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One thing about Alabama that’s wildly different from New York is the available selections of radio station.  Now, I didn’t listen to a lot of radio in New York.  At work there was a satellite network that played exclusively Motown and R&B, and the public transit systems didn’t have any music playing, so I was pretty much jacked into my iPod all the time.  And at home, we don’t really listen to the radio, because there’s a TV.

But now we drive, and the music makes driving more fun (and calmer), so we are now radio listeners.  And here’s what I’ve discovered:

The Three “C’s” of Music Where I Live:

1)  Country.  There’s a LOT of country.  I’ve even found that some of it isn’t bad.  Predictable, maybe, which is why I like my full-of-surprises alternative genre.  But country music has some of the most creative lyrics, and also the easiest to understand.  And in country, you can get away with just about anything.  You can sing about shooting your neighbors with a shotgun, having lost your right hand in the war (which is why losing your home to a tornado isn’t so bad, according to the song), or how tequila makes your ladyfriend’s clothes fall off.  And they say rap music is subversive and violent!

2)  Christian.  I have not hung around on any Christian stations long enough to give this one the old college try.  I have maybe two or three Christian artists on my iTunes, but (and this is the sad and sorry truth) I didn’t know they were Christian when I downloaded them.  Vota, Flyleaf:  Your music is good, and I’m glad I found you.  I wish all Christian music sounded as good as you or better.  Can you get together with the Amy Grant set and teach them your wisdom?

3)  Classic rock.  This has now become my radio-station bread and butter.  I think about half the radio stations down here are classic-rock giants with nicknames like “The Rock” or “The Eagle” or something equally hardcore-sounding.  I can now almost tell the difference between Journey and Kansas, and I’m slowly correcting all the lyrics I’ve been misquoting since junior high school.  One unwelcome surprise:  Ace of Base’s horrendous cover of “Don’t Turn Around” now counts as classic rock.  Ouch.

“Contemporary Rock” counts as a lower case C where we live.  We’ve only found one station that plays it, and really, I’d rather not – contemporary music, ironically, gets old fast.

And Classical?  That’s a silent C.  I dare you to find a classical station for me.  No, really.  Please find one.

Musically speaking, though, I really got no problems.  Still rocking the iPod, and our Dish Network has plenty of unexpected surprises on the something-teen music stations it carries.  I have all the tunes I need.  Which is good, because life without music is like cats without crazy.

So.  Rest in peace, John Lennon.  Tell everyone to leave you alone.  You’ve earned it.

I remember being younger, when kids were just learning how to curse and all the naughty words were alphabetized. Son of a B!  The S word! The dreaded F word!  I was always confused what the C word was, but I did know they all were good for a spanking.  Only once did I get my actual mouth washed out with actual soap:  I said the felony-grade “F You” to my little brother.  But he deserved it, because he said to me, “Get out of my life,” for no reason at all.  I’m sure I had done nothing to merit such heartbreaking treatment from my closest kin.

Swearing starts as a guilty pleasure.  Kids I knew would curse with this gleefully shifty look in their eyes and a daredevil tone in their voice.  Like they were getting away with something, akin to shoplifting or running a stop sign.  For some people, that candy-stealing vibe never quite leaves them when they, say, take the Lord’s name in vain.  I developed a respect for the people who incorporated swear words into their vocabulary as naturally as “velcro” or “Happy Meal” or “hello.”  It became my goal to be as comfortable with swearing as a sailor, and I’m pleased to say I was successful.

And if I hadn’t been a natural before moving to New York, that city burned dirty words into my tongue for real.  Good friends would greet each other with “Hey, s**thead, how the f**k are you?  Kick a$$!” and then give each other a hug.  Sweet old ladies flip you the bird at the least provocation.  Baby’s first word may well be inappropriate for prime time TV.  (Reason 43 why we left the city before the baby gets borned.)

