the gang. The 3^rd wise man, Sunshine and Bob co-wrote one of winks "controversial" "new" "rules," the perimeter rule. (If you really want to know, e-mail me, I'll explain it). Sunshine has been known to play ambidextrously, and on rare occasions, with his feet. He published a book detailing all the crazy variations made for Tiddlywinks over the years, which reminds me of my game-designing friends. He's a great guy, a dyed-in-the-wool hippie, and while he longer holds a world rank, he's made his mark on the winking world.

Dave "The Dragon" Lockwood: At 50+ years old, Dave is to Larry like Mike Tyson is to Lennox Lewis. Larry is a tactician of the game, calm, almost aloof in his play. Dave, on the other hand, is an aggressive player, known to make strong, difficult shots, launch winks far and wide, and plays to win every time. My second match with him, he had a pounding headache and couldn't stand for much of it, and he still trounced me. Currently ranked 6^th, and taking second place in the tournament, he's one of the 8 Americans who traveled to England in 1972 to play against the best winkers in the land where Tiddlywinks was invented. Since then, he's been back over 100 times. He has five children, and they all play the game, including:

Jon Lockwood: 17 years old, Jon was the closest person to my age, save Matthew, and definitely the closest spiritually, as I have always behaved younger than I really am (some call me immature, I like to think I'm just "chronologically displaced"). Jon was fun, if a bit rambunctious; his father was on hand constantly to tell him to quit screwing around. It was eerily familiar. As far as winking goes, he's a good player, currently ranked 26^th; definitely better than me, but still years away from the rest of the folks at the game. Every sport has its brash young upstarts. Personally I think he'd make a better poker player, but apparently he needs to focus on his studies more.

Rick Tucker: I didn't get much of a chance to talk with Rick, which is a shame, because he was probably the coolest guy at the event. In addition to winking, he's a puzzle aficionado, a world-traveler, and a pretty good photographer. He has a heavy online presence, you'll find him if you Google him. He maintains the North American Tiddlywinks Association website, http://www.tiddlywinks.org/, where you can get information on the game, events, and bios of the people mentioned above. I do not yet have a bio there. Rick is ranked 14^th. Later on I'll tell you how I almost beat him in a match.

All these guys are MIT alums (Little John aside), most of them played together at MIT, they are the backbone of North American Tiddlywinks. They're well-traveled, well-spoken, intelligent individuals with a penchant for gaming. They remind me of my group of friends at MIT. Sadly, they represent a dying breed. The sport of winks is waning rapidly in popularity and, except for the efforts of The Lockwood Foundation, no new blood is being introduced to the sport. It was kind of bittersweet, playing a tournament with these guys, like taking part in a slice of history. And while I enjoyed my time at the tournament, I found myself wondering if this would be a mirror of my potential future? But that is a musing for another post.

Life Experiences: Prelude

I'm finally getting around to documenting my sojourn into the world of competitive Tiddlywinks. There were many noteworthy events, which would make for a tedious single read, so I'll be posting in chapters. This is, as the title suggests, the introduction into what was a delightful if not surreal experience.

Executive Movement

This part isn't about Tiddlywinks, but I feel it bares mention.

I get to the airport on time, board the plane, and settle in, when the pilot clicks on the intercom with this little tidbit:

"Uhhhhhhh, (all pilots do that when they're about to say something) this is your captain speaking, we'll be headed out in, uhhhhhhhhh, about 12 minutes." Like hoe knows exactly when we're going, down to the minute. "We'll be delayed a bit, by… well, the tower's calling it 'Executive movement.' I'm not really sure what that is…"

I'm not really sure what that is. I know pilots aren't all geniuses, but when you're about to tackle the wild blue yonder in a big metal tube, you never want to hear the guy at the front of it say those words.

We end up getting delayed for a solid hour. The pilot gives two reasons:

1) The aforementioned "Executive Movement." Ted Kennedy died (for more information, read some other blog), and some of the President's political entourage was mucking up the airways going to or from the funeral service.

