Making Water...
When I was a child, my mom had a variety of euphemisms for various different functions, bodily and otherwise. One that popped into my head today - please don't ask me why - was the popular "Making Water".
"The kitty's in there making water," she'd say, pointing at the cat box. "You sit here. I have to go make water."
Make water? How does one make water, I'd think. And what was I missing?
When I went into the bathroom, it was to pee, piddle, urinate. (For many years during my childhood, I took a great deal of pleasure referring to "Your innate ability to...", just because it sounded like urinate. I don't think anyone ever caught on.) Sometimes, I'd poop or go doo doo. (Here's another one. I never once said "Doo doo" as I was going doo doo, so...?) But make water?
I imagined little machines people had that would take the ice out of the urinals and convert it to ice. I certainly had no conception of the molecular structure of water, though that might have helped.
And why make water, anyway? The bathroom's full of water! It's in the sink. It's in the urinal. There are bowls full of it, for crying out loud!
I swear, people, do you realize how much faster humanity would be curing cancer, healing the planet, overcoming Republicanism if we didn't have to spend years of our childhood trying to figure this shit out?!
...
... by the way, it's taking a leak.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
When your subconscious talks to you... and you can't understand a word it says...
This occurred this morning, while I was asleep (which is not an enormous window of time, considering as how I only slept between 2 and 4:30am).
I'm standing in a college lecture hall and someone is talking at length about dreams. I don't know who he was but he was very familiar. The last thing he says is directed right at me and I realize that we are alone. "When people in your dreams start talking nonsense, that is your conscious and subconscious minds fighting. You are conscious of the dream state but your subconscious won't allow it the satisfaction."
Of course, I thought. That makes sense.
And right around that time it began to dawn on me...
"Now," he said, starting again, "there are sharks in the back seat."
Huh?, I thought.
And then I woke up.
This occurred this morning, while I was asleep (which is not an enormous window of time, considering as how I only slept between 2 and 4:30am).
I'm standing in a college lecture hall and someone is talking at length about dreams. I don't know who he was but he was very familiar. The last thing he says is directed right at me and I realize that we are alone. "When people in your dreams start talking nonsense, that is your conscious and subconscious minds fighting. You are conscious of the dream state but your subconscious won't allow it the satisfaction."
Of course, I thought. That makes sense.
And right around that time it began to dawn on me...
"Now," he said, starting again, "there are sharks in the back seat."
Huh?, I thought.
And then I woke up.
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Panic...
I just had one of the worst panic attacks... well, since the last one.
I was sitting here at my desk (here at Linkrosoft!), looking up discount prices for travel through our company discount page. Turns out I can get a room in Vegas for $59/night. See, Keith wants to go to Vegas at the beginning of May and, being the only one with a credit card, I'm making room arrangements by default. (Any readers out there in a position to give me a discount in Vegas????)
Then, I started looking at the other discounts. Cruises. New York. Paris. London. I thought, when am I ever going to go some place like that.
My next thought was why would I go there alone?
That's why I don't travel, because I end up going everywhere alone. And I don't like being alone.
And I'll always be alone.
I'll die alone. Sad and alone.
There's absolutely no hope.
Suddenly, I couldn't catch my breath. I started hyperventilating and wanted to run away.
I wanted to scream.
I went to Andreas, a guy I know here, and bummed a cigarette. I went outside in the warmth of the day, smoked, and calmed down.
I am so very sad.
I just had one of the worst panic attacks... well, since the last one.
I was sitting here at my desk (here at Linkrosoft!), looking up discount prices for travel through our company discount page. Turns out I can get a room in Vegas for $59/night. See, Keith wants to go to Vegas at the beginning of May and, being the only one with a credit card, I'm making room arrangements by default. (Any readers out there in a position to give me a discount in Vegas????)
Then, I started looking at the other discounts. Cruises. New York. Paris. London. I thought, when am I ever going to go some place like that.
My next thought was why would I go there alone?
That's why I don't travel, because I end up going everywhere alone. And I don't like being alone.
And I'll always be alone.
I'll die alone. Sad and alone.
There's absolutely no hope.
Suddenly, I couldn't catch my breath. I started hyperventilating and wanted to run away.
I wanted to scream.
I went to Andreas, a guy I know here, and bummed a cigarette. I went outside in the warmth of the day, smoked, and calmed down.
I am so very sad.
Fewer Jobs, More Employment!...
Just saw this story about Treasury Secretary John Snow who seems to think that our economy would be better if there weren't so many god-damned jobs! Pesky jobs! Shoo, jobs! Shooo!
Talk about a Snow job!
Just saw this story about Treasury Secretary John Snow who seems to think that our economy would be better if there weren't so many god-damned jobs! Pesky jobs! Shoo, jobs! Shooo!
Talk about a Snow job!
Richard Lind...
Got an email from Rich this morning and, after the entry about Tim last week, I thought I'd jot down a quick note about everyone's favorite psychopath.
That's what I thought about him when we first met. Now "first met" is a highly subjective term. What it really means is "when I first noticed he was there".
When I first noticed Richard was there, I was at a party in Costa Mesa. The point of the party and why it was given has long escaped me but I remember it drew in my small circle of friends way back in late 1984/early 1985. We were all on the staff of the el Don, the newspaper back in college. Here's a quick rundown:
Kelly Ward: Editor-in-Chief, Pain-in-the-Ass, Fat-Ass. Okay, she was nice enough but she was one of those people who spoke down a steep hill.
Mohammed Reswan: Kelly's boyfriend. Not on the newspaper staff. What was this nice looking, middle-eastern guy (who, for all I know, ended up at Guantanamo) doing dating this bitch? What I didn't realize back at the time was that some guys go for ugly girls. This guy smoked so much, he made me look like a non-smoker!
Cynthia Fitzpatrick: Kelly's friend and the only person, next to Rich, who I would know after college was done. (Graduated? No. Finished? Yes.) She was on the newspaper staff but, for the life of me, I cannot remember what the hell she did. Richard and I used to say she was too cute to... um, have sex with.
Barney Thompson: I have a feeling I'm getting the name completely wrong here. This guy considered himself a muckraker, a real old-fashioned reporter... he also took himself far too seriously and did a lot of macho bullshit to prove himself to himself. I'd never met anyone so Republican, either. He wouldn't be the last. Oddly enough, nice guy.
Richard Lind: Sports page editor. I had no idea who he was. I never read the sports page - it could have knitting patterns for all I cared.
Ken La Salle: Here's this guy who left high school the hero. Everyone thought he'd be winning an Oscar and a Pulitzer just a few months after graduation. Then, he hit the real world.... and began to experience that tangy taste of shit. He couldn't afford college and ended up going to Santa Ana College (community college - how sad!) because, at least, he could write for the paper.
It was a Friday night and the party was at Reswan's apartment at the Aspen Apartments - at the time, a swanky complex near South Coast Plaza. I went alone. Odds are, with the apartment complex only a few miles from my mom's house (where I lived at the time), I walked there.
I wasn't there long. I couldn't stay. Though Reswan was the perfect host, it was hard to sit near Kelly without wanting to strangle her. And Barney was talking up the movie "Red Dawn" as if it were portending some absolute threat that must be met, in lieu of a time machine, immediately. I had made the mistake of meeting this argument with reason... and if I didn't leave the party soon, Barney would see me dead.
"I'm going to get some smokes," I probably said, or something like it.
Rich, who had come in with beer - nineteen years old and he comes in with beer! - said he'd go with me. Now, I knew how this played out. I'd been here before. When this person found out I didn't have a car, I'd be in for humiliation. So, I headed him off. "I'm not driving. I was just going to walk over to the gas station."
"That's cool. I'll go with you."
So, we walked. Nothing was said at first. I don't know his reason but mine was because my mind was reeling. After high school, I'd grown used to being alone... this guy was intruding!
But we did start talking eventually and, if I remember correctly, it started with very common things. Girls. Writing. Star Wars. Stuff like that.
Half way to the gas station, the topic jumped into uncomfortable territory: sports. Richard said something like, "Yeah, I've got a softball game this weekend. I don't know if I'm going because I dislocated my shoulder and tore five tendons - but that just goes with the territory." My worst injury to date: writer's cramp.
And, so, Richard Lind became, in my mind, everyone's favorite psychopath.
(I'm one to talk. Only a few years before, I'd jumped off a three-story parking structure just to see what it was like!)
At the gas-station now and I get my cigarettes. Actually, mine and Reswan's. One pack for me and two for him. I light one up and Richard asks for one. I give him one and he lights it, holding it gingerly to his lips - and COUGHS.
And I thought, "Ah, you're not so tough."
And so, we became friends. Richard could tear tendons and walk away from it but he couldn't smoke worth a damn. I could hardly hold a baseball bat (as he would later learn when we started going to batting cages) but I could smoke. Actually, I think the real attraction back then was that Rich lived like a writer should live and acted like a writer should act.
