Sometimes

I wish the MTV show Jersey Shore had its own channel where it just played all day.

Everytime you close your eyes (lies! lies!)

The other night I was watching an episode of House where Dave Matthews plays an idiot savant who is amazing at the piano. At one point during the diagnosis, House starts playing I Don't Like Mondays by the Boomtown Kats. I watched his hands with my keyboard in front of me and figured out the intro, and I feel like the rest of the song is pretty easy from there. It's been a long time since I was that proud of myself. Music is one of the very few things that makes perfect sense in my mind. I'm lost without it, and I'm incredibly grateful for the ability to play instruments well.

I've been thinking about depression and pain and problems a lot lately. (For those of you just joining us, I've dealt with depression quite a bit for the last who knows how long, and there are times that it's been pretty scary.) This year's been strange in that I've finally found effective ways to deal with all of these things. I don't know if it'll stick cause I've been wrong before, but I feel pretty good about it. I'm thinking it has to do with me making an active decision not to let my fears get the better of me, like they have in the past. Seems like up until a few months ago, all of my decisions were based on that. I think I've got it down to half now, and it's only a matter of time that I get it down to zero. Some people would argue that a little fear is healthy, but I'm sick of it. I'm sick of it controlling every aspect of my life. It's about time I started taking risks.

This is why I'm moving to Chicago. Partly to prove to myself that I can support myself in a big city, and partly because this is one of the very few ways that I'm ever going to get anywhere in my desired career. And I will be going places. By 2014 I will be on your TV, at the very least.

2009 was the year I finally woke up, and 2010 is going to be the year I rise from the ashes like a Phoenix.

Open Mic Night

Tonight, for the first time in five years, I was involved with the performance of Live Music! on a stage in front of people I have never met before. The experience, as it was in the past, was immediately exhilarating and addicting and I can't wait to do it again.

Tonight, Luke, Kirk and myself performed under the name Ultimate Party Champions! at Muse Music on University Avenue. Luke and I played the guitar and Kirk brought us home on the bongos. We played a cover of "I Started a Joke" by The Bee Gees and an original song I'm not sure the name of that Luke wrote. That was easily the high point of the night, at least for us.

One of the other performers was a four year old boy named Evan, who rocked the toy piano and sang "I Love Jesus," "ABCs" and "Jingle Bells." He also danced on stage while we played and hung out with us on the couch afterwards. Coolest kid ever. He loved our bongos.

Overall, a good time was had by all and I look forward to doing this again in the near future. Next time though, we're doing all original music.

((fiction.))

I'm trudging through roughly six inches of snow now, and it's night time and I'm tired. The backpack has worn through both of my shoulders. Not sure why I'm still carrying it. My right leg is officially useless, and my left is more than tested as it more or less works alone to pull my body. It's been three days of walking, and I can't stop, not now.

Stopping equals collapsing equals sleeping equals freezing equals death. And death seems like an anti-climactic ending for this story.

I try distracting myself. I replay the situation in my head, trying to work it into some sort of story to tell my eventual children. Hey kids, did I ever tell you about the time I trudged for four days through the Alaskan wilderness with no sleep and a bullet in my right leg? That's why I don't walk anymore.

No. That's terrible. Football injury. I'm not telling mine or anyone else's kids about this, not any of it. Probably no one else. Maybe the doctor, if... no when he tries to save my leg.

I really need to think about something else.

Maybe I can work at the bar again when I get home. I liked the bar. I did great things there, and people liked me. They told me. Jeff, I like you. You've got a good face. I do have a good face. In another life, I think this face could make me a lot of money. Maybe I should grow a mustache when I get home. It's coming in pretty strong now. The rest of the beard, not so much.

I think I'm walking in circles.

Maybe I'll never get home. Maybe I'll die right here and no one will ever find me. I guess that would be okay. Probably I'd deserve it. Maybe one day a million years from now they'd find me frozen here with this bullet in my leg. The contents of this backpack would be studied for years. The scientists will probably ascribe some strange meaning to all the items, but they'd of course be wrong. I'm the only person still alive that could possibly make sense out of all of this.