2) The tower gave the plane the wrong flight time, stating something about "Greenwich Standard Time" and being an hour off.

Not only is #2 an awful thing to happen to a company as dependent on time as a freaking airport, the two excuses don't mesh. It's like they lied for no reason. If JetBlue didn't provide TV and snacks I'd feel even more ripped off than I already did.

Expectations

We waited to be picked up at the airport by Larry Kahn, who I will discuss in detail in my next entry. When he pulls up, I immediately note his license plate: Winker 1. A few notions pop into my head; is he the number one winker? Is he just a winker, but "Winker" was already taken? Or maybe he has multiple cars? In the end I decided it was the first, but also that it was a D.C. thing, because on the way to his house I saw a car with the plate "Dingo 1." Or maybe that guy was the number one baby eater. We didn't get a chance to ask him.

When I first agreed to come to the tournament, I admit I had a few expectations. They were all wrong. One, that there would be multiple people. Nope. Eight. Eight people. I figured it would be held in a rented hall in a hotel, or some large venue. Nope. The National Singles Tiddlywinks tournament took place in the illustrious Larry's Rec Room. And I expected there to be a couple players close to my age. Well, a few had already showed up that night, as they were also staying at Larry's, so I went down to the rec room to see who showed up early.

It was like Bethlehem, complete with three wise men and a cheap palette not unlike the one Jesus may have slept in. I was greeted by the oldest men I have ever seen playing a game of anything, let alone a game formerly thought to be played by kindergartners. Their names were Ferdinand (Ferd), Bob, and Sunshine, whose real name I forgot. They too will get their own chapter.

I also believed I would not be the worse player at the tournament. I'll recount the Day 1 action tomorrow, and let you know how I fared on that one.

Life Experience: A Primer

Sometimes I feel like I haven't lived as much life as I should have at my age. Maybe I haven't traveled to as many places as I should like, seen enough sights, loved enough women, eaten enough exotic food, or made as indelible a mark on the world as a person blessed with as much talent and opportunity as I have could make. My Facebook page is comparatively devoid of the tell-tale signs of a happening mid-20's male with an active social life. At those times, I take a breath, step outside myself, and realize that I have always been a person captivated by many little things. A guy who sweats the small stuff, as comedian Kevin James says.

As such, I take immense pleasure in the fact that, in one week, I will be traveling to Washington, D.C. to take part in something very few people know about, participate in or, frankly, care for; The National Singles Tiddlywinks Tournament. Let me put that in a separate sentence fragment to highlight it:

The National Singles Tiddlywinks Tournament

I don't have a lot of insight into political affairs, I'm not movie-savvy, and Lord knows I couldn't carry on a sports conversation for longer than four minutes (unless we're talking about the intense epoch that is singles tennis. I'm STILL upset about this year's Wimbledon men's singles final), but I'd like to think I take part in a few noteworthy events here and there. And who among you can say they went to Nationals in Tiddlywinks? Probably very few of you; as of today, only 8 people are signed up. I hear it's a very intimate group.

The matches are set for Saturday the 29th and Sunday the 30th. I'll give my synopsis of the weekend when I get back. I don't have a twitter account, but if there's enough interest (pfft, HAHAHA) I'll get one and find a way to give live updates.

In the meantime, here's a link to get you started:

http://www.etwa.org

Take it easy.

An Open Letter of Apology to My Castmates

Dear Castmates,

In this evening's show, I didn't sing my verse to "Mournin' o' the Green" at the correct tempo.

I forgot to sing "Unless you're Bernie Madoff, it's time to get laid." Again.

My "Meow" in "9 Conversations With My Cat" was more "disinterested" and less "just animal," which is what I was going for.

I forgot at first to play "strange guy" in "So, I Haven't Been Single For a While." I only remembered after Lynne and Josh helped me out. Josh wasn't even in the show.