Back then, writing was THE THING to us. We were determined to become writers. Whatever Richard had to prove - and being an artist, unlike being an accountant, is all about proving something to someone - I knew I had to be a writer because I'd been such a failure as an actor. We would talk writing, argue writing... we never really seemed to write that much...
Well, Richard and I last track (as I previously mentioned) and have since reconnected. Richard sold me on the idea of writing a book about our lives from then to now (or a pre-determined now-like period). The idea of it, writing a book about my life from just before Rosa to just after, appealed to me greatly and I've been itching to start since. But, as I mentioned, I got an email from Rich this morning. In it, he expressed the difficulty he's been having in starting this project.
I can just imagine how difficult it would be. Memory fades, events blur, whole months vanish. And if you don't write facts, you write feelings. This is even more absurd. I'm not sure of my feelings today - how am I supposed to assume what they were yesterday? Where's the history book that tells me what happened?! Oh, it's in there, in our heads and in our hearts. It takes finding but it's there to be found.
Mind you, Richard's always been more of a perfectionist than I - and, for those of you who've worked with or for me, that's saying something. He would never show me his work, for fear of a misplaced apostrophe or misspelled article. Me? I'd make gold out of road apples. I didn't care how much any of it stank; I'd say, "Look at this!"
Don't be afraid of crap, I've always said to other writers. Crap can be fixed - as long as it's not all crap
... okay, one more story just to wash away all that crap imagery...
Richard has a daughter through his first marriage and I was fortunate enough to be named the child's god-father. Mind you, with Rich being is a different state through most of the girl's life, I haven't been able to be the best god-father in the world but there was one time and, having missed out on having children of my own, it a memory I'll always cherish.
I'd come out to Missouri one August for a visit. (Couldn't Rich have warned me about mid-western summers????) One night, Rich and his wife let me put their little girl to bed. Uncomfortable? You bet! I didn't know what to do! I found myself asking her! (The girl could have said, "They always give me a quart of ice cream before I go to bed," and I would've believed her!!)
So, I tucked her in and pulled out "Where the Wild Things Are", her first request of the evening.... and couldn't understand the story for the life of me. And, having no children of my own, I started analyzing the story - as if she was Rich by proxy! Well, she didn't disappoint. She jumped in with a very clear deconstruction of the book, helping me understand it.
Then, it was something more my speed, a Disney book with Mickey, Goofy, and Donald. (I think it was the Jack and the Beanstalk rip-off.) I couldn't do a decent Donald Duck impression but she loved my Mickey and Goofey and gave me big hugs.
I just wanted to go out and make babies. Rosa was back in California, though, and babies were the last thing she wanted, anyway.
Later, Richard and his wife were fighting - divorce-level fighting. I shouldn't have interfered but the last thing I wanted them to do was break up. I'd much rather they move back to California and play board games with Rosa and I. So, Rich and I went for a walk in the middle of an sweltering night and he listed grievance after grievance. And I told him, "It doesn't matter what your problems are. If you love her, you need to do whatever you can to work them out."
Later, I was proven to be full of shit. I lost Rosa.
Got an email from Rich this morning and, after the entry about Tim last week, I thought I'd jot down a quick note about everyone's favorite psychopath.
That's what I thought about him when we first met. Now "first met" is a highly subjective term. What it really means is "when I first noticed he was there".
When I first noticed Richard was there, I was at a party in Costa Mesa. The point of the party and why it was given has long escaped me but I remember it drew in my small circle of friends way back in late 1984/early 1985. We were all on the staff of the el Don, the newspaper back in college. Here's a quick rundown:
Kelly Ward: Editor-in-Chief, Pain-in-the-Ass, Fat-Ass. Okay, she was nice enough but she was one of those people who spoke down a steep hill.
Mohammed Reswan: Kelly's boyfriend. Not on the newspaper staff. What was this nice looking, middle-eastern guy (who, for all I know, ended up at Guantanamo) doing dating this bitch? What I didn't realize back at the time was that some guys go for ugly girls. This guy smoked so much, he made me look like a non-smoker!
Cynthia Fitzpatrick: Kelly's friend and the only person, next to Rich, who I would know after college was done. (Graduated? No. Finished? Yes.) She was on the newspaper staff but, for the life of me, I cannot remember what the hell she did. Richard and I used to say she was too cute to... um, have sex with.
Barney Thompson: I have a feeling I'm getting the name completely wrong here. This guy considered himself a muckraker, a real old-fashioned reporter... he also took himself far too seriously and did a lot of macho bullshit to prove himself to himself. I'd never met anyone so Republican, either. He wouldn't be the last. Oddly enough, nice guy.
Richard Lind: Sports page editor. I had no idea who he was. I never read the sports page - it could have knitting patterns for all I cared.
Ken La Salle: Here's this guy who left high school the hero. Everyone thought he'd be winning an Oscar and a Pulitzer just a few months after graduation. Then, he hit the real world.... and began to experience that tangy taste of shit. He couldn't afford college and ended up going to Santa Ana College (community college - how sad!) because, at least, he could write for the paper.
It was a Friday night and the party was at Reswan's apartment at the Aspen Apartments - at the time, a swanky complex near South Coast Plaza. I went alone. Odds are, with the apartment complex only a few miles from my mom's house (where I lived at the time), I walked there.
I wasn't there long. I couldn't stay. Though Reswan was the perfect host, it was hard to sit near Kelly without wanting to strangle her. And Barney was talking up the movie "Red Dawn" as if it were portending some absolute threat that must be met, in lieu of a time machine, immediately. I had made the mistake of meeting this argument with reason... and if I didn't leave the party soon, Barney would see me dead.
"I'm going to get some smokes," I probably said, or something like it.
Rich, who had come in with beer - nineteen years old and he comes in with beer! - said he'd go with me. Now, I knew how this played out. I'd been here before. When this person found out I didn't have a car, I'd be in for humiliation. So, I headed him off. "I'm not driving. I was just going to walk over to the gas station."
"That's cool. I'll go with you."
So, we walked. Nothing was said at first. I don't know his reason but mine was because my mind was reeling. After high school, I'd grown used to being alone... this guy was intruding!
But we did start talking eventually and, if I remember correctly, it started with very common things. Girls. Writing. Star Wars. Stuff like that.
Half way to the gas station, the topic jumped into uncomfortable territory: sports. Richard said something like, "Yeah, I've got a softball game this weekend. I don't know if I'm going because I dislocated my shoulder and tore five tendons - but that just goes with the territory." My worst injury to date: writer's cramp.
And, so, Richard Lind became, in my mind, everyone's favorite psychopath.
(I'm one to talk. Only a few years before, I'd jumped off a three-story parking structure just to see what it was like!)
At the gas-station now and I get my cigarettes. Actually, mine and Reswan's. One pack for me and two for him. I light one up and Richard asks for one. I give him one and he lights it, holding it gingerly to his lips - and COUGHS.
And I thought, "Ah, you're not so tough."
And so, we became friends. Richard could tear tendons and walk away from it but he couldn't smoke worth a damn. I could hardly hold a baseball bat (as he would later learn when we started going to batting cages) but I could smoke. Actually, I think the real attraction back then was that Rich lived like a writer should live and acted like a writer should act.
Back then, writing was THE THING to us. We were determined to become writers. Whatever Richard had to prove - and being an artist, unlike being an accountant, is all about proving something to someone - I knew I had to be a writer because I'd been such a failure as an actor. We would talk writing, argue writing... we never really seemed to write that much...
Well, Richard and I last track (as I previously mentioned) and have since reconnected. Richard sold me on the idea of writing a book about our lives from then to now (or a pre-determined now-like period). The idea of it, writing a book about my life from just before Rosa to just after, appealed to me greatly and I've been itching to start since. But, as I mentioned, I got an email from Rich this morning. In it, he expressed the difficulty he's been having in starting this project.
I can just imagine how difficult it would be. Memory fades, events blur, whole months vanish. And if you don't write facts, you write feelings. This is even more absurd. I'm not sure of my feelings today - how am I supposed to assume what they were yesterday? Where's the history book that tells me what happened?! Oh, it's in there, in our heads and in our hearts. It takes finding but it's there to be found.
Mind you, Richard's always been more of a perfectionist than I - and, for those of you who've worked with or for me, that's saying something. He would never show me his work, for fear of a misplaced apostrophe or misspelled article. Me? I'd make gold out of road apples. I didn't care how much any of it stank; I'd say, "Look at this!"
Don't be afraid of crap, I've always said to other writers. Crap can be fixed - as long as it's not all crap
... okay, one more story just to wash away all that crap imagery...
Richard has a daughter through his first marriage and I was fortunate enough to be named the child's god-father. Mind you, with Rich being is a different state through most of the girl's life, I haven't been able to be the best god-father in the world but there was one time and, having missed out on having children of my own, it a memory I'll always cherish.
