Come to Philly for the Crack

I should be sleeping. I have to be awake for class tonight. But alas, I am out of melatonin. Since I am unable to sleep, I figure I can kill two birds with one stone by also being unable to write.

I have struggled to find something appropriate to blog about the past few days. It would make the most sense to talk about work, but it is my wish that this blog be something more than just a record of my spiraling occupational neurosis.

While at work, I did come across something that may be worth sharing anyway: I find Philadelphia accents indicate a constant orneriness. To me, it is as if the speaker is about to have an angry outburst at any moment.

There was a portly gentleman from Philadelphia in town for the university’s homecoming. While eating breakfast, he asked for me to change the channel on the breakfast area television to weather. Something about the way he said it made me feel like he was in a bad mood. I turned the channel from the usual (CNN’s Early Start) to The Weather Channel.

“No,” he continued, “I want to see the weather for here.”

His tone seemed to belie a certain impatience. I was flummoxed (it had been a long night for me). Eventually it was made clear that he wanted the local weather, but not before I felt like he was on the verge of getting mad.

Of course, he could have just been frustrated. One of several incidents that kept me busy that night was his toilet clogging. The plunger remained elusive, so the best I could do for him was to instruct him to use the public restroom. When you also consider how long it took me to realize that he wanted a local channel on, you have a recipe for an irritable guest. But to me, he seemed to be teetering on the edge of an unearned eruption.

After this, he asked to change the channel again. With my permission, he began tuning the TV to something else. He settled on a screening of Major League on HBO. The movie has some saucy elements, and HBO is the one channel we are never supposed to have on for precisely that reason. Yet, I did not say anything. I was afraid of upsetting the precarious balance of emotions within the man.

I know, I know, this makes me look bad. He had an excuse to be a little upset. Taking this into account, one might draw the conclusion that I simply do not like people from Philadelphia. This is not true. I love It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and my godfather is from the city of brotherly love.

Just like how I'm not racist because of my black friend.

I maintain that even taking into account the circumstances, there was a rising inflection in his voice. It practically sounded like he was looking for a reason to get into an argument. I do not know how else to describe the effect his accent had on me.

Looking back, I am probably overanalyzing everything about this frankly unremarkable situation. And it is kind of boring. But dammit, I got a blog post out of it.

"...5, 6, 7, 8!"

I just woke up from an elaborate dream with mid-budget musical sequences about the (non-existent) salt mines of Pittsburgh, indie videogame development, elevated public transit, and falling for a girl who may or may not feel the same way.

While I cannot remember any of the songs, I remember them having actual lyrics. This feels like something that should not happen in a dream. When you read lucid dreaming guides, they recommend doing things that require a certain permanence not usually present in the nocturnal imagination to determine if you are dreaming—looking at your hands, gazing into a mirror, checking a clock for the time, trying to read text.

However, that last one is of note to me because in two fairly recent dreams (one was just a couple of days ago) I successfully read signs. What do these peculiar developments in my dream life mean? The optimist in me is promoting the idea that this is a sign that I am gifted in language arts. The rest of me, however, feels that particular explanation is a delusion of grandeur.

To make things even more surreal, I wish I had a Snuggie right now. We have one (a stunning cheetah print item), but I cannot find it, and I’m trying to use my arms to type while covering my torso with a blanket!

Pictured: journalism.

Sleepwalk with Me (2012)

I had the pleasure of seeing a screening of Mike Birgbiglia’s Sleepwalk with Me. I had to drive to Pittsburgh to see it, because independent cinema has no place in Indiana, PA, but it was worth it. The screening I attended was actually packed, and I wondered if I would get in when I saw that there was a line outside of the theater to buy tickets.

The film is the fourth incarnation of Birbiglia’s tales about his sleep disorder (the others being his appearances on This American Life (which produced the film), a one-man stage show/album, and a book). In each version, he chronicles his life after college as a struggling stand-up comedian, his relationship with his girlfriend, and his increasingly dangerous sleepwalking episodes.

The film certainly feels “indie,” but this is a good thing in my book. Birbiglia gives a solid performance as a version of himself, and the cast is rounded out by myriad comedians. Notable cameos include producer/co-writer Ira Glass as a wedding photographer, and Dr. William C. Dement as himself. The story is strong and the film weaves together the different plotlines deftly, unifying the thematic elements.

One of the few problems I had was with some of the main character’s dialog. It might be because I am familiar with his material, but some lines felt like a comedy routine shoehorned in instead of naturalistic dialog. Then again, the character interactions between fellow comedians just hanging out rang very true to me (based on hearing many stand-ups shoot the shit on podcasts).

I especially enjoyed the dream sequences. Glass said in an interview on Fresh Air that he normally despises dream sequences in film as cheap, and you can tell that special attention was paid to ensure that the scenes were uncanny but realistic.

I will admit that this review is heavily biased in favor of the movie. As I have noted before, I enjoy seeing people I admire get exposure. I was a fan before the film was even released. It was great (and sometimes a little surreal) to see comedic bits I know portrayed in cinematic form, like the stilted confessions of love featured on Wedding Story Tales, or the dismal lip-syncing contest.

Me, being biased.

I would certainly recommend this film to anyone with a sense of humor—or anyone who is a little weird. Fans of Birbiglia will get exactly what they expect, and new viewers may find themselves introduced to a wonderful world of awkward moments and strange conversations comparing abstract concepts to pizza, tinged by a healthy dose of self-deprecation.