I wonder what scientists would call me? I remember reading a National Geographic as a child where scientists found an Ice man from prehistoric days. Like a caveman or something. Oh, what did they call him? Adam? They'll probably call me Adam, like the Bible. I wonder if they'll have the Bible? What if they base all of their knowledge of past civilizations on what they find on me? What if everything they think is wrong? Oh no. What if everything we think is wrong?

I'm now walking into a town, but I can feel someone at my back. I've got to go somewhere; got to hide. Got to focus. Maybe in this gas station. I'm going to hide back here and maybe the feeling is going to pass. I'm looking at the magazine selection, trying to look inconspicuous, but it's not working out too well. Buildings are out.

I am just going to run until something stops me.

I am still running. Forever has passed and still, the running. The burning is gone and now I feel nothing. Just pushing forward. But still it follows me. I can't escape. I am running through a forest now and there is no snow, and I am running faster than ever. Almost I am flying but still it is at my back whatever it is and I am scared oh no what is going to happen?

I am not regular cold anymore, not physically. My soul is cold and I am runningflying and still looking for an escape. I see a large tree up ahead and I decide that I am going to hide there. I approach and behind the tree there is

What the cool kids are listening to this season:

Here Comes A Regular- The Replacements
((Nice Dream))- Radiohead
Lover's Day- TV on the Radio
Throw Away Your Television- Red Hot Chili Peppers
Romeo Had Juliette- Lou Reed
True Love Waits- Radiohead
From a Motel 6- Yo La Tengo
My Drug Buddy (Live Acoustic)- Ben Kweller
Tonight- Lykke Li
Some Things Last A Long Time- Daniel Johnston
...She Smiled Sweetly- The Rolling Stones
Living Life- Eels
The World Is Yours- Nas
Crystal Ship- The Doors
Boxing (A Cappella)- Ben Folds
The Man Comes Around- Johnny Cash

Coppers and Roustabouts.

Blake and I have decided to resurrect Nixon Vs. Dracula. Most of you don't know about Nixon Vs. Dracula, I think. And that's why I'm gonna explain it to you right now. Nixon Vs. Dracula is an aborted film project we started with our friend Kyle about a year and a half ago. The plot is pretty much explained by the title.

The reason for its resurrection is honestly, we feel we can do it better. Also, we feel like it needs a pretty solid rewrite. And more over-the-top action scenes. (One of my personal goals for this project is to spend more than half our budget on fake blood.) Our friend Kyle isn't coming along for the ride this time because he is in Mother Russia, which means we'd be out a Richard Nixon. Luckily, I'm slightly more Nixon-shaped, so now we're just out a Dracula. And pretty much most of the rest of the cast (we have a Checkers and a Narrator though!)

What I'm getting at is we need a cast. If you'd be interested at all, go ahead and let me know. Or let Blake know. It's gonna be legen--- wait for it--- dary!

(sorry about that. I'm currently watching an episode of How I Met Your Mother and couldn't help myself.)

It's been a while and I feel bad...

But I've been neglecting you because I've been writing jokes! So I can perform them in front of people! I'd put some here for you all to get a little taste, but they all need work. So maybe some day soon.

I am also wearing sweaters now.

Famous Blue Raincoat

Sometimes, Leonard Cohen is the perfect way to send the night off.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Thanks, Leonard Cohen.

Once Were Warriors

One part of my life that I've never really shared with a whole lot of people is the fact that I used to fight crime. It's true. Every night, beginning when I was four, and ending abruptly when I was eight, I used to put on a black jumper over my clothes, along with blue wristbands and a black and green checkered cape. The Green Monster, they used to call me, after the very high left field wall at Fenway Park. Also, I was extremely brutal in the way that I dispatched my enemies.

Back then, we lived in Provo, Utah. Usually about once a week in The Daily Herald, you would maybe find an article about some poor sap who had been drawn and quartered after attempting to mug someone. Or maybe it would be an article about the upper half of a man pulling itself around in an attempt to find the lower half after a botched jewelry store robbery. Either way, that was me.