I'd come out to Missouri one August for a visit. (Couldn't Rich have warned me about mid-western summers????) One night, Rich and his wife let me put their little girl to bed. Uncomfortable? You bet! I didn't know what to do! I found myself asking her! (The girl could have said, "They always give me a quart of ice cream before I go to bed," and I would've believed her!!)
So, I tucked her in and pulled out "Where the Wild Things Are", her first request of the evening.... and couldn't understand the story for the life of me. And, having no children of my own, I started analyzing the story - as if she was Rich by proxy! Well, she didn't disappoint. She jumped in with a very clear deconstruction of the book, helping me understand it.
Then, it was something more my speed, a Disney book with Mickey, Goofy, and Donald. (I think it was the Jack and the Beanstalk rip-off.) I couldn't do a decent Donald Duck impression but she loved my Mickey and Goofey and gave me big hugs.
I just wanted to go out and make babies. Rosa was back in California, though, and babies were the last thing she wanted, anyway.
Later, Richard and his wife were fighting - divorce-level fighting. I shouldn't have interfered but the last thing I wanted them to do was break up. I'd much rather they move back to California and play board games with Rosa and I. So, Rich and I went for a walk in the middle of an sweltering night and he listed grievance after grievance. And I told him, "It doesn't matter what your problems are. If you love her, you need to do whatever you can to work them out."
Later, I was proven to be full of shit. I lost Rosa.
Monday, March 29, 2004
Opening Weekend...
Well, it's Monday morning again, dear friends... and we need to get together to prevent this terrible tragedy! Stop having Monday mornings. Wouldn't we all be much happier?
Anyway, another weekend is behind us. What a weekend! Opening weekend! Whew!
You know, some shows are a cake walk and I can do them without any real preparation. This show... well, with this show I actually get nervous and afraid I'm going to forget my lines!
We were sold out this entire weekend. It's great to play for full houses - and for those of you still wondering from the last paragraph, no, I didn't screw up.
We had reviewers from the Daily Pilot and the Register there. Hopefully, we'll see good reviews soon.
As for me, I enjoyed the rest of the time: sleeping in on Saturday, cooking myself a real dinner on Sunday - couldn't be beat!
Oh, sure. I had my off moments... such as 2:00 this morning when the voice started screaming at me to go to Rosa's. Oh, I fought it - and, after about an hour, went back to sleep.
So, that was the weekend in a nutshell. I keep them in nutshells because... well, what else you gonna do with nutshells?
Well, it's Monday morning again, dear friends... and we need to get together to prevent this terrible tragedy! Stop having Monday mornings. Wouldn't we all be much happier?
Anyway, another weekend is behind us. What a weekend! Opening weekend! Whew!
You know, some shows are a cake walk and I can do them without any real preparation. This show... well, with this show I actually get nervous and afraid I'm going to forget my lines!
We were sold out this entire weekend. It's great to play for full houses - and for those of you still wondering from the last paragraph, no, I didn't screw up.
We had reviewers from the Daily Pilot and the Register there. Hopefully, we'll see good reviews soon.
As for me, I enjoyed the rest of the time: sleeping in on Saturday, cooking myself a real dinner on Sunday - couldn't be beat!
Oh, sure. I had my off moments... such as 2:00 this morning when the voice started screaming at me to go to Rosa's. Oh, I fought it - and, after about an hour, went back to sleep.
So, that was the weekend in a nutshell. I keep them in nutshells because... well, what else you gonna do with nutshells?
Friday, March 26, 2004
Tim Murphy...
Tim's been on my mind a lot lately... probably because I keep running into him.
Mind you, this is Tim in Oregon we're talking about here, and though that makes him hard to run into I still seem to manage it.
Tim and I met back in high school and it didn't take long for me to realize I'd found my brother, if not by birth. I'd never really felt close to my own brother - let's be real, I hated him at the time - but Tim had all the qualities you'd expect from a brother without the burden of being related.
We grew very close.
After high school, well, things kind of fell apart between us - shattered is more like it - but I've been very fortunate to find him again. He lives in Oregon and I'm here in Orange County, California but we try to keep in touch.
And, like I said, though it's hard to run into the guy, he's popping up almost as much as Rosa!
So, I thought I'd write about it.
This probably all has to do with the Newport Theater Arts Center, where we're performing "Something to Hide", in a way. You see, many years ago.... okay, a shitload of years ago - we're talking circa 1983 - Tim and I performed there. Tim was taking some kind of performing class and needed someone to help him with a musical number. Me, being the wunderkind that I was, jumped at the opportunity. We did a song from Sweet Charity - the trapped in the elevator song (which has to be reworked as those of you who know the show will certainly know).
So, every time I go down there, I think of Tim. (Mind you, when I get there I think of Rosa - as mentioned in a previous post.)
Then, last night, I started watching Arthur, the film with Dudley Moore.
It seems like an eternity ago but Tim and I saw that movie in the theater. It was a dollar theater - back when they had those - and I think Tim and I actually snuck into it (theater-hopped). We very quickly picked up on Mr. Moore's laugh/cackle and did it throughout the movie... and after the movie... mostly me.
Now, memory being so fragile, there are so many things that I since escaped me. For instance, how did we get to Newport Beach? How did we get home from the dollar theater in Fountain Valley? (I want to say we walked - we were stupid enough to....)
Tim and I would often walk everywhere - smoking, of course - and talk about everything. I've been very lucky to have friends with ideas who like to talk: both Tims, Rich, Rob, Rosa, Sean, Sean, and Sean...
Tim Murphy looks a whole lot like Kevin Smith, the film-maker, in case you're wondering - and could play a wicked Silent Bob.
And I am very lucky to know him.
Tim's been on my mind a lot lately... probably because I keep running into him.
Mind you, this is Tim in Oregon we're talking about here, and though that makes him hard to run into I still seem to manage it.
Tim and I met back in high school and it didn't take long for me to realize I'd found my brother, if not by birth. I'd never really felt close to my own brother - let's be real, I hated him at the time - but Tim had all the qualities you'd expect from a brother without the burden of being related.
We grew very close.
After high school, well, things kind of fell apart between us - shattered is more like it - but I've been very fortunate to find him again. He lives in Oregon and I'm here in Orange County, California but we try to keep in touch.
And, like I said, though it's hard to run into the guy, he's popping up almost as much as Rosa!
So, I thought I'd write about it.
This probably all has to do with the Newport Theater Arts Center, where we're performing "Something to Hide", in a way. You see, many years ago.... okay, a shitload of years ago - we're talking circa 1983 - Tim and I performed there. Tim was taking some kind of performing class and needed someone to help him with a musical number. Me, being the wunderkind that I was, jumped at the opportunity. We did a song from Sweet Charity - the trapped in the elevator song (which has to be reworked as those of you who know the show will certainly know).
So, every time I go down there, I think of Tim. (Mind you, when I get there I think of Rosa - as mentioned in a previous post.)
Then, last night, I started watching Arthur, the film with Dudley Moore.
It seems like an eternity ago but Tim and I saw that movie in the theater. It was a dollar theater - back when they had those - and I think Tim and I actually snuck into it (theater-hopped). We very quickly picked up on Mr. Moore's laugh/cackle and did it throughout the movie... and after the movie... mostly me.
Now, memory being so fragile, there are so many things that I since escaped me. For instance, how did we get to Newport Beach? How did we get home from the dollar theater in Fountain Valley? (I want to say we walked - we were stupid enough to....)
Tim and I would often walk everywhere - smoking, of course - and talk about everything. I've been very lucky to have friends with ideas who like to talk: both Tims, Rich, Rob, Rosa, Sean, Sean, and Sean...
Tim Murphy looks a whole lot like Kevin Smith, the film-maker, in case you're wondering - and could play a wicked Silent Bob.
And I am very lucky to know him.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Something to Preview...
Last night was the Preview performance of Something to Hide. Preview performances are basically final dress rehearsals where you invite some friends and family to stop by and watch it and tell you how great it was afterwards... even if it stank.
... It was... an interesting show...
First off, let me tell you that our show runs long. How long? Well, usually I only have to shave once a week and, having shaved that morning, I had to shave by intermission! It was long! About 150 minutes long! Sitting in the green room with the other actors during the final scenes, I thought I heard people in the audience snoring.
It was the other actors.
I suppose I should have known it would be an interesting show when I said the line "Disguised handwriting, cheap notepaper" as "Cheap handwriting, disguised notepaper"... it should have warned me.
Then, I had a scene with Miss Cunningham and, towards the end, she lost it. Lost what? Oh, touch with reality, her marbles - take your pick. She just stood there, gaping at me. I tried feeding her lines... no help. Finally, she burst out with, "I suppose I should go!" Yes, I agreed, you should.