I didn't come out afterward.

I pulled my hammy. Or, rather, my groiny.

I didn't stop mid-show and pray to the east. West?

Sometime during the show, I forgot which cardinal directions Muslims face when praying.

No one was there specifically to see me. 10 people were there to see Rachel. Even Steve. The rest of our audience -- they can bite me (Come on, they'll never read this.).

And if anyone from the audience tonight reads this . . .

Bite me.

PS I am not drunk.

PPS Please don't really bite me.

There is a Chinese Man in My Family

This weekend, I came home to be with family during my grandmother's funeral. During this time, there were several family-only events. At these events was a conspicuous tall Chinese-American man. It makes me think of several movies.

One, I Heart Huckabees. Maybe this man was a sign. My coincidence. But generally, I think of that movie after rewatching it recently (thank you, Justus) as philosophical drivel. I still appreciate it's ambition.

Two, Big Fish. This one is more relevant.

Meeting and greeting before the funeral was like the ending of Big Fish, when all of the father's fantasy (or not-so-fantasy) characters come to his funeral, and the stuff of legend and story becomes real. Not to mention the strong Southern bent on that movie . . . it's rooted in truth, that's for sure.

The point is that I found myself yesterday afternoon getting served by four older women that couldn't read this blog if they tried. Four women who live at the crossroads known as Chesterfield, SC at the Pine Grove Baptist Church, which boasts a sign boasting in turn "You think it's hot here?" But despite the God-fearing exterior, these four kind women had laid out a generous spread of fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, various vegetables, and most importantly banana pudding with chocolate chip cookies to ease the pain of burying a loved one.

These women were real. They had lived the stories I share about my grandparents. They saw World War II and the Kennedy Assassination. They've voted, time and time again. They watched the Civil Rights movement. All from their little crossroads that we in New England almost never think about.

And then we ventured upstairs and streams of octogenarians rolled in politely, their suits stiff and dresses flowered, their bright white hair an immaculately styled mess (especially the women). I met two brothers who looked so much alike that I thought: first that they were one man with Alzheimers, coming back through the greeting line to introduce himself again; then I thought he had split personalities; then I settled on their being twins; finally, like in Big Fish with the twin Chinese dancers, I saw them sitting in the same row -- nearly identical but not in the same body, one lsightly older than the other. I watched my mother laugh from her gut as she recollected memories of childhood with her next-door neighbor, whom she hadn't seen for 7 years and hadn't played with since she was 15. They talked about tossing homemade toothpick rafts into the ocean. I heard a woman cry over what my grandparents meant to her; another woman shared with my parents how much my grandfather's marital advice had meant to her and her husband of 31 years. I watched another husband place his hand gently on the back of his aging wife and rub in circles, the way I imagine I would like to do with my wife when we're no longer attractive to the outside world but always beautiful to each other, the way I hope love can and always will be.

In short, I watched stories turn into people and people turn back into stories after the ceremony ended and everyone turned on their headlights and processed to the graveyard, only to disappear back into their separate worlds. I reconnected with cousins living only hours away from my overcomplicated schedule. I sat on porches and held cats who trusted me with their fragile frames.

For a weekend, I watched theory and philosophy and theology spill out from intellectual minds who held onto those ideas more or less on faith and become verifiably real on the church floor. I was reminded that goodness and memory are ethereal only for so long, and that they do have roots in a concrete reality, that there are real people with real lives who savor and cherish what to many of us are only in our heads and hearts.

In the end, it all comes down to my grandfather's vaguely-religious and moreso philosophical words, repeated by his son who shares his name but who spoke on behalf of all of us:

"The best sermons are lived, not preached."

And at the end of it all, while we were still standing within sight of the gravesite that holds them both, I watched a disinterested grave crew close and lower a coffin that was as hollow to them as a recycling bin, working with the speed and precision of a pit crew so they could get home to dinner and their wives.