So I don’t know whether it’s because I live in the much-more-conservative South – a small, religious community at that – or my daddy-instinct is cleaning up my act before our baby-girl arrives, but the metaphorical soap has made its rounds in my metaphorical mouth.  I think it’s both those reasons.  I can definitely say I would NOT want the first words my baby hears, on entering the world, to be “Holy S!  Sweetheart, that baby’s F-in’ adorable!  Effin’ A, way to go!”  Even if she doesn’t understand them.

Language is generally much more proper here in northern Alabama than it is in Manhattan.  Maybe I don’t mean ‘proper’ – there’s a heapin’ helpin’ of local color, down-South slang, and y’all-ism.  I think the word I mean is ‘polite.’  When we produced a 1940’s comedy here in Winfield – a play where the bluest word is “Hell” and God is only mentioned in connection with the church – we still had one or two negative comments about the language.  When someone is reading from a script in auditions and substitutes “Dang” for “Damn” – you know you shouldn’t go dropping F-bombs.

I let a curse word slip the other day, and I actually blushed about it, looking around to see if anyone heard.  Not that I’m complaining, really, but what’s going on?  What the he… the heck is going on with me?

The only time I really allow real swear words to escape my lips, any more, is when I’m playing video games.  Proving that video games will be the death of our society, no doubt.  Goll-dang it.

I checked back to see when the last time was that I posted.  Mid May, which is four months and a day ago.  I said in that post that hopefully I’d be posting more often.  Which goes to show you what hope and five bucks will get you.  (A footlong meatball sub with banana peppers, tomatoes, and black olives.)

Okay.  So here’s the big news since our arrival in Alabama.  Sound-byte styles, because who wants an encyclopedia-styles entry?

* Officially, we’re pregnant.  25 weeks pregnant, to be precise, far enough along to know it’s a girl and to give my lovely wife an irresistably pregnant profile.  Everyone is healthy, we’re due on December 30th but we’re hoping for New Year’s Day so her birthday will be 1-1-11.  It’s the little things.  As for a name, we don’t want to name her till we meet her, which most people surprisingly don’t seem to get.  But we have a few candidates chosen, from the ‘vintage’ Eloise to the ‘hippie’ Paisley, with several in between.  Stay tuned.

* We now have a theater company, called Self Express Productions.  Find us on Facebook!  Haaa (no, really, we’re on Facebook).  We’re teaching theater workshops to adults and to kids at all grade levels, and we’re producing full length plays at this wonderful local theater that has seen almost nothing but concerts and pageants since it was built in 1937.  Currently, we’re putting up “Harvey,” the invisible-rabbit play that Jimmy Stewart made into a movie, and I’m designing the set and acting in it while Elle is directing.  Same division of labor, incidentally, as our last production of “Arsenic and Old Lace” which was, by all accounts, a surprising success.

* Connected but unique, I’m writing my first full length play.  Yikes!  It’s a Christmas play, with carols included – some kept in their pristine form, and others bastardized for plot-advancement purposes.  Because, really, who hasn’t re-written “The Twelve Days of Christmas” for comic value?  I’m co-wriitng the script with a new friend we’ve met here in Alabama who’s also a playwright, and we are having a great time.  And the best part (also most scary part)?  The play isn’t even written yet and we’ve already locked performance dates.  Did I say “Yikes!” already?

* I’m on a diet.  Living in a slower lane of traffic than Manhattan, things slow down a bit.  Add that down-home Southern cooking, featuring smoked barbecued short ribs and cooked-for-hours greens and beans – with bacon added to everything – and we need a diet.  I started at 215, and we’ll see how far I get.

* Elle and I are both substitute teaching.  Another item on the “Who saw THAT coming?” checklist.  Frankly, I’m enjoying it.  Even when I’m called to sub in the auto-mechanics class.

* …Isn’t that enough?

Actually, there’s definitely more.  But this post is a catch-up-the-readership post, an I’m-still-alive post, and a while-I’m-thinking-of-it post.

If I actually do better about posting, or that biographer plan actually works out, I’ll be fleshing these themes out a lot more in future posts, rather than just listing news items.  But you can’t flesh out a theme that doesn’t even have any bones yet, so consider this post as my skeleton.  Oooo, sexy.

