Out of Focus

Miscellaneous Miscellany: Don't call it a comeback; but here's an abstract – Part 1

I'm still hedging my bets. This habit stuff is hard. (That's been my motto all year: THSIH. It rolls off the tongue.) As I mentioned yesterday, barely a day passes that I don't encounter at least one thing prompting my internal voices to say, "I'm going to write about that." In fact, I generally keep a running list—one that enjoys running without stopping much more than I do; it obviously just keeps going and going even as I ignore it.

Some ideas I deem too old to use now. Some are relatively evergreen, and sooner or later, I will certainly focus on them. Some are extremely timely; if I don't get to them soon, I will disappoint myself and leave them be, but then hopefully they will also drift away and and stop cluttering my brain.

When I began writing this post, I intended it to be a relatively brief, disorganized annotated table-of-likely-contents, describing subject matter that I hope to address in the coming days and weeks. Some may disappear, making an appearance here before fading away and not requiring another word. Others will demand my attention further. No promises either way, and the order that follows barely even signifies any preferences.

As I started writing, though, some things required more description than a a title and two-sentence summary, and the next thing I knew, this post was way too long. So I've broken it into parts—at least two, maybe three. We'll see where we end up.

For now, assuming the habit holds, the following offers a taste of what's clogging my brain:

Moth Misses Flame Again: The Guilt Complex

Last night, I went to The Moth StorySLAM (@mothstories) at the Nuyorican, once again with a story prepared, and while my odds were better this time (apparently there were 20 total names in the hat as opposed to the 30-plus when I last went in March), I still didn't get called to the stage. It's too bad too, because while I wasn't that happy with how I had the story working in my head, halfway through the evening, even though there really wasn't one truly bad story tonight (a new experience for me), I think mine -- for all its faults -- would have probably been graded in the top two or three.

Doesn't matter. I was actually baffled by the winner again. Just like last time I was at the Nuyorican, the final person selected of the evening was slightly peculiar with a very peculiar story that had the crowd roaring but as much because of the what-the-fuck quotient as anything funny happening in the story. Also, and more importantly, the winning story arguably had very little to do with the them of the evening which was "Ambition."

To me, it seemed only natural what my story would be if only because I had no other personal stories relating to ambition immediately springing to mind. Ironically, one of my most ambitious (and unmet) goals over the past couple years was to use these storyslams as as personal deadlines and writing exercises. I've found that thoughtless free writing has been very helpful to me at times, and utilizing the themes for the Moth storyslams a a launching point could help me form a valuable writing habit and become a regular outlet. Sure, I could do that without going and signing up to tell the story, but of course, omitting that part is actually a bit of a cop-out, and having that hard deadline where I might have to stand in front of people and tell my story means that I need to focus on it at least a little bit more than simply sitting with the theme and writing a few pages at will.

But my ambitions in this arena have met total failure. I've intended to do this for a long time, and yet, I've only written and gone (including tonight) four times. The first time I went over two years ago, I was selected to tell my story, but the second time, I was among a large throng that didn't even get into the room. And then there was June at the Nuyorican where I wasn't picked.

I wasn't picked again tonight, and fair warning: I didn't write about my Moth ambitions. Of course not. I wrote about what occupied my brain most of the summer and has dominated the few posts on this blog over the past several weeks. But this is it: a slightly different (and much shorter) take on my triathlon experience. The last time I talk about the damn thing until I maybe decide to do another one. Starting tomorrow, Out of Focus will return to its more logical and organic (i.e., non-athletic endeavors usually featuring flickering images of light) state. But for now, for the last time, the story I would have told had my name been called last night at The Moth: The Guilt Complex after the jump.

A Moth That Still Can't Find Its Light: Root Beer Drinking & Driving

Last night, I went to the Moth StorySlam and made my third attempt at telling a story. Preparing for and attending most of the NYC Moths was one of my New Year's goals, mostly in an attempt to force me to do a bit more thematic free writing on a regular basis. The performing is kind of fun, but not my primary impetus. Rather, I wanted/want to use it as a writing exercise. But this topic should be relegated to a later time, if ever.

I'm now one-for-three. Before last night, I was one-for-two. In January, the first StorySlam after New Year's had the theme "Deadlines." I went to Union Hall and wanted to tell a story that started with the line, "I am an anal procrastinator,". In retrospect, that theme and story are more ironic than ever. Anyway, The Moth had gotten super-popular by that point, and I didn't even get in the building.

In August 2007, I went to my first Moth StorySlam. The theme that evening was "Money," and I had this story about a prank played on me by my best friend. I called it "$18 Million". It was my first time, and I got selected. I performed, it was fun. 'Nuff said.