Lies my Government Told Me: "The Worst of the Worst"

Read an extremely interesting article today telling the story of Haji Sahib Rohullah Wakil. Wakil was detained in Guantanamo Bay for five years and released in October 2007. Back in May when Obama was talking about shutting down the prison and moving the prisoners to supermax prisons, Obama and Dick Cheney gave dueling speeches about what to do with these people. The Worst of the Worst. A highlight was this article from the New York Times, relaying a report that 1 in 7 of the people that had been released from Gitmo had returned to terrorism. Not only was this found to be patently false (good job factchecking and not just listening to an anonymous source there NYT!) by including people that were dead or still in prison, but the list included and still does include people like Wakil.

So who is this guy?

At the time he was picked up, he was a strong candidate for governor of his home province. And when he was initially picked up was going to a US army base in Afghanistan on his own volition to talk to US armed forces about coordinating better with local government so as to not raise tensions.

Oops.

Wakil was never given a trial of any sort, and despite the support of Afghan president Hamid Karzai, is still on the Pentagon's list of those who have returned to terrorism. But considering the people I've heard about getting out of Gitmo, from Wakil to the group of Uighers we just spent millions of dollars to ship out to a remote Pacific island I'm not buying this Worst of the Worst stuff.

Sniffles

The human body is a terrifying mystery. I write this knowing that currently, my body is failing. There are systems that can not or will operate at full power, and as a result, those individual systems are preventing me from ingesting food or resting the system as a whole, which causes more systems to fail, and the cycle gets infinitely worse.

To put it more simply: I have a cold. Waaah.

The processes continuing in my body to fight off said cold, these things are positively frightening. There are hundreds, thousands, millions of little wars going on in my body right now, and my only awareness of them comes from the hacking cough and dark mucus that results from these skirmishes. Oh, and the insomnia (check the post time, I've been out of bed at least two hours...). The striking thing is that I realize that I have little to no actual control over the processes in my own body. I know I wouldn't want to, because I'm the type of person to forget to keep his heart beating. I can remember when I was young and falling asleep, and then being worried that I might forget to breathe while dozing, and then keeping myself awake concentrating on taking every breath. What if I didn't? Could this be my last night on Earth? I don't know how I ever got any sleep as a child (because those thoughts aren't particularly comforting ones, and you can see how well they're rocking me to rest now).
(Another mildly terrifying story in a similar vein is when I was fighting one of my multiple bouts with pneumonia. It had not yet been diagnosed, but it was clear I was sick to anyone who could see, and my breathing was labored to the point of being very painful. I was going to sleep, and decided that it was possible I could stop breathing over the night, and that this was an acceptable, though not preferable, alternative to what I was going through.)

So let me get to my point before I shut down/start rambling (more) incoherently/vomit is this: do I really care to be in control of myself? Could I do a better job than, well, me?

Oh, and colds? Waaaaahhhh.

On My Mind: Sick Days

I had to take a sick day this week. I hate taking sick days. I hate being sick. I hate the experience of calling (or sending an e-mail) and how carefully you have to compose it. How much detail is too much? How much is just enough to let them know that you a really are sick and you're not just staying home for the daytime TV?

Of course, no one would stay at home for the daytime TV. It's all fake small-claims courts and shows about birthing gone wrong. Programmers know their audience.

The worst of it, though, is waking up at 3:30 and realizing you've been asleep for five hours and you're still bored, and now you'll be awake - and bored - all night.

Adulthood

It occurred to me yesterday -- like, really occurred to me -- that if I'm going to accomplish things by the time I turn dead (which is an age, by the way), I'm going to have to make a lot of decisions before I'm actually ready to make them. I'm generally a pretty prudent person and I think things through before I act on them. But sometimes that makes life move at a snail's pace and routines take over, prudent and otherwise. I feel like a teenage girl writing this down, especially on the web, but . . . maybe I'm just not ready to decide whether or not I should write this on the web. I'll go think about it for a little while.