One one hand, it feels like it was a long time coming, and on the other hand I’m still reeling from how sudden it seemed.  Here we are, engaged in New York, then getting married and being married in New York, living the cosmopolitan young-adult lifestyle with high paying jobs, expensive tastes, and just about every hour of our days spoken for by something.  Then, less than a year after the wedding, we’re pulling up stakes and leaving the most famous and glamorous city in the Western world to settle down in northern Alabama.

Let’s look at a few comparisons.  From skyscrapers, we’ve moved to a farm.  From subways to a Jeep Wrangler.  From the 24-hour Duane Reade, to a city-block-sized Wal-Mart that closes at eleven.  From a wine bar to a dry county (what??).  Goodbye, shoulder to shoulder pedestrian traffic in a city of millions; hello, population five thousand, all of which wave at each other when they drive by.  No more of hearing twenty different languages a day, we are now in the land of wall to wall English, with a thick Deep South drawl laid over it.  Our one-bedroom, first floor apartment has become a three bedroom, two bathroom house with an industrial kitchen and more counter space that we know how to use.  Our independent-couple lifestyle and dining-out ways have been traded in, for our family living right next door and inviting us to a home cooked dinner every night.

Most of the people I’ve built relationships with over the years will now be asking, “Who are you and what have you done with Josh?”

I’m still me.  And I get it – even I get amazed with the shifts my life has undergone over the last two or three years.  This isn’t where I saw myself ten years ago.  But you know what – I’m cool with it.  I’m even excited.

Here’s why we did it.  I’m 35 and Elle just turned thirty, and here’s us looking at our lives.  Waiting tables, not making a living as actors and theater people the way we planned when we moved to New York.  nothing wrong, we really loved our life and our friends and our city, but what works when you’re thirty wouldn’t fly at fifty.  A fifty year old actor, still doing one or two plays a year for no income, waiting for that big break (for our career, that is, not snapping our old and brittle hips)?  Please.  Or, rather, no thank you.

So we’re in Alabama, living in a town where not even the high school has a theater program, never mind the public community.  We’re starting a theater company.  They’re a dime a dozen in New York, but down here we’re the only game in town.  Most of the people here don’t even know what they’re missing, yet, by not having a theater scene.  We intend to teach them, to create the need, then to fill it. 

Then there’s family.  I’d have shot myself for saying this ten years ago, but it’s really great to live so close to family – people who will do for you without you asking them to, and who love with no agenda or trade-off.  Who knew that could be so cool?  So there’s that, now.  Then, there’s Elle and I planning to start our own family.  There’s something to be said for doing that with your loving kin living just a few steps from home.  Especially when my father in law, Elle’s dad, is a mommy-doctor by trade.  Not a bad neighbor to have when you’re expecting to be expecting.

Obviously there’s a lot more to be said on all this.  I’ve been away from the blog for most of the planning and execution of this huge life change, and now there’s all these other things to muse on.  Starting our own business, starting a family, and settling into a brand new community, just for a start.  Then let’s talk about the culture shock.

But brevity is the soul of wit.  It’s for you, kind reader, to judge on the wit, but at least I can make a brave stab at the brevity thing.

Instead, here is a series of vignettes and observations that have stuck with me recently.

My wife and I visited my mother last weekend in South Texas, where they live in a sort of trailer park community for retirees.  What sticks with me is how charmed I was by the vibe there.  A tight community of friends that see each other every year (most of them are Winter Texans that migrate from the north) and support each other through life.  Elle and I have a version of that, but it’s diffused into a city of millions of people and billions of distractions, so we don’t get as much of any of our friends as we crave.  I like the idea of slowing down into a community that can actually come over when you invite them on a whim.

~

Flying back, I was struck by the difference between the bird’s-eye view of South Texas and the bird’s-eye view of New York.  Texas is made up of large squares, with islands of light here and there.  New York is all curves and angles, and all lights with darkness only where there are rivers.  It’s easy to look at where you live and believe that’s what the world looks like.  It’s good to be reminded that isn’t true.