Now that I've started Aaron's New (Personal) Year – running on the fiscal year model; more on that some other time (maybe) – I'm trying to get back into the StorySlam habit, and so last night, I trekked over to the Nuyorican Poets Café in the East Village for The Moth. The theme was "Wheels." This time, I got in the door, got my sign-up slip in the bag, but out of the 26 people who hoped to tell their stories, I was not one of the 10 selected.

However, a good story should never go to waste, and by the time I walked into the Nuyorican last night, I was pretty happy with it. Sure, I may still be able to use it for some other theme some time, and while this one was definitely meant to be performed more than read, why should I hide it for now. So, without further ado and for your reading pleasure, I invite you to enjoy The Root Beer Accident after the jump:

A Hole in the Night: The Dead Moth at the Deadline

One of my goals in the New Year has been to not flake on myself. Another goal is to create habits for myself, especially in terms of writing. One of the things I have planned to use as a tool in creating my habits are The Moth Storyslams. I first went to a Moth Storyslam in August 2007, and I was selected to tell a story that night. I have repeatedly intended to go to more, but I haven't. This year, however, with four per month, I plan to use the themes as a sort of weekly writing workshop: a bit of structure to force me to create some sort of story for each Storyslam. I may not actually always go, and I'm sure that even if I made it to each one, I wouldn't be picked to perform every time. But it's a habit I plan to create.

While I did my part Monday evening, sadly The Moth did not play along. The first Monday of each month includes a Storyslam at Union Hall in Park Slope. The theme for last night was "Deadlines," and I was struggling with how to approach it. On more than one occasion, I've had a great idea (I thought) for a story that I simply never got around to developing into something that I would be comfortable trying to perform, and so, I didn't go at all. (Even though you by no means have to have a story in order to attend.) But I was determined not to do that last night. I was going to prepare something, even if it wasn't perfect. I invited a bunch of different friends, not because I wanted people to see me if I got selected, but just because I knew if I had people planning to show up with me, I wouldn't flake on going.

So I spent some time earlier today putting everything that had coalesced inside my brain down onto paper. My process with writing a story for the Moth is to first, write it; second, edit it; third, copy it by hand from computer into a journal, writing at least a bit from memory; and fourth, determining from memory larger topic bullet points that I can use later to recall the broad strokes I don't want to forget for in the realm of storytelling, it's keeping those larger story points that is most important.

I did all this on Monday. I came up with a story with which I was reasonably satisfied. And I didn't get to tell it. But actually, that wasn't the problem with the evening because when it comes to going to a Moth Storyslam, there is never a guarantee that you'll get to tell your story. However, what was disappointing at Union Hall tonight was that it's obvious the organizers are still a) not used to Union Hall and/or b) don't monitor the line to get in at all.

The event was scheduled to have doors open at 7:30 and stories beginning at 8. When I arrived at 7:30, my friend Jess was already in line. She was outside Union Hall with maybe 30 people in front of her. As we waited without moving at all until close to 7:45, the line behind us kept getting longer, eventually (I believe) reaching the corner of 5th and Union. There had to be at least 100 people behind us.

At about 8:05, people suddenly started coming back upstairs and saying, "It's sold out." I'm glad The Moth is becoming so popular that they're selling out and have added two new regular shows in NYC per week, but if you're going to become that popular and work in really small comedy/music club-type rooms, you have to monitor your lines better. When they said sold out and nobody else would get in, there were still at least 30-40 people ahead of me and the aforementioned 100 behind. There is no reason I should have even been allowed to wait in line. There is no reason that at some point, some one from The Moth didn't come up to us and say, "I'm sorry, but we're never going to be able to get everyone in, and chances are, we'll have to cut it off before it gets to you." Even if that doesn't make me leave, it certainly would let me know that I was waiting at my own risk.

This is no remarkably new idea. The Public Theater does it for Shakespeare in the Park every summer. We do it with our Rush lines at Tribeca as well. Sometimes people choose not to leave, just in case. But to know that you likely won't get in, at least then, it's your own fault.

Regardless, considering what my story wound up being about, it's a bit of Alanis-Morrisette-ironic (i.e., really, more of just a bummer) that I didn't even make it in, let alone have a chance to actually tell my story. In fact, my closing sentence might even qualify the evening for full-fledged irony. But along with all the rest of the new-for-2009 things I'm trying, I won't let this discourage me. Or something. I don't know.

Regardless, here's a written version of the story I would have told had I made it in and been selected. Hopefully, I'll get to the Nuyorican early enough next Tuesday.

When you don't get selected to tell your story, they usually call out your name at the end of the evening and ask you to yell out your first line. Mine is, "I am an anal procrastinator." The whole thing, after the jump.