But this isn't really a story about that. Sure, there are some really great stories from my nights on the prowl. Some will even test your gag reflex beyond anything you've ever experienced. Tonight, however, my story is about acceptance. It's about coming to terms with who I was. Facing down my demons. See, the life of a crimefighter isn't really all that glorious. It's not all parades and high-fives and little kids looking up to you and ladies and what-not. In reality, it's really very lonely.

That's why I turned to the bottle.

I wasn't alone here. Perhaps you've heard of my colleagues The Little Rascalz, who also fought crime well before their tweens in the same area. Perhaps you've even read Sean "Red Typhoon" Banks' (an alias, by the way) memoir "The Infant Infantry," and already are attempting to write me off as a liar, but it's true. He still is unwilling to accept what we were.

I am, however, willing to accept myself for who I was, warts and all.

The truth of the matter is, yes, we'd find these hoodlums out on the mean streets of Provo, and yes, we'd give them what they more or less deserved, but we weren't only killing them. We were killing our own souls. Night after night, it became harder for us to sleep. Night after night, our horrific exploits played through our heads on repeat. Oh, if you parents had only known what your children were up to. In our first and second grade classes, it became nearly impossible to concentrate. Those pictures that we drew, the terrible crayon scribbles of people being boiled alive or whatever, that was us trying to cope with what we had done. And once the pictures stopped working, all we had was booze.

I'm not trying to justify my early alcoholism. Nor am I trying to apologize. I was what I was. But that's what was there for us. Night after night, skirmish after skirmish, we'd settle down with one to ten beers. Sure, it affected us each differently. I was very giggly, almost touchy-feely. Others of us were abusive, and it wasn't odd for us to fight each other in this state. I still have scars on my back and legs from such fights. And if the images had affected our schoolwork, the long nights spent drinking were only worse.

Some of us sought help in different forms, whether it was the Elementary Guidance Counselor, an outside psychiatrist, or, in my case, Junior Alcoholics Anonymous. Thank Heavens for them. If not for them, today I'd probably be one of the hoodrats we fought so valiantly. Through Junior Alcoholics Anonymous, I was able to come to terms with what I had become. Truly, I was a Green Monster. And that was okay. Because I could get better. And I have gotten better. I have accepted the terrible things I've seen. I have accepted the terrible things I've done. In the end, it was the Jr. AA that helped me come to the decision to retire, and it did make me a better person in the end.

I write thsi because tonight, we buried a friend. Perhaps you've read about this in the papers. Kevin "Dr. Fightface" DuBois, only 23 (23!) years old, his liver more or less hung itself. A terrible loss. I remember talking to him on the phone not two weeks ago, a night much like tonight. In fact, during that conversation, we talked about much of the things I have mentioned here, albeit in greater detail. I'm not gonna retype that conversation, because this isn't the place, and I'm not one to share these kind of secrets (see, Sean? This is called taking the higher road.). Despite my best efforts, I was unable to reach him in time. If only we had gotten to him sooner.

In closing, I urge you to please, if your child is fighting crime, please please please, talk to him about what he's facing. Please talk to him about the dangers of violence and drinking to excess.

And,

R.I.P. Dr. Fightface.

Thank you for reading this.

I am writing something glorious.

I have begun a new screenplay that I'm somewhat excited about (read: I have written a slugline and an establishing scene.). I really don't want to divulge too much about the plot (read: I'm not entirely sure what's going to happen as of yet.) What I can tell you (read: What I know so far) is that it's going to be a throwback to some of my favorite dark comedies from the '80's. To give you sort of an idea of what I'm aiming for, here are some trailers that illustrate what I'm talking about. (read: I'm too lazy to update this thing tonight, so here are some YouTube videos that I just watched.)

Gremlins trailer

Fright Night trailer

The 'Burbs trailer

Okay, three is enough.

Too much with myself, Don't wanna be someone else...

So on my fan page on facebook, there is a discussion of what I should write about. Y'all should comment on things I should write about there, if there's anything you wanna hear my "unique" views on. Anyway, so far there's only one response.

"Love.. Dude Write about love. Shakespeare is long passed on
but his writing increases in popularity every day.. Cheers"

So be it. I am going to write about love tonight. Lucky for all of us, I happen to have a lot of experience in this topic (just kidding!), so this is going to be very educational for everyone.