Then, in comes the Inspector and, starting the scene, he immediately jumps to the end of the scene - and it's a long scene, folks! Then, he jumps to the beginning. Then, to the middle. Then, to the end. Meanwhile, I'm taking a roller coaster ride!
Later, Julie steps off the stage and says to me, "I don't know what the hell's going on out there!"
Oh, it was fun.
But it wasn't over.
My mom, Keith, and his son (my nephew) Cliff had come and were sitting in the front row. When it came time for my bow, they all stood. Sit down, I thought. Please sit down. No, they kept standing and clapping. I felt like such a dork.
Afterwards, Teri gave me some notes. One of the things she said was, "You know, you're going to have to help the Inspector out there."
"Huh?"
"The reality of the situation is here you are at (she wrote down 30) and here he is at (she wrote 73) and he's not as mentally agile as you." Mentally agile? My brain can't walk and chew gum without falling down!
I pointed at her paper. "You know I'm not that young."
"Fine," she said. She scratched out 30 and wrote 35.
Folks, at 38, I don't easily fall for flattery.
"We open tomorrow. You don't have much of a choice," she said.
Okay. That I fall for.
.... It's gonna be fun!
Last night was the Preview performance of Something to Hide. Preview performances are basically final dress rehearsals where you invite some friends and family to stop by and watch it and tell you how great it was afterwards... even if it stank.
... It was... an interesting show...
First off, let me tell you that our show runs long. How long? Well, usually I only have to shave once a week and, having shaved that morning, I had to shave by intermission! It was long! About 150 minutes long! Sitting in the green room with the other actors during the final scenes, I thought I heard people in the audience snoring.
It was the other actors.
I suppose I should have known it would be an interesting show when I said the line "Disguised handwriting, cheap notepaper" as "Cheap handwriting, disguised notepaper"... it should have warned me.
Then, I had a scene with Miss Cunningham and, towards the end, she lost it. Lost what? Oh, touch with reality, her marbles - take your pick. She just stood there, gaping at me. I tried feeding her lines... no help. Finally, she burst out with, "I suppose I should go!" Yes, I agreed, you should.
Then, in comes the Inspector and, starting the scene, he immediately jumps to the end of the scene - and it's a long scene, folks! Then, he jumps to the beginning. Then, to the middle. Then, to the end. Meanwhile, I'm taking a roller coaster ride!
Later, Julie steps off the stage and says to me, "I don't know what the hell's going on out there!"
Oh, it was fun.
But it wasn't over.
My mom, Keith, and his son (my nephew) Cliff had come and were sitting in the front row. When it came time for my bow, they all stood. Sit down, I thought. Please sit down. No, they kept standing and clapping. I felt like such a dork.
Afterwards, Teri gave me some notes. One of the things she said was, "You know, you're going to have to help the Inspector out there."
"Huh?"
"The reality of the situation is here you are at (she wrote down 30) and here he is at (she wrote 73) and he's not as mentally agile as you." Mentally agile? My brain can't walk and chew gum without falling down!
I pointed at her paper. "You know I'm not that young."
"Fine," she said. She scratched out 30 and wrote 35.
Folks, at 38, I don't easily fall for flattery.
"We open tomorrow. You don't have much of a choice," she said.
Okay. That I fall for.
.... It's gonna be fun!
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
The Big Thing After the First Big Thing (AKA The Season of the Writer)...
As you know "Something to Hide" will be going into production very soon. (We're talking tomorrow night, folks!) That means my schedule will begin to open up and my life will return to normal... if you want to call it living. (If you want to call it normal!)
For months now, I've had this great idea in the back of my head. I think it started around Christmas. It was this - actually, it was just a feeling, not yet a germ, not yet a seed, not yet a seedling to take root to turn into an inkling that would later grow into an idea.
It was a tapping on the back of my cerebellum.
All I knew was that it would be really need to have a guy interviewed on stage. In fact, there'd be no interviewer.
This wouldn't be a monologue.
But what would it be?
Months passed.
"Something to Hide" came along. Then, I was inspired to write "Falling Together", my first screenplay. It looked like my course was set for the next few months.
That was until last night.
The feeling dropped into fertile ground, took seed... and grew.
Now, it wasn't just one guy on stage. He was still there, under a light. Then, there was another light... and many other people. (Yes, I'm intentionally being vague.) I've always been interested in minimalists... mostly because I think it's a stupid way to go. Stupid people must intrigue me.
Now, I had a format but it certainly wasn't a play. Not by a long shot. There was no story to be told.
That was until this morning.
Of all the things I miss about being with Rosa, one of the things I miss about myself from back then is my books. I wrote seven novels, and though none of them were published I always I thought they were quite good. For all of those novels, there were an innumerable amount started and never finished. One of those was called "Happy Landings". "Happy Landings" was the third in a trilogy of semi-autobiographical novels, two of which were never finished. The first, "My Side" (based on a newspaper column, after which this Blog was so aptly named), told the story of Francis Ell, a person who paralleled my own life up to Kelly Johnson, a girl I was desperately infatuated with in high school; it was my first completed novel. The second, "Havings of a Have Not" dealt with my fears about success and marriage, started shortly after Rosa and I were married - never finished. The third, also never finished, was called "Happy Landings"
"Happy Landings" came to me shortly after I nearly died in a plane crash... that nearly happened. It tells the story of a man who meets the love of his life and dies shortly thereafter in a plane crash. Then, he watches as she slowly puts her life back together. He narrates the story.
I started it a few years into my marriage and it was ironic, considering how things ended up with Rosa and I. (In point of fact, if the main character had broken the woman's heart by cheating on her instead of by dying, it would have predicted the outcome of my marriage very nearly perfectly.)(Which raises the eternal question: Is kissing another woman when you're married the same as having sex with another woman?) Of course, this book could never be turned into a play. It had too many locations, too many characters, too many asides, too many tangents... it was, very much, your typical Ken stream of consciousness.
It could never be turned into a play... until today. For you see, now I have the format and now I have the story.
My first play, "Everything Changes", stole the title from one of my unfinished novels. Now, I'm ready to steal both the name and the story from another.
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm still as itching to write "Falling Together" as ever. It just so happens, I'm also itching to write this as well.
I'll let you know how that goes.
When I plan to fit in ever important video game playing time is beyond me.
As you know "Something to Hide" will be going into production very soon. (We're talking tomorrow night, folks!) That means my schedule will begin to open up and my life will return to normal... if you want to call it living. (If you want to call it normal!)
For months now, I've had this great idea in the back of my head. I think it started around Christmas. It was this - actually, it was just a feeling, not yet a germ, not yet a seed, not yet a seedling to take root to turn into an inkling that would later grow into an idea.
It was a tapping on the back of my cerebellum.
All I knew was that it would be really need to have a guy interviewed on stage. In fact, there'd be no interviewer.
This wouldn't be a monologue.
But what would it be?
Months passed.
"Something to Hide" came along. Then, I was inspired to write "Falling Together", my first screenplay. It looked like my course was set for the next few months.
That was until last night.
The feeling dropped into fertile ground, took seed... and grew.
Now, it wasn't just one guy on stage. He was still there, under a light. Then, there was another light... and many other people. (Yes, I'm intentionally being vague.) I've always been interested in minimalists... mostly because I think it's a stupid way to go. Stupid people must intrigue me.
Now, I had a format but it certainly wasn't a play. Not by a long shot. There was no story to be told.
That was until this morning.
Of all the things I miss about being with Rosa, one of the things I miss about myself from back then is my books. I wrote seven novels, and though none of them were published I always I thought they were quite good. For all of those novels, there were an innumerable amount started and never finished. One of those was called "Happy Landings". "Happy Landings" was the third in a trilogy of semi-autobiographical novels, two of which were never finished. The first, "My Side" (based on a newspaper column, after which this Blog was so aptly named), told the story of Francis Ell, a person who paralleled my own life up to Kelly Johnson, a girl I was desperately infatuated with in high school; it was my first completed novel. The second, "Havings of a Have Not" dealt with my fears about success and marriage, started shortly after Rosa and I were married - never finished. The third, also never finished, was called "Happy Landings"
"Happy Landings" came to me shortly after I nearly died in a plane crash... that nearly happened. It tells the story of a man who meets the love of his life and dies shortly thereafter in a plane crash. Then, he watches as she slowly puts her life back together. He narrates the story.
I started it a few years into my marriage and it was ironic, considering how things ended up with Rosa and I. (In point of fact, if the main character had broken the woman's heart by cheating on her instead of by dying, it would have predicted the outcome of my marriage very nearly perfectly.)(Which raises the eternal question: Is kissing another woman when you're married the same as having sex with another woman?) Of course, this book could never be turned into a play. It had too many locations, too many characters, too many asides, too many tangents... it was, very much, your typical Ken stream of consciousness.
