In June, I’m going down to New Orleans to give a keynote about igrep at the 2005 Red Hat Summit.
So last week, I did a quick e-mail chat with Red Hat magazine, which hit the web today. In it, I talk a little bit about my experiences with Linux:

“. . . after about a week of running Linux, I couldn’t believe that I’d ever willingly chosen to run Windows. I did my first complete switch with Mandrake and I’ve never looked back. I’m composing this response in Kate, on my primary machine, which is running kernel 2.6.8.”

I also talk about being the spokesman for igrep, what igrep is, and why I think it’s cool:

“igrep is a focused, targeted search engine aimed at developers. Because it only searches resources that are specifically relevant to developers, it saves them time and effort when they’re working on their various projects. Time developers don’t have to spend digging through piles of irrelevant search results is time they can spend goofing off. And isn’t that the whole reason we started using computers in the first place?
I’m using igrep on WWdN right now as a proof of concept, to showcase how powerful the igrep technology is. I think that igrep could eventually branch out into a whole new type of searching: rather than going to google (which is still a great tool, by the way) and trying to include and exclude terms and results to find what you’re looking for, you could use an igrep search to do that work for you. I don’t think we’re going to completely replace search engines like Google or Yahoo, but this could be the beginning of vertical niche searching for all sorts of things, like blogs, online comics, sites related to Star Wars . . .”

Incidentally, because I’m a spokesman for igrep, I get paid to represent it. My credibility is very important to me, so I wouldn’t have accepted the position if I didn’t believe in it, but I want to be completely up-front and honest about that. I will occasionally blog about igrep-related things (like appearances and stuff), but this isn’t going to turn into the igrep blog. (Remember when Bill Cosby co-starred with all sorts of Coca-Cola products in Ghost Dad? I’m not going to do that.)
In the same issue of Red Hat Magazine, there’s a nice introduction to encrypting e-mail, called “It’s 2 a.m. Do you know who’s reading your e-mail?” It’s targeted to Red Hat users, so it won’t be a good HOWTO for you if you don’t use Linux, but it’s a good overview of public-key cryptography.
If you’ve visited my contact page, you know that I’m a privacy and encryption advocate. However, as Bunny Macintosh once observed, my enthusiasm for encryption results in lots of e-mail from guys with ponytails, and hardly any e-mail from hot girls. She has a point: encryption is currently beyond the comprehension of most normal people (and the vast amount of documentation out there is written for propellerheads) but that doesn’t diminish its importance.
If you’re not a Linux user, but you use Thunderbird for e-mail (and you should) there’s a plugin called Enigmail that’s remarkably easy to use. You can learn how to use it with How to secure your e-mail with GnuPG and Enigmail.

You shouldn’t encrypt because you have something to hide; you should encrypt because you have the right to keep your communications and your files private. I encourage everyone, whether you’re a ponytail, a hot girl, an überGeek or someone who is online for the first time with a free AOL CD to read these articles and start encrypting your e-mail. Then you can send it to me, and we’ll all geek out together.
Privately, of course.

When I was much, much younger, all the world was a stage, and I was more than happy to be one of the players. I had a hard time shutting off that thing that makes me an actor, and most of the time, I was “on” in some way or another.
It got to be a little obnoxious, I think, but as the I portion of my INFP began to assert itself, I found that I was happier when I was out of the spotlight. Sure, I’m very happy to be on a stage, but I prefer that stage to be in a theatre, rather than constantly under my feet.
This morning I wrote: “. . . and that’s when I realized that I was really a writer: the day I started treating every experience I had as an opportunity to get a good story . . .”
I guess the world is still a stage, I still have my exits and entrances, and in my time I’ve played many parts . . . but right now, I play the part of The Writer.
This creates a bit of a conflict when I am supposed to be The Actor.
I drove to the Music Center for my audition today. I would have taken the train, but I lost track of time at home — wait for it — writing. It’s about a 45 minute commitment to take the Metro, and I can drive it in 20 minutes, so drive it I did. The entire way there, I put myself into The Actor’s space: I must look crazy to other drivers, talking to myself about why the character does this thing, and what made him to that other thing, gesturing wildly, and occasionally shouting out dialogue. By the time I got to my audition, I was The Actor.
As soon as I walked into the building, The Writer completely took over. Without realizing it, I absorbed every detail I saw: the beautiful black and white photos of actors on stage at the Taper, the Ahmanson, the Chandler. The huge blow-ups of Playbills, posters, and programs, representing decades of shows. The actors quietly walking down the halls to rehearsals and workshops, their minds clearly locked deep into the scripts they clutched in their hands. The barely audible sound of a singer and a piano drifting up the halls from an unseen rehearsal room, working its way past those photos and posters to meet my ears while I signed-in.
There is this intangible thing that makes theatre completely different from everything else I do as an actor. It feels more . . . noble. When I audition for television or film, I usually wait with legions of actors in rooms that are always filled with a cacophony of ringing phones, ka-chunking copiers, whirring fax machines, and agitated assistants, while we vainly try to concentrate and prepare. There is always a sense that we are incredibly unimportant to the whole process; a necessary, but ultimately disposable, evil. There are notable exceptions (like when I auditioned for CSI) but more often than not, when we finally enter the room to do our thing, they don’t even know we’re there.
The few times I’ve been fortunate enough to audition for theatre (in Los Angeles and in New York) there’s an entirely different energy: it’s calm, it’s quiet, there are never more than four or five actors preparing their materials. There’s a sense of reverence for the craft, for the art. I realize this sounds incredibly pretentious, but it’s true. The overwhelming feeling I got today, which is the same I’ve felt whenever I’ve auditioned for theatre is This Matters.
As I sat there this morning and listened to the piano, I tried to read over my lines, but The Writer shoved The Actor out of the way, and did his best to suck in every last detail. I’ve realized that when these conflicts come up, I should just get out of the way and let them duke it out. If The Actor is ready, The Writer can do his thing. If The Actor needs more work, The Writer usually sits quietly and waits his turn.

