Grrr. Ack. Bleah. Argh.

Nothing quite like running face-first into post-vacation awfulness on the first day.

First, in the department of huge business-related drama that is bleeding over into everything else, I direct you to my latest Adamant blog update.

Second, tells me that she’s discovered that the evening she’s set as my birthday party is apparently also going to be the evening of the Charlesworth post-Heartland de-frag party. Lovely. So, of course, the choices there are: 1) have it anyway, and deal with the fact that some folks just won’t be showing up; 2) combine it and have it at Charlesworths, which means that there will be some folks there that I’m not particularly close to, thereby diluting the birthday factor; or 3) just cancel the damned thing. Yeah — not so much liking the birthday-as-source-of-stress thing.

Third — while I was at Heartland, I was notified that the powers-that-be at KCRF want me to come aboard as the Lord Mayor. As a person who remembers Tommy Atkins in this role, and how much he helped shape the day for his fellow performers, this is a HUGE temptation for me. Unfortunately, on the other side of that is working for folks who scuttled my stage show, and all of the usual bullshit that would inevitably result…plus my own physical limitations. To say that I’m conflicted about this would be a massive understatement.

Thankfully, I have been given a mantra which allows me to vent the frustrations of the above-listed issues: “Fuck a bunch of that.”

Doesn’t solve anything, of course. But still.

13 Replies to “Grrr. Ack. Bleah. Argh.”

  1. You left out 4) Postpone!

    I want dancing to a Gareth-inspired dance mix at a Gareth-inspired birthday party.

    It doesn’t have to be stressful, just put it back one weekend.

  2. Wow…

    their shortsightedness (naw, we don’t need a coold stage act. Ooops, we need a Lord Mayor, though) never ceases to amaze me. Good luck w/ that decision.

  3. You will be celebrated and honored no matter when you choose to throw the party…

    KCRF-wow, that’s tough. An excellent Lord Mayor is such a boon to us patron types. I always loved those interactions :)

  4. Hey, if you’re moving it anyway, I suggest mid- to late-October.
    What? :)
    Seriously, though, I agree with Option 4. Move it to another date when it can really be your party with your friends.

  5. Sorry the party date is a problem, but everyone is right, you can postpone it and get two parties. Even if you don’t know everyone at the other, you can still have a great time and then have your own hootenanny later. :)

  6. First, in the department of huge business-related drama that is bleeding over into everything else, I direct you to my latest Adamant blog update.

    Dude, that sucks ass. I assume it was the usual suspect who did this?

  7. Had I seen this post at the point you made it ‘s suggestion would have been my own. You’ve got a number of weeks of child-free freedom coming up…why the hell shouldn’t you party every weekend if that’s the way it plays.

    You can make the choice to celebrate at any moment…if the day itself isn’t convenient or the nearest possible just isn’t so possible.

    In other words, have your cake and eat it too.

    D.

  8. It was suggested to me, when I had the possibility of a performance dilemma presented to me, that the base of the choice would be whether or not the positives you would get out of making the choice to play a particular role would outweigh the invariable depth of bullshit that would be unavoidable in the experience.

    Gareth, you would be a fabulous Lord Mayor. It would be an abosolute pleasure to have you in that role, for what it would mean for other performers, including myself and my women. If taking that role means you lose a piece of your soul, or a portion of your health (particularly if the damage might be permanent), it is not worth what it will do to you. I would rather see you both survive and enjoy the run, than end up with one more reason to be bitter about Jim S. and his traveling road show. He’s left enough marks…

    Remember, at the very least, the mantra is “Pay Me, Biatch”.

    D.

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