It could never be turned into a play... until today. For you see, now I have the format and now I have the story.
My first play, "Everything Changes", stole the title from one of my unfinished novels. Now, I'm ready to steal both the name and the story from another.
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm still as itching to write "Falling Together" as ever. It just so happens, I'm also itching to write this as well.
I'll let you know how that goes.
When I plan to fit in ever important video game playing time is beyond me.
But at least he was honest...
Yesterday afternoon, I'd had it. I was fed up. I had put up with four years of stupidity, mediocrity, and insensitivity here at NetLink (or whatever networking company this is). I scheduled some time with my boss and, when the time came, strode in.
I told him about the "new" documentation ideas that were going around, ideas I'd been insulted for having for years. I showed him how my ideas were far better, my designs more appealing, my plans more proactive. I displayed for him, over and over, how I'd taken a leadership role in our department. I reminded him how I'd come to his rescue whenever he'd needed copywriting done, or a new idea submitted, or a great tagline developed.
Finally, I made my appeal. I told him that four years with no career path was just too much. I needed to know where I was going with the company and why, time and again, opportunities for advancement were denied me.
And he said, "No, you don't get a career path."
He must have seen my mind reel because he leaned forward and said, "You're going to keep doing what you do and, when it comes time for a raise, you'll make more money."
I was stunned and pulled the only thing I had left out of my hat. "Mike, surely you agree that for anyone to have any motivation they must have a goal to be motivated to. The whole reason I've worked so hard has been in the hope of making some kind of advancement because of the promises that were made -"
"They were made by other people. I can't answer to those."
"I guess what I'm asking is, how can you expect me to give 100% if there's no reward for that."
For some reason, this made him mad - and I guess I should have worded things differently but I didn't really have the time. "You're the only one who comes in here asking for rewards! You do your job right or you're out!"
"I'm not saying I won't -"
"This is a waste of my time. Get out of here."
And that was it. Oh, there was this whole, nonsensical bit he spouted about people who make widgets doing that until they retire but I couldn't follow it because I couldn't see how he could possibly make such a comparison.
So, now I've lost all hope of things working here, too. I've said it before and I'll say it again - this could have all been prevented with a jump over the Grand Canyon.
Yesterday afternoon, I'd had it. I was fed up. I had put up with four years of stupidity, mediocrity, and insensitivity here at NetLink (or whatever networking company this is). I scheduled some time with my boss and, when the time came, strode in.
I told him about the "new" documentation ideas that were going around, ideas I'd been insulted for having for years. I showed him how my ideas were far better, my designs more appealing, my plans more proactive. I displayed for him, over and over, how I'd taken a leadership role in our department. I reminded him how I'd come to his rescue whenever he'd needed copywriting done, or a new idea submitted, or a great tagline developed.
Finally, I made my appeal. I told him that four years with no career path was just too much. I needed to know where I was going with the company and why, time and again, opportunities for advancement were denied me.
And he said, "No, you don't get a career path."
He must have seen my mind reel because he leaned forward and said, "You're going to keep doing what you do and, when it comes time for a raise, you'll make more money."
I was stunned and pulled the only thing I had left out of my hat. "Mike, surely you agree that for anyone to have any motivation they must have a goal to be motivated to. The whole reason I've worked so hard has been in the hope of making some kind of advancement because of the promises that were made -"
"They were made by other people. I can't answer to those."
"I guess what I'm asking is, how can you expect me to give 100% if there's no reward for that."
For some reason, this made him mad - and I guess I should have worded things differently but I didn't really have the time. "You're the only one who comes in here asking for rewards! You do your job right or you're out!"
"I'm not saying I won't -"
"This is a waste of my time. Get out of here."
And that was it. Oh, there was this whole, nonsensical bit he spouted about people who make widgets doing that until they retire but I couldn't follow it because I couldn't see how he could possibly make such a comparison.
So, now I've lost all hope of things working here, too. I've said it before and I'll say it again - this could have all been prevented with a jump over the Grand Canyon.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Time for the first of another TRUE STORIES FROM TECH WRITERS...
(It seems like that's what I am these days, so why not call myself that?)
Okay, here's the deal. I started here four years ago and, upon seeing their documentation, almost immediately I said, "You need to make your documentation more graphical."
"We can't." They said. "It's too much work."
When all the other networking companies went with graphical documentation, I said, "You've got to make your documentation more graphical."
"We can't." They said. "It would take too long."
When our products became more and more complicated and hard to explain, I said, "You've got to make your documentation more graphical."
"We can't." They said. "It's a waste of resources."
For four years, I've been saying that and for four years I've been told they can't for various (incredibly lame) reasons.
(Here comes the kicker. You know what it is, don't you?)
Today, one of the executives came by and exclaimed, "I just bought an Epson printer and their documentation was really graphical. Ours should be like that!"
"Great idea," the other executives exclaimed.
I shit you not.
What I find funny about this is I'm sure you can apply it to your job, whatever that job may be.
(It seems like that's what I am these days, so why not call myself that?)
Okay, here's the deal. I started here four years ago and, upon seeing their documentation, almost immediately I said, "You need to make your documentation more graphical."
"We can't." They said. "It's too much work."
When all the other networking companies went with graphical documentation, I said, "You've got to make your documentation more graphical."
"We can't." They said. "It would take too long."
When our products became more and more complicated and hard to explain, I said, "You've got to make your documentation more graphical."
"We can't." They said. "It's a waste of resources."
For four years, I've been saying that and for four years I've been told they can't for various (incredibly lame) reasons.
(Here comes the kicker. You know what it is, don't you?)
Today, one of the executives came by and exclaimed, "I just bought an Epson printer and their documentation was really graphical. Ours should be like that!"
"Great idea," the other executives exclaimed.
I shit you not.
What I find funny about this is I'm sure you can apply it to your job, whatever that job may be.
Who's the Prick now?!...
Last night. Second to our last rehearsal.
It went relatively smoothly. "Relatively smoothly" means we got through it without stopped but skipped about a quarter of the lines.
Karen and I were really throwing each other around. As I've probably mentioned, I don't deal well with physical violence. (Give me sarcasm! I can deal with that!) Every time I threw Karen around, I could feel her reeling in my head. And every time she yelped in pain, it was a punch to my gut.
And, of course, when she punched me in the gut, it was a punch to my gut.
It was also the first time someone from outside the show saw the show.
Afterwards, this person said to me, "God, you're such a prick!" And I almost started crying.
The problem with being alone, with having no one in the world who loves you, is that makes it hard not to agree.
Last night. Second to our last rehearsal.
It went relatively smoothly. "Relatively smoothly" means we got through it without stopped but skipped about a quarter of the lines.
Karen and I were really throwing each other around. As I've probably mentioned, I don't deal well with physical violence. (Give me sarcasm! I can deal with that!) Every time I threw Karen around, I could feel her reeling in my head. And every time she yelped in pain, it was a punch to my gut.
And, of course, when she punched me in the gut, it was a punch to my gut.
It was also the first time someone from outside the show saw the show.
Afterwards, this person said to me, "God, you're such a prick!" And I almost started crying.
The problem with being alone, with having no one in the world who loves you, is that makes it hard not to agree.
Monday, March 22, 2004
But I did find my belt...
Another Monday. Another weekend past.
... Stupid Monday!
I'm afraid to say I don't have a peck of great news to report. This weekend was spent about as depressed as I get. I had... and continue to have... lost all interest in everything, all motivation. I pretty much had (have) the feeling of, "What's the use?"
So, rather than do house work or even leave my apartment. I spent most of the weekend smoking and crying and not moving.
Oh, it was a barrel of laughs.
In the midst of that, I did something that most people (smarter than I) would suggest was, well, pretty stupid. I wrote Rosa a letter.
And I mailed it to her.
Okay. Okay. Before you start flaming me, let me get my story finished. I'd just watched a great romantic comedy called "Jet Lag", which I knew Rosa would love, and wanted to recommend it to her. On top of that, I'd also found out that Al Stewart is supposed to have a new album out towards the end of the year. Rosa being an Al Stewart nut like me... maybe not as much... I also wanted to tell her that. Not being about to email her and pretty sure she wouldn't appreciate a call, I wrote her a three-paged letter. I only spent half a page telling her how much I missed her. Happy?
Friday night, I spent quite a bit of time drinking, numbing myself, while I downloaded the World of Warcraft beta test. Hey, I might not have time for video games in the midst of this show - but I do have time for World of Warcraft. It's a great game... wish I could play it once they start charging! (Wish I could pay it, is more like it.)
Saturday, playing World of Warcraft, I didn't get out of my apartment until after 5pm!! (It's a bit addicting... and I was depressed... Give me a break!) I had to go out and buy some makeup... for the play... honest. So, off to Sav-On I went, picking up some Neutrogena base, some Pomade, and a bag of Fritos. The cashier looked like she'd just gotten out of high school. She rang up the Fritos, give the Pomade and half-interested look, and paused at the base makeup. She looked sheepishly from behind her counter, "Um... is this yours?"