After a few minutes, the door opened, and an actor walked out. He looked spent, but happy, like he’d left it all on the floor in there.
“Wil?” The casting director said.
“That’s me,” I said, as I picked up my sides.
She introduced herself, and walked me into the room. It was a long rectangular space, with a bare wooden floor and a small table at one end near the door. A few metal chairs lined up against the long wall to my left. The room was huge, but it felt more welcoming and more comfortable than many of the “intimate” television offices I’ve sat in recently.
I looked around, and realized that I’d read in this exact room about a decade ago, for a play at the Taper. I forget the title, but it was a great bit of work, and I was totally not up to the task. I didn’t deserve the opportunity; I got the audition because I was A Famous Guy, and I did as poorly as you’d expect.
That memory flashed through my mind as I was introduced to a bunch of people, and it wasn’t until I got to the director that I was sort of back in my body. I shook his hand, and — holy shit — I connected to him immediately. I don’t know why, and I don’t want to over-think it, but there was some visceral connection, like I’d known him for a thousand years.
“This is going to be awesome,” I thought.
“Do you have any questions?” He said. Even if I do have questions, I never ask them. In a casting session, they want to know that you are completely prepared, you totally grok the character and the material, and asking questions usually indicates that you don’t, or you’re really nervous. Unless the material is really unclear, and I absolutely need to know something, I always decline the opportunity.
Fortunately, today, I really didn’t have any questions, so I just said, “I have a take on this character. I’d like to show him to you, and when I’m done, we can see where we are. Is that cool?”
He smiled warmly. “That’s fine, Wil.”
“I think I’m going to sit for this scene, is that okay?”
“Of course. But feel free to walk around if you are inclined.”
I picked up one of the metal chairs, and carried it to the middle of the room. Two actors sat opposite me in metal chairs of their own. They smiled at me as I sat down and picked up my sides.
I did the scene. I wasn’t 100% off-book, but I was connected to the material and the character. I thought I knew what the scene was about, and why this guy was saying the things he said, so I just . . . did that.
When I was done, the director said, “That was great, Wil.” He turned to the casting director and said, “Do we have any other scenes for Wil to read?”
“No, that’s it,” she said.
“We have a ton of scenes for [the character],” one of the other men at the table, who I think was a producer, said.
The three of them talked for a moment, and they found another scene, which I think is an audition scene for a different character. The director walked up to me and handed me the sides.
“He doesn’t talk very much in this scene,” he told me, “but I just want to see you do a little bit more.”
Outwardly, I smiled and thanked him. Inwardly, I had torn off my shirt, Brandi Chastain-style, and I was running laps around the room.
He gave me some background on the relationship, and told me what he thought the character was emotionally experiencing.
“Okay?” he said.
“Yeah, sure.” I nodded.
“Would you like a minute to look at that?” The casting director asked me.
“Yeah, that would be great,” I said.
I walked back out into the waiting room, sat down on this big comfy couch, and read the scene.
Wow.
See, the material is so amazing, it’s so clear and so beautifully crafted, and the direction I got was so clear, so specific and precise . . . all I had to do was open my mouth and hope that I didn’t get in the way of the words.
While I read the scene, two older actors stopped in near the couch where I was sitting. The man wore a tweedy jacket, the woman a big, breezy dress. They both held scripts under their arms and talked enthusiastically about a workshop they were doing. This matters.
I went back into the room.
“Are you ready?” The director asked me. He said it in such a friendly way, so reassuring and so kind . . . I can’t even begin to describe how wonderful it feels (and how rare it is) for a director to make me feel like he really wants me to do well. In fact, is looking forward to it.
“Well,” I shrugged, “We’ll see!”