~

I have the house to myself this morning, unexpectedly.  Elle got called in to work and I didn’t.  Two things are going on at the same time:  I’m glad for the time to be in my own zen, to accomplish things and sort through things and be productive, things I wouldn’t probably have gotten to if I wasn’t alone.  At the same time, I wish she was here to hang out with.  Or to get our taxes done with, a task we keep pushing back.  Life is better when she’s within touching distance.

~

We’ve been doing Bikram Yoga for the past two or three months.  That’s the one where you spend 90 minutes in a room heated to over a hundred degrees, contorting your body into positions that are great for the heart, muscles, and spirit, and occasionally very bad for my self esteem.  I’ve been waiting and waiting for the exertion of doing the practice three to five times a week to show up in my physical appearance.  (Other people are seeing it.  I haven’t been.)  Today I think I noticed a bit of tone where there wasn’t before.  Plus I’m touching my toes easier than I was, which is a minor but measurable victory.

~

I’m a dog person with two cats.  I have a love-hate relationship with them.  I feel bad getting frustrated when I can’t do what I want to do because they want attention.  I shouldn’t be mad at them for wanting me to pet them, that’s what pets are FOR.  That’s why they’re called ‘pets.’  Because you pet them.  I sure do hope kids are easier.

Irrelevant detail.  But I get hung up on it every time I talk about the show.  Some part of me thinks numbers are important.  Unfortunately, it isn’t the same part of me that reaches for my wallet every time I want a Red Bull.

Anyway, one more reason to love my wife is this:  She wants to do another show. She said, “Hey.  I want to put up a show.  Will you write it?”   That, above any other consideration you could think of, is the reason I’m putting up another production, in partnership with Elle.  I said, “Write it?  I’ll help you produce it!”  And she, in turn, will help me write it.  It’s a true collaboration.

I was going to say something about how glad I am to be hitting the stage again, but I stopped myself.  I’m on stage every week, between improv comedy and getting ready for a sketch show we’re doing next month.  but doing ‘legit’ theater feels different somehow.

“Shortening the Distance,” lovingly and inappropriately nicknamed “STD,” was what brought Elle and me back into each other’s worlds.  It’s great that we’re doing this next one together, and hopefully we can pull some more of the old crew back together for the new show.  We might even remount one or two of the old pieces, looking for some new way to make them work, but the show will be all new and crazy good.

Which means, back to the writing table.  This is great.  I’ve had ideas buzzing around, some started and left to “develop on their own,” most just knocking around in my head or reduced to a one-line reminder somewhere:  ‘write scene about subway musician’ or something.

There’s some soul-searching to do, maybe, on why it is that I need a deadline or some specific goal in order to ensure my productivity.  I don’t do a lot of writing just to write, though when I do I like doing it, and find I have things to write about despite my writer’s block. 

Maybe, though, I should just leave my soul alone.  If I need a deadline, or someone to turn my writing in to, in order to produce results… then maybe I’d better just keep creating deadlines and people to write for.  Nothing wrong with that.

Here’s an observation.  Anyone else notice the explosion of “show time” (“What time is it?”  “Show time!”) dancers on the subways?  Seems like I see a crew every trip I take.  Today, there were two crews on the same ride.  Not to mention, how do they DO all that stuff??  Oh, to b ehalf my age and three times as limber.

So today I did that, and my first response was shock that it’s been so long.  Last time I posted was the afternoon of my birthday, before I went to work that night.  Work that night was terrible, by the way, a real spirit-breaker.  But it was the only downside of a good day, and the next day was even better.

So here’s the news in brief:

* Still on grand jury duty, for another three sessions.  We finish next Tuesday, after which I can go back to normal.  No, my grand jury did not hear the Dave Letterman extortion case.  Just as well, probably, since most of the jury would have asked for an autograph, and at least three of us would have asked him for a job.