"Yep," I answered. Welcome to the real world, kid. You're in for more surprises than this!
I got the makeup because Sunday was the show's first dress rehearsal. The Pomade slicked back my hair and the makeup, well... you know.
I hadn't run my lines all weekend.
I should have.
I hadn't drawn a blank on stage in a while and had even forgot how it felt. Last night, I remembered. As Karen tried over and over to get a line out of me - like drilling for water in a cat box - I froze, my mouth half opened, eyes like a deer in headlights.
No fun.
Afterwards, the wardrobe lady, Suji - who looks amazingly like Julie Starr's mother but I don't dare ask out of embarrassment - said, "You're wearing a brown belt with those grey pants."
Since the last time Teri came down on me, I've been afraid to answer criticisms. "I know... that's what you gave me."
"But you should be wearing a black belt."
"I know... but that's what you gave me."
"But it doesn't match."
"I'm sorry?"
"Do you have a black belt you can use?"
I did. A couple months ago, however, in a fit of sleepwalking, I'd lost my black belt - hid it from myself - and hadn't found it since.
"I could try to find it," I offered. And there I was. But when I got home last night, something occurred to me. I had my gym bag in the back, full of gym clothes (horribly underused these days). I reached in - sweat shirts, shorts, socks, towel.... But then, I reached into a smaller compartment, the size of which is barely big enough for keys, and found... the belt.
Score another for Awake Ken. Too bad Sleepwalking Ken is so far ahead.
So, there you go. Rotten weekend. Miserable life. Miss Rosa so much I can't stand it.
But I found my belt.
Another Monday. Another weekend past.
... Stupid Monday!
I'm afraid to say I don't have a peck of great news to report. This weekend was spent about as depressed as I get. I had... and continue to have... lost all interest in everything, all motivation. I pretty much had (have) the feeling of, "What's the use?"
So, rather than do house work or even leave my apartment. I spent most of the weekend smoking and crying and not moving.
Oh, it was a barrel of laughs.
In the midst of that, I did something that most people (smarter than I) would suggest was, well, pretty stupid. I wrote Rosa a letter.
And I mailed it to her.
Okay. Okay. Before you start flaming me, let me get my story finished. I'd just watched a great romantic comedy called "Jet Lag", which I knew Rosa would love, and wanted to recommend it to her. On top of that, I'd also found out that Al Stewart is supposed to have a new album out towards the end of the year. Rosa being an Al Stewart nut like me... maybe not as much... I also wanted to tell her that. Not being about to email her and pretty sure she wouldn't appreciate a call, I wrote her a three-paged letter. I only spent half a page telling her how much I missed her. Happy?
Friday night, I spent quite a bit of time drinking, numbing myself, while I downloaded the World of Warcraft beta test. Hey, I might not have time for video games in the midst of this show - but I do have time for World of Warcraft. It's a great game... wish I could play it once they start charging! (Wish I could pay it, is more like it.)
Saturday, playing World of Warcraft, I didn't get out of my apartment until after 5pm!! (It's a bit addicting... and I was depressed... Give me a break!) I had to go out and buy some makeup... for the play... honest. So, off to Sav-On I went, picking up some Neutrogena base, some Pomade, and a bag of Fritos. The cashier looked like she'd just gotten out of high school. She rang up the Fritos, give the Pomade and half-interested look, and paused at the base makeup. She looked sheepishly from behind her counter, "Um... is this yours?"
"Yep," I answered. Welcome to the real world, kid. You're in for more surprises than this!
I got the makeup because Sunday was the show's first dress rehearsal. The Pomade slicked back my hair and the makeup, well... you know.
I hadn't run my lines all weekend.
I should have.
I hadn't drawn a blank on stage in a while and had even forgot how it felt. Last night, I remembered. As Karen tried over and over to get a line out of me - like drilling for water in a cat box - I froze, my mouth half opened, eyes like a deer in headlights.
No fun.
Afterwards, the wardrobe lady, Suji - who looks amazingly like Julie Starr's mother but I don't dare ask out of embarrassment - said, "You're wearing a brown belt with those grey pants."
Since the last time Teri came down on me, I've been afraid to answer criticisms. "I know... that's what you gave me."
"But you should be wearing a black belt."
"I know... but that's what you gave me."
"But it doesn't match."
"I'm sorry?"
"Do you have a black belt you can use?"
I did. A couple months ago, however, in a fit of sleepwalking, I'd lost my black belt - hid it from myself - and hadn't found it since.
"I could try to find it," I offered. And there I was. But when I got home last night, something occurred to me. I had my gym bag in the back, full of gym clothes (horribly underused these days). I reached in - sweat shirts, shorts, socks, towel.... But then, I reached into a smaller compartment, the size of which is barely big enough for keys, and found... the belt.
Score another for Awake Ken. Too bad Sleepwalking Ken is so far ahead.
So, there you go. Rotten weekend. Miserable life. Miss Rosa so much I can't stand it.
But I found my belt.
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Sick in de head...
Okay, it's been a couple days since you last heard from me. Sorry.
I got this migraine headache Tuesday night and, after having half my brain drool out my left ear, had to put myself back together again. It took a while.
A couple of notes:
1) All directors are pricks. You heard it here first. I'm so fucking sick of acting, you have no idea. I want to get back to my writing - NOW! Why are they like is? What turned my present director, Teri, into one? Well, we're nearing "Hell Week" and she's getting tense... and her real self is coming out. We'll leave it at that, for now.
2) I hate playing Howard Holt. It takes hours afterwards before I stop feeling like I'm covered in oily shit.
3) And another thing - this play needs to end right away. Clair has been absolutely bedazzled... and she's young enough to be my daughter. Beam me up, Scotty!!!
4) Is it any wonder, in the midst of this, that I feel reality breaking apart once again? Last night, I stepped back into high school for a few seconds. I was walking down the hall at the theater and, next thing I knew, I was outside of Valley High School's cafeteria. I could see it, hear the sounds, smell the air. Thankfully, I'd grabbed onto the stair rail because, when I came back, I nearly collapsed.
5) I finally saw the trailer for Adaptation. It opens with Under Pressure by Queen (aka "Ice Ice Baby" folks) - sounds like Falling Together to me.
Okay, it's been a couple days since you last heard from me. Sorry.
I got this migraine headache Tuesday night and, after having half my brain drool out my left ear, had to put myself back together again. It took a while.
A couple of notes:
1) All directors are pricks. You heard it here first. I'm so fucking sick of acting, you have no idea. I want to get back to my writing - NOW! Why are they like is? What turned my present director, Teri, into one? Well, we're nearing "Hell Week" and she's getting tense... and her real self is coming out. We'll leave it at that, for now.
2) I hate playing Howard Holt. It takes hours afterwards before I stop feeling like I'm covered in oily shit.
3) And another thing - this play needs to end right away. Clair has been absolutely bedazzled... and she's young enough to be my daughter. Beam me up, Scotty!!!
4) Is it any wonder, in the midst of this, that I feel reality breaking apart once again? Last night, I stepped back into high school for a few seconds. I was walking down the hall at the theater and, next thing I knew, I was outside of Valley High School's cafeteria. I could see it, hear the sounds, smell the air. Thankfully, I'd grabbed onto the stair rail because, when I came back, I nearly collapsed.
5) I finally saw the trailer for Adaptation. It opens with Under Pressure by Queen (aka "Ice Ice Baby" folks) - sounds like Falling Together to me.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Drinking, smoking, and falling down...
Anyone who knows me, knows I like to drink. I like to drink to excess. I like to drink until the world is at a tilt and my words are on wheels running down a steep slope and I can't feel my fingertips.
I like to drink.
I'm thinking that's going to happen this Friday. If you get a chance, you should join me. Otherwise, I'll drink alone. (Yeeeaaaa, with nobody else!)
My career in drinking started many years ago. I think I can pinpoint it around my 17th year, back when I had amnesia and my life was falling apart. Yes, during my first nervous breakdown. Back then, or so Tim (up in Oregon) told me, I'd drink from a mini-bottle of Tanquaray (could've been Gilbey's - it's been a while - but I know it was gin, shockingly) and smoke Jitanay's (which is how the brand sounds but not how it's spelled - they're French). Later, by a year or so, I'd switched to scotch, a switch that was to last for over a decade.
I was never really a beer person. I've always been more of a wine person. Cabernet Sauvignon - can't beat a good one. Right now, I have about half a dozen bottles of wine at home.... waiting.... I may decorkify one of those bad boys Friday night.