First of all, I guess I should say what love means to me. And from my limited experience with it, I'd say it means putting up with someone in spite of their faults, or even because of their faults. Maybe not. Maybe that has nothing to do with it. Eh, who am I trying to kid? I don't know anything about love. At least, not that I can express with words. Maybe one day, but not tonight.

Look forward to another blog in the near future where I talk about something else I don't understand.

Yeah!!!!!!!!!!!!!

New blog tonight! Or tomorrow! High fives all around!

Oh The Heart Beats In Its Cage

Yeah, this is all you're getting tonight. Maybe I'll blog a bit from the road, but I got nothing right now.

If notthing else, I'll be back on the 17th, with pictures. You kids keep it real, or I will fight you.

A Promise.

Dear Friends,

Recently there has been some concern about the amount of times a certain B. Vilanch has come up in conversations with, well, just about everyone I've come across over the last few years. Now, some people have accused me of being grossly obsessed, and some people (I'm looking at you, lawyers of the aforementioned B. Vilanch) have accused me of harrassment and stalking. It should never have come to this, but I feel I should make one thing clear:

I am not obsessed with Bruce Vilanch, nor am I stalking him.

There. I hope we're all satisfied now. When I was talking to you, Blake, and I went off on what you deemed "a crazy tangent that is a sure sign of mental illness" about what would happen if you fathered an alien version of Bruce Vilanch's child, whether you'd marry said alien, or dodge child support, I was merely posing a question of ethics. I could have mentioned anyone else, perhaps an alien resembling Charles Nelson Reilly, and it would have gone without such a remark. And when I spoke to you, dear Mother, and I mentioned wouldn't it be nice if we all had the soul and body of Bruce Vilanch, and how if he died I'd find a way to clone him, or make every effort to carry his legacy on, you spoke of disowning me, or at least taking me out of your will. Why? Why, I ask of you? How has Bruce Vilanch ever wronged you?

But nevertheless, the world is as it is, and I have been asked never to speak of Bruce Vilanch again. I have been asked by friends, family, colleagues, acquaintances, strangers, and the lawyers of Mr. Vilanch, and I shall respect this request from henceforth. This is one name you'll never hear escape my lips, or witness my pen write from hereafter. My apologies to those who feel I have scared them or wronged them.

Much Love,

Gregory S. Orme, Ph.D.

So Far Today I Have Nothing To Say

So watch this video of Mission Of Burma playing hit number one song: "That's When I Reach For My Revolver."

Why Zombies are Better Than People And Will Destroy Us:

All they do is Kill! The people they Kill... get up and Kill!

That is all.

Third Time's the Charm

So I've decided to try this whole "blog" thing out again, and this time maybe try to take it seriously. That means less insane ramblings, more amusing and poignant observations about life and shenanigans that I find myself in. As if there was a way for me to separate the two.

But the creating of the blog page in itself has posed itself as a tremendous challenge. For instance, what should I name it? Obviously, I've settled on "Shouts Into The Abyss" which not only sounds like a really depressing name for a Native American (Indian?) but also describes what this blog will likely turn into. Other names that made the short list: "We're Not Having Any Fun," "I Want To Be Your New Best Friend," "Burn My House Down," and "'How I Met Your Mother' Fan." The last one is pretty self-explanatory, and the other three are random phrases that I inadvertently typed out whilst enraged one day.

Okay, so the title's out of the way. What should I do for a layout? There's not a lot of options, so why not this really boring, non-descript one? Sure. Ok. Moving on.

Widgets.

Do I want widgets? Or do I want this uncluttered and streamlined for maximum people-not-reading-this? Sure. I want widgets. What are the options, at least? Ooh, they've got one that's just sexy girls washing a car. Tempting. Virtual Stripper. That's probably something I'd want to have for a first impression especially. Something that converts units of measurement. Sure. That sounds like fun. Deep down, the only one I know for sure that I'll pick is the one with the music playlist because I'm a music nerd. But what to narrow it down to? Why not everything? Should I do songs with lots of curses in them? Probably not. Is that "Goodbye Horses" song from The Silence of the Lambs too creepy to use? Naah. I'm using it anyway.

I'm tired now. Hopefully I remember to keep this up.