* Elle’s show opened and has one weekend left.  I got to see the opening performance, and you know what?  It’s actually the first time I’ve seen my wife in an honest-to-chicken play.  Man, have I been missing out.  In my completely unbiased opinion, she stole the show, switching brilliantly between six different characters.  Hoping to work out a schedule conflict so I can see the closing performance too.

* I actually wrote a review of the show and pitched it to papers and blogs, and got it published in at least one place.  No pay, but some exposure and a credit to my name.

* …

…you know what, I really don’t love the News blog posts.  Who, at their core, really cares about the nuts and bolts of what I’m up to, unless it’s completely fascinating?  I mean, I think everyone should make the Jersey trip to see my wife’s production, but beyond that?  That’s pretty much all that’s fit to print.

But here’s a big event:  For my birthday, Elle took us to Per Se – this is a restaurant that you have to reserve for a month or more in advance, and probably start saving for it a month or two before that.  It’s swanky.  We broke the piggy bank to go, and it was totally worth it.

Usually, Per Se does a prix-fixe tasting menu, with seven courses of small food on big plates.  We did that, with the twist that it was Craft Beer Week in New York at the time, and what we went to was a tasting menu with beer pairings, hosted and supplied by Brooklyn Brewery.

Now, anyone who knows Elle or myself will know this is a flippin’ perfect birthday dinner.

I could write for an hour on the menu we had, and the amazing beer we got to taste with it (the highlight:  Manhattan Project, engineered and aged to imitate the taste profile of a bourbon Manhattan cocktail – with staggering success)  (the other highlight:  the smoked bacon tasting beer, no kidding), but I’ll leave it that we had a truly awe-inspiring dinner, sat at the same table as the founder of Craft Beer week and the brewmaster of Brooklyn Brewery, and oohed and ahhed our way through four hours of culinary (and beer-inary) amazement. 

And we don’t remember all the details of how we got home and into bed.  They kept pouring the beer, you see.  We really shouldn’t have started with martinis.  Lesson learned for next time.

I’m pleased to report that at 35 years of age, my hangovers are still blessedly mild.

More grey whiskers, though.  Dang.  Grandpa needs a shave.

I’m celebrating it by working tonight, after a rousing morning of grand jury service!

No worries, though – Elle has some big super secret plans for me tomorrow night, and my Facebook has been a Niagra Falls of birthday wishes, which is awesome.  And since I’m working on my birthday, maybe the chef will bring out a round of free desserts for the staff today.  A birthday boy can hope.

I comfort myself that I am not falling apart in my old age, no matter how much I sometimes want to say I am.  Yesterday, in an unprecedentedly long run, I crossed the George Washington Bridge to Jersey and back.  It’s a longer bridge than it looks from the ground, but I made it and today I feel good.

Today’s bloggings, however, bend toward jury duty.  It’s my second time called for it since living in New York.  They say once you serve on a Grand Jury, you’re exempt from service for eight years rather than the four you get for trial jury service.  I’m down with that.

I had no idea Grand Jury service was different than trial jury.  Rather than being selected by lawyers to hear and rule on one case, beyond a reasonable doubt, as a grand juror I listen to about half a dozen cases a day, to rule whether or not the person being charged should get a formal indictment and go to a trial.  It’s reasonable suspicion instead of reasonable doubt.

There’s lots of legalese, because each District Attorney who visits us has to completely explain every facet of the law that’s allegedly been broken.  Everything from property damage to robbery to drug charges.  We haven’t heard any violent crime cases yet, but I figure we’re likely to.  I serve every day till the middle of October.

The good news is we’re done at one in the afternoon, so I can still work nights.  The bad news is I’m there for a month.  Also I get to serve on my birthday.  We lucked out, though, and got turned loose a bit early today.

Jurors can be a surly lot.  There’s some entitlement in the room, in the form of “We’re doing you a favor by being here,” and there’s definitely a stampede for the door as soon as we’re dismissed.  There’s a guy who rolls his eyes and makes impatient noises every time a DA starts defining legal terms.  It’s been suggested I bring him some cookies to ease his gloomy mood.  I’ve taken to simply nicknaming him “Cookies,” which makes me much more forgiving of his crankiness.