A couple of years ago, I learned the joys of martinis... and there's been no looking back. Martinis are now my drink of choice: vodka and very dry. When Tim comes up from San Diego, he makes apple martinis or watermelon martinis. There's no way to get them dry but we drink them just the same. And we don't drink one or two of them. We drink pitchers of them, four of five of them!
And we smoke. And we smoke. And we smoke. Mostly, we smoke cigarettes (Camels, mostly). Sometimes, I'll enjoy a cigar. (Not being an aficionado, I can't begin to tell you what kind. It varies.) I've grown bored of pot so that's out... for now. (Let's not get hasty.)
I smoke because it goes with alcohol like ice and cream, like peanut and butter, like boring blog and My Side... I smoke because it helps the booze find that part of my brain that allows everything to shut down and allows me to pass out and allows me to stop hurting for just a little while.
I smoke because I lost Rosa.
I smoke because I don't have any reason not to.
And, hey, why not have a drink with that?
If I don't open a bottle of wine, all I've got is scotch. Not a bad alternative. Scotch hits you in the chest like a big, bearded, Scottish friend you haven't seen in a while. You know, after a while, you get used to it.
So, that's it. Tuesday afternoon and I have the plan for Friday night. Now, you're probably asking yourself why a good-looking, talented, intelligent, all-around nice guy can't go out and get himself a date for Friday night - why he ends up alone. Well, that's another reason why I smoke.
Now, where's my drink?
Anyone who knows me, knows I like to drink. I like to drink to excess. I like to drink until the world is at a tilt and my words are on wheels running down a steep slope and I can't feel my fingertips.
I like to drink.
I'm thinking that's going to happen this Friday. If you get a chance, you should join me. Otherwise, I'll drink alone. (Yeeeaaaa, with nobody else!)
My career in drinking started many years ago. I think I can pinpoint it around my 17th year, back when I had amnesia and my life was falling apart. Yes, during my first nervous breakdown. Back then, or so Tim (up in Oregon) told me, I'd drink from a mini-bottle of Tanquaray (could've been Gilbey's - it's been a while - but I know it was gin, shockingly) and smoke Jitanay's (which is how the brand sounds but not how it's spelled - they're French). Later, by a year or so, I'd switched to scotch, a switch that was to last for over a decade.
I was never really a beer person. I've always been more of a wine person. Cabernet Sauvignon - can't beat a good one. Right now, I have about half a dozen bottles of wine at home.... waiting.... I may decorkify one of those bad boys Friday night.
A couple of years ago, I learned the joys of martinis... and there's been no looking back. Martinis are now my drink of choice: vodka and very dry. When Tim comes up from San Diego, he makes apple martinis or watermelon martinis. There's no way to get them dry but we drink them just the same. And we don't drink one or two of them. We drink pitchers of them, four of five of them!
And we smoke. And we smoke. And we smoke. Mostly, we smoke cigarettes (Camels, mostly). Sometimes, I'll enjoy a cigar. (Not being an aficionado, I can't begin to tell you what kind. It varies.) I've grown bored of pot so that's out... for now. (Let's not get hasty.)
I smoke because it goes with alcohol like ice and cream, like peanut and butter, like boring blog and My Side... I smoke because it helps the booze find that part of my brain that allows everything to shut down and allows me to pass out and allows me to stop hurting for just a little while.
I smoke because I lost Rosa.
I smoke because I don't have any reason not to.
And, hey, why not have a drink with that?
If I don't open a bottle of wine, all I've got is scotch. Not a bad alternative. Scotch hits you in the chest like a big, bearded, Scottish friend you haven't seen in a while. You know, after a while, you get used to it.
So, that's it. Tuesday afternoon and I have the plan for Friday night. Now, you're probably asking yourself why a good-looking, talented, intelligent, all-around nice guy can't go out and get himself a date for Friday night - why he ends up alone. Well, that's another reason why I smoke.
Now, where's my drink?
How old am I?...
After days of rottenness (it's a word, right?), I finally have some positive news to report about yesterday.
First, and to some best, I'm happy to report that SCTV will finally be coming to dvd! This is like manna from geek heaven! SCTV was one of the first shows to announce loud and proud that geeks (and even dorks) can be funny - not just funny looking! It gave me the guts to first think I could be funny... which was both a blessing and a curse, but we'll not go there.
You can bet I'll go into debt picking these bad boys up.
Last night was the first in a long, grueling, two week long hell-week. I'm sure the My Sides in a couple weeks will be entertainingly... confusing.
(So, no change.)
When I went into rehearsal last night, Teri was sitting with Ray, one of the theater's board members, and told me that a reporter was coming in to take some pre-production shots. "We've got all the information for him but - how old are you?"
Oy, that question. How I hate that question. I always think that when I tell people they think, "You're 38 and you have no kids? You live alone with cats? You have a dead-end job? Oh, I hate to think what your life will be like in twenty years!" I mean, that's what I think!
So, as usual, I asked, "Oh, how old do you think I am?"
Teri said, "You're 30, right?"
I looked at Ray. "What do you think?"
"Oh, well, I'd say... yeah, 30 sounds right."
"Thirty-eight," I told them. "Thank you, ladies."
Oh, to be 30 again! When I was thirty, I was buying my first house with Rosa. We would sit in our car across the street (where I sit not when I go in the middle of the night, crying and smoking) and dream out loud about the things we'd do and how happy we'd be. It was around my thirtieth birthday when we moved in. We had a huge housewarming party. The first night we were there, we slept upstairs on some old sofas we'd been given. We were happy.
Eight years ago.
And if I was 30 now? Well, I wouldn't be twice Clair's age. (Clair is the girl who plays Stella... the girl who is so amazingly beautiful, she attracts sunlight.) But would I date her? I don't know. Maybe I would still be young enough to think that a little more effort might win Rosa back.
Oh, to dream.
Still, it's nice to be thirty to someone... even if I'm not.
After days of rottenness (it's a word, right?), I finally have some positive news to report about yesterday.
First, and to some best, I'm happy to report that SCTV will finally be coming to dvd! This is like manna from geek heaven! SCTV was one of the first shows to announce loud and proud that geeks (and even dorks) can be funny - not just funny looking! It gave me the guts to first think I could be funny... which was both a blessing and a curse, but we'll not go there.
You can bet I'll go into debt picking these bad boys up.
Last night was the first in a long, grueling, two week long hell-week. I'm sure the My Sides in a couple weeks will be entertainingly... confusing.
(So, no change.)
When I went into rehearsal last night, Teri was sitting with Ray, one of the theater's board members, and told me that a reporter was coming in to take some pre-production shots. "We've got all the information for him but - how old are you?"
Oy, that question. How I hate that question. I always think that when I tell people they think, "You're 38 and you have no kids? You live alone with cats? You have a dead-end job? Oh, I hate to think what your life will be like in twenty years!" I mean, that's what I think!
So, as usual, I asked, "Oh, how old do you think I am?"
Teri said, "You're 30, right?"
I looked at Ray. "What do you think?"
"Oh, well, I'd say... yeah, 30 sounds right."
"Thirty-eight," I told them. "Thank you, ladies."
Oh, to be 30 again! When I was thirty, I was buying my first house with Rosa. We would sit in our car across the street (where I sit not when I go in the middle of the night, crying and smoking) and dream out loud about the things we'd do and how happy we'd be. It was around my thirtieth birthday when we moved in. We had a huge housewarming party. The first night we were there, we slept upstairs on some old sofas we'd been given. We were happy.
Eight years ago.
And if I was 30 now? Well, I wouldn't be twice Clair's age. (Clair is the girl who plays Stella... the girl who is so amazingly beautiful, she attracts sunlight.) But would I date her? I don't know. Maybe I would still be young enough to think that a little more effort might win Rosa back.
Oh, to dream.
Still, it's nice to be thirty to someone... even if I'm not.
Monday, March 15, 2004
They talk, I listen...
Things have been pretty normal for a while... do I need to tell you that stopped this weekend?
Friday night, when I got home, the voices started again. After my nervous breakdown, a couple years ago, I started hearing them and only recently (within the last six months) have I been able to start making out what they're saying. I hadn't heard them in about a month.
Friday, they were louder than ever. And they wanted me to go to Rosa's.
Trust me, you don't argue.
I got in my car and left. I stopped off for a pack of smokes and found myself at Rosa's. (Honestly, sometimes it's like there's a whole other Ken running the show.)
I parked across the street from her house, sat on the curb, looked over at her windows, and wondered what the hell I was doing. Still, after about an hour, the voices started fading away. Seeing Rosa's house had a certain calming affect. I suppose it may be because that was the last place where I was happy, all those years ago. I've forgotten, over the years, what happiness is like but I remember I had it once back when Rosa loved me.
Eventually, it became too cold out there and I left.