We laughed as I walked back into the room, and stood next to this metal chair that I’d sat on for my first scene.
I read the second scene. Considering that I’d had about six minutes with the material, and The Actor was fighting with The Writer the whole time I was trying to prepare, I felt that I did quite well. I felt connected to the material. I felt like I belonged in this room.
When I finished, the director said, softly, “That was beautiful, Wil. Thank you for coming in.”
“Thank you,” I said. I handed the sides back to the casting director, and let the door close behind me when I left.
The Actor looked at The Writer. “Did you get that?” He said.
The Writer nodded. “I got all of that,” he said. “Nice watching you work.”
“The feeling is mutual,” The Actor said.
They walked across the parking lot and got into the car.

I have an audition for a play this morning. I’m excited, because this is something that I can totally do, but I’m slightly nervous, too . . . in situations like this (where I feel pretty confident), it’s easy to grip the bat too hard. So here’s how I’ll have a successful audition:

1. keep it simple
2. respect the material
3. make it my own
4. don’t over-think or over-complicate it (see number one)
5. have fun
6. when I’m done, let it go

. . . don’t forget that “successful” doesn’t necessarily mean that I get the job . . .
This week’s Games of our Lives is Tapper:

For maximum fun, whenever your video-game counterpart chugs a beer, chug one of your own. If you can make it past level three, you’re an honorary Frat Guy. At level seven, you’re an honorary Kennedy. Past level 10, you’re Ted Kennedy.

I feel like I’m starting to hit my stride with Games of our Lives. Writing it is currently the highlight of my week.
Later today, I have another audition, this time for a cool improv job. I get to work with my friend Travis from ACME, so I’m really looking forward to that. Whether we get the job or not, I’m guaranteed to have fun there.
It’s kinda weird to write about auditions . . . they used to be so important to me, but my priorities have changed, and my focus has switched so much in the past few years, they’re not life-or-death any more. I can honestly say that I just hope to have a good time, and not stink up the place. At the very least, I usually get a good story out of the thing.
. . . and that’s when I realized that I was really a writer: the day I started treating every experience I had as an opportunity to get a good story . . .

Anne’s away overnight celebrating a Big Birthday with her friend, so I’m home alone with the kids.
That means pizza for dinner, Family Guy and Futurama on TV, and some general goofing off until their bedtime which was a few hours ago.
After they went to sleep, I sat at my desk, fired up my Death Cab For Cutie / Wilco / The Shins / Nada Surf playlist, and worked with my friend Russ on the Great WWdN Redesign of 2005. It’s coming along nicely, and I’m really excited to get it finished.
Riley has slept under my feet for much of the time I’ve been here, while Sketch has walked in and out of the room about a hundred times (that guy who said “A cat is always on the wrong side of a closed door” was talking about my Fat Guy). Sketch has been coughing a lot the last week or so, and I’m really worried that he’s nearing the end of his life. I just can’t afford the ~300 dollars it costs every single time I take him to the vet, (and he hates the tests and the drive there) so I’m just consulting with her on the phone once or twice a week, and hoping for the best. Sketch’s little heart is sick, and his disease is clearly advancing, but he still sits in my lap when I write, and sleeps on my chest every night . . . the thought of losing him (probably sooner than later) is just too much to bear. It’s really hard to face that reality, because the rest of him is healthy and happy. I guess when it’s time, he’ll tell me, just like Felix did.
I think he knows I’m writing about him — he just walked over to me, put his little paws up on my leg, and meowed until I picked him up. He’s looking over my hands as I write this . . . Hi Sketch. I love you, you fat little guy.
(Just in case he can read . . . I swear, he’s turning his head to follow the cursor while I type. Heh.)
It’s just after midnight now, and I’ve been working without a break since I put the kids into bed around 9:30, so it’s time for bed.
Before I sat down to write this, I walked through the house and checked the doors to make sure they were locked, turned off lights, got myself a glass of water . . . and walked out onto the porch to call Felix in for the night.
I really did it. I opened the door, and without even thinking called out, “Feeeeeeelix! The Bear! The Be—” before I remembered that he’s not ever going to come trotting across my lawn and up the driveway again.
That made me sad, and I cried a little bit before I walked back into the house. Then, I walked past the little memorial we made in the house for The Bear, with his (now empty) cup of water, his dish and his little paw prints in plaster, and I cried a little bit more. I still miss him. A lot.
And now Sketch is still sitting on my lap, looking back at me with his little fangface, and the tears are threatening to come back, this time for him.
I think it’s time to go to sleep.

Via boingboing, I found the Dummy Text generator:

There’s a voice that keeps on calling me. Down the road, that’s where I’ll always be. Every stop I make, I make a new friend. Can’t stay for long, just turn around and I’m gone again. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll want to settle down, Until tomorrow, I’ll just keep moving on.
80 days around the world, we’ll find a pot of gold just sitting where the rainbow’s ending. Time – we’ll fight against the time, and we’ll fly on the white wings of the wind. 80 days around the world, no we won’t say a word before the ship is really back. Round, round, all around the world. Round, all around the world. Round, all around the world. Round, all around the world.
Ten years ago a crack commando unit was sent to prison by a military court for a crime they didn’t commit. These men promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the government, they survive as soldiers of fortune. If you have a problem and no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire the A-team.

I think I may use this to create my next masterpiece!