Then, there’s people who are taking it very seriously.  They’ve seen a lot of courtroom movies, and have dreams of being the one dissenter whose completely valid and correct opinions will sway the entire jury to hear his arguments and change their votes.  There’s people who want to talk about each case in detail, and can’t because the next case gets brought in before her opinion is fully voiced.

I’m somewhere in the middle.  I’m interested in the process, I don’t resent being there, and I’m learning quite a bit.  I hope to make a difference, preferably a positive one.  I’m not in a hurry to be a Spencer Tracy style hero.  It wouldn’t do me any good anyway, since our proceedings are strictly secret.

If you gotta do jury duty, this is a pretty pain free way to do it.

Wish they’d had cake there, though.

Being in the bedroom blogging is my idea.  It’s my self-imposed exile, both so I can catch up on some writing and so I don’t ruin the surprise of hearing Elle’s script before opening night.  At first I brought in a chair for myself, but then I realized the bed would be a LOT more comfy, so now I’m mad stylin’ in sublime comfort.

Computer in my lap, wine by my side, foam mattress under my butt – all I need is Elle with me, and I’ve got it made.  Oh, and a really good sandwich.

My schedule has been very different from Elle’s, of late.  It’s kind of a first for our relationship.  We have the same job, the same improv company, the same a-lot-of-stuff.  Our schedules seldom match exactly, but pretty close.

Now, she has a volunteer gig and a show, I’m doing a lot of late-night writing and a lot of stuff at Landmark Education, and suddenly our work schedules are different.  I’ve been off for three days, now, while she’s had stuff to do pretty much from dawn to dusk and beyond, all three days.

I’d almost rather I was the one staying busy, while she was having time off, but she gets stir crazy sooner than I do so maybe it’s for the best that I have the free time.  I’ve been using a lot of it for freelancing, anyway.  Productive.  …That and the DVD player, and Facebook.  But lots of freelancing, honest.

I miss my girl!  Even now, we’re home together but we’re not actually together.  I got my laptop and my iTunes with the earphones in, while she has company and an impromptu rehearsal for the show I’m not in (though I auditioned… sigh… and the guy who beat me out for the role is in the other room with my wife… sigh…)

It’s not a huge deal.  We’ll have tonight after the guests leave, and we’ll have lots of time over the weekend.  It just never seems like enough.  Which, I suppose, is a good sign for our relationship.  Better that, than looking forward to the next time I have a day off to myself.

I made lunch.  it was a PBJ.  My mother in law makes great J.

Something in me is broken, I think.  No matter how relaxing a day off is, how much fun I have, or how much I need the rest, I almost always suffer guilt for not “doing something” with every minute.  Sometimes a little guilt, sometimes a lot, but there’s a “what did you do with your day” staring back from the mirror at me, just about every time I take a break from the (admittedly self imposed) have-to-do’s.

Even knowing that it’s a beautiful day outside and I have yet to put on outside-pants gives me a twinge of conscience.

All work and no play, and all that, yes of course.  I play.  I watch movies, I toy with Facebook, I have my PlayStation.  Then I stay up till three or four in the morning, sometimes, to do the things I said I was committed to doing that day.

I wonder sometimes if I just take on too much, and then reach  a threshhold of stress where Facebook and a DVD are my only recourse.  I may be doomed to a life of just-a-bit-behind-ness, as I take necessary breaks from the huge commitments I’ve taken on in life.

What am I talking about?  I wait tables.  I write when I make time to.  I keep my house fairly clean and keep two cats fed.  I’m a good husband.  Not that any of these things are meaningless, but I’m not exactly Gandhi or the blue-ribbon king of multitasking.

This is one of those questions whose answer changes day by day.

I’m doing good work today, as long as you don’t describe ‘good work’ solely as Going Outside or Getting a Lot of Writing Done.  Heck – I’m blogging for the first time in better than a week, so what am I so up-on-myself about?

I really can’t even remember.

I’ll feel better after a shower.