Here's another decision I'm not ready to make -- how do I turn that into a piece people will actually want to watch?

It occurs to me that people make decisions all the time they aren't ready to make, I suspect. Maybe they are. I should put it this way -- I feel pressured with some regularity to make decisions I think I'm still too young to make. But more generally: I think it must be tough for a woman to have to decide about having kids by the age of 35 or so, which is where, from what I've learned, it becomes more likely that your kids will have life-threatening types of birth defects.

We have to decide about college at an age when we have no idea what we want. I know for me, I got good grades because I knew it was the thing I was supposed to do and it would get me to the next step in life, which was obviously college. Only as an adult did it become apparent to me how many other routes I could have taken. Students in Germany are making career decisions at 16, when you have to start taking the Abitur (I think I spelled it right) . . . for which you have to start making decisions about a career path. They're required (or were, this may have changed) to enter the military at adulthood or do 1 or 2 years of community service.

I can't even decide whether to take a shower or eat breakfast first. But I'm supposed to make life-changing, irreversible decisions?

(I should add here that one decision I have made is to sell my gas car. Hit me up if you read this and have $3,000 worth of numbers in your bank account and want to trade it for an actual, material object that goes vroom vroom. It just passed inspection. Yes, I put an ad for my car in the MOSAIC blog.)

Which reminds me that we're all just walking billboards in our own way, but that's another blog entry. Right now I have to go do something. I haven't decided what yet.

Probably I'm going to put my car on craigslist before I decide not to sell it.

What's YOUR Guilty Pleasure?

I consider myself to be a fairly intellectual, creative person, as do probably most of the residents of the Boston area. However, every once in a while even I fall victim to some trapping of the pop culture machine, be it America's Next Top Model or pretty much anything by Justin Timberlake. What are your guilty, mainstream, inane, or just plain silly pleasures?

What is This Blog?

MOSAIC is a live piece of theater that runs weekly, so what is a MOSAIC Blog?

A place for what is on our minds.

While we like to keep things fresh, not every week can we get everything in our heads into a workable piece. Some things aren't really show material. Others come and go too quickly. This blog is to let you know whats going on in our heads, whether it be reactions to important policy decisions being made or who got voted off our favorite reality TV show this week.

This blog might end up as a preview to our show or a sidebar for those who have seen it, but we encourage your participation, our audience is essential in us finding our voice.

What is MOSAIC?

"Material that embodies the fast-paced laughs of 'Saturday Night Live' and the satirical zing of 'The Daily Show.'"
(The Boston Globe, 2004)

Between sketch comedy and performance art, improv and stand-up acts, musical theater and abstract "theatre" lies MOSAIC: our unconventional take on 18 different social, personal and political happenings of today. Be it song, sketch, parody, puppet show, guessing game: every week, we find freshly creative ways to redefine comedy and shed light on our lives and yours.

WARNING: MOSAIC may contain adult themes and material. It is not suitable for children.

"A frenetic medley of political commentary, social satire, and personal memoir."

(The Boston Globe, 2006)

MOSAIC has run in various incarnations since 2003 and received multiple standing ovations for the material's wit, originality and impact on the audience. The show takes place in front of a metal frame on which 18 tiles are positioned -- each tile representing an original performance piece about a current social, political, or sometimes deeply personal issue.

MOSAIC has been invited to perform at: The Factory Theater, Boston Playwright's Theater, the Lowell Comedy Festival, the Cambridge River Festival, the ImprovBoston HUMP night and Sergeant Culpepper's Jamboree, the Boston University Liquid Fun Comedy Marathon, and since March 2008: every Saturday night in ImprovBoston's cabaret theater.

"Bunches of fun."

(Stuff @ Night, 2006)

Check us out at 18tiles.com