I ended up sleeping my Saturday away. After a long rehearsal week (going from 8am - 11pm each day) and looking down the barrel of two weeks straight of the same, I needed my rest. Of course, this meant I didn't sleep so well Saturday night. In fact, Saturday, I ended up sleep walking... again! But my mind never runs out of new spins it can put on my paranoia and here was the new one: While I was sleepwalking, I remember saying, "It's gone! I must have hid it while I was sleepwalking!" Now, I woke up from that and realized that I was sleepwalking while I was talking about sleepwalking and I had no idea what the "it" is. After looking around, I decided to let it go. I'll find out sooner or later.
Sunday morning, Sean and I went for breakfast. I think it's funny how he and I have turned into brothers of sorts. He and his wife, Megan, are getting ready for their trip to New Orleans. Rosa and I always wanted to go to New Orleans so seeing them do this does drive shards of regret into my chest. But I try and act supportive and happy for them while a little voice in my head says, "This is your life from now on, watching other people's happiness while you have none of your own."
Basically, the weekend sucked.
Things have been pretty normal for a while... do I need to tell you that stopped this weekend?
Friday night, when I got home, the voices started again. After my nervous breakdown, a couple years ago, I started hearing them and only recently (within the last six months) have I been able to start making out what they're saying. I hadn't heard them in about a month.
Friday, they were louder than ever. And they wanted me to go to Rosa's.
Trust me, you don't argue.
I got in my car and left. I stopped off for a pack of smokes and found myself at Rosa's. (Honestly, sometimes it's like there's a whole other Ken running the show.)
I parked across the street from her house, sat on the curb, looked over at her windows, and wondered what the hell I was doing. Still, after about an hour, the voices started fading away. Seeing Rosa's house had a certain calming affect. I suppose it may be because that was the last place where I was happy, all those years ago. I've forgotten, over the years, what happiness is like but I remember I had it once back when Rosa loved me.
Eventually, it became too cold out there and I left.
I ended up sleeping my Saturday away. After a long rehearsal week (going from 8am - 11pm each day) and looking down the barrel of two weeks straight of the same, I needed my rest. Of course, this meant I didn't sleep so well Saturday night. In fact, Saturday, I ended up sleep walking... again! But my mind never runs out of new spins it can put on my paranoia and here was the new one: While I was sleepwalking, I remember saying, "It's gone! I must have hid it while I was sleepwalking!" Now, I woke up from that and realized that I was sleepwalking while I was talking about sleepwalking and I had no idea what the "it" is. After looking around, I decided to let it go. I'll find out sooner or later.
Sunday morning, Sean and I went for breakfast. I think it's funny how he and I have turned into brothers of sorts. He and his wife, Megan, are getting ready for their trip to New Orleans. Rosa and I always wanted to go to New Orleans so seeing them do this does drive shards of regret into my chest. But I try and act supportive and happy for them while a little voice in my head says, "This is your life from now on, watching other people's happiness while you have none of your own."
Basically, the weekend sucked.
Snapshot...
One thing about this whole Blog business is I have no idea how many readers I have. In the event that either one of you have a new reader checking this site out, I figured it's been a long time since I've given you an overview of who I am and what I'm about so I thought I'd take this morning and do just that.
(WARNING: Contents are acidic. Be sure to wear your sense of humor.)
My name's Ken La Salle. I'm an actor and writer in Orange County, California. I'm an actor in the "doesn't do it for a living and doesn't do it particularly well" sense. I'm a writer in the "why can't I catch a fucking break so I can stop working in this shithole writing manuals" sense. As much as I hate to admit it, I am in Orange County. Yes, it is as bad as they say.
As 38 years of age, I'm just now beginning to feel mortality creeping in. With decrepitude, there goes my dream of being handsome one day. I've never had kids and, at this age, I'm too old to have kids. Mind you, you need a woman to have kids (this is all explained in the My Side "How to Have Kids ColorForm Fun Book") and no woman wants me.
One woman did once. Rosa. But she lost - a) interest, b) patience, c) love, d) her Prozac - and I lost her. And I can't seem to move on. I can't get over her. She was/is/could be (who knows) the love of my life and I'm terrified that I'll be alone for the rest of my life and die without ever having been loved again.
Losing Rosa pretty much destroyed my life. Drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, Ben & Jerry's - that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it came with a trip to the Grand Canyon with the idea of jumping off the side. I didn't do that (in case you can't tell) but I wonder every day why not.
After Rosa, I worked very hard at finding someone to take her place but no one could. For the past couple of years, I haven't dated. At first, I thought that was my choice.... now, I'm realizing that women are not attracted to me. So, I have to get used to being alone, which is the price I pay for not killing myself.
Presently, I'm acting in a show called "Something to Hide" at the Newport Theater Arts Center. I play a very bad man, which is really hard for me because I don't like to be seen as a bad person. I always try to do the right thing - and when I fail, I apologize.
I've learned something in 38 years, though.
There's no reward for doing the right thing. Most of the time, people don't even notice.
Being a good person is its only reward. People still hate you. Sometimes, you go unloved. You can be lonely.
I hate to be seen as bad because, inside, I think that I probably did something to deserve all this loneliness. That thing I did was in leaving Rosa. Now, people will see me as a bad man and, inside?, I am a bad man. And there's no hiding from it.
Mind you, it's not all gloomy. After losing Rosa four years ago, I became utterly despondent and suicidal. Now, I'm simply miserable. In my position, you take whatever gains you can get. Misery is slightly better than despondency and you don't have the energy to kill yourself.
One thing about this whole Blog business is I have no idea how many readers I have. In the event that either one of you have a new reader checking this site out, I figured it's been a long time since I've given you an overview of who I am and what I'm about so I thought I'd take this morning and do just that.
(WARNING: Contents are acidic. Be sure to wear your sense of humor.)
My name's Ken La Salle. I'm an actor and writer in Orange County, California. I'm an actor in the "doesn't do it for a living and doesn't do it particularly well" sense. I'm a writer in the "why can't I catch a fucking break so I can stop working in this shithole writing manuals" sense. As much as I hate to admit it, I am in Orange County. Yes, it is as bad as they say.
As 38 years of age, I'm just now beginning to feel mortality creeping in. With decrepitude, there goes my dream of being handsome one day. I've never had kids and, at this age, I'm too old to have kids. Mind you, you need a woman to have kids (this is all explained in the My Side "How to Have Kids ColorForm Fun Book") and no woman wants me.
One woman did once. Rosa. But she lost - a) interest, b) patience, c) love, d) her Prozac - and I lost her. And I can't seem to move on. I can't get over her. She was/is/could be (who knows) the love of my life and I'm terrified that I'll be alone for the rest of my life and die without ever having been loved again.
Losing Rosa pretty much destroyed my life. Drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, Ben & Jerry's - that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it came with a trip to the Grand Canyon with the idea of jumping off the side. I didn't do that (in case you can't tell) but I wonder every day why not.
After Rosa, I worked very hard at finding someone to take her place but no one could. For the past couple of years, I haven't dated. At first, I thought that was my choice.... now, I'm realizing that women are not attracted to me. So, I have to get used to being alone, which is the price I pay for not killing myself.
Presently, I'm acting in a show called "Something to Hide" at the Newport Theater Arts Center. I play a very bad man, which is really hard for me because I don't like to be seen as a bad person. I always try to do the right thing - and when I fail, I apologize.
I've learned something in 38 years, though.
There's no reward for doing the right thing. Most of the time, people don't even notice.
Being a good person is its only reward. People still hate you. Sometimes, you go unloved. You can be lonely.
I hate to be seen as bad because, inside, I think that I probably did something to deserve all this loneliness. That thing I did was in leaving Rosa. Now, people will see me as a bad man and, inside?, I am a bad man. And there's no hiding from it.
Mind you, it's not all gloomy. After losing Rosa four years ago, I became utterly despondent and suicidal. Now, I'm simply miserable. In my position, you take whatever gains you can get. Misery is slightly better than despondency and you don't have the energy to kill yourself.
Homicide Relief...
As we all know, every day of our lives is filled with its miseries. For some of us, they are little. For others, they are big. And sometimes they vary.
When you have one of those days when the world conspires against you, wouldn't it be better if someone would just kill you? You'd have a lot less to worry about, fewer things to remember, and you wouldn't have to watch that look of glee people get just before forcibly inserting a plunger handle into a hard to reach area.
But I've notice something and that is that people just aren't willing to kill you. No matter how much you might want them to, they'd much rather avoid that.
"Ken, you're going to be stuck at this dead-end job for the rest of your life."
"Can't you just kill me, instead?"
No, they don't kill you. They'd rather see you suffer. And so you continue through this maze of misery that is life, never seeing around the next bend where dangers that maim but never, ever kill await you.
How can we end this vicious cycle? It's really quite simple. If each of us would kill one person each day, there'd be a lot less suffering, a lot less misery. (Heck, you could spend a week on just one family and not have to look for anyone else!) Eventually, this homicide relief would catch on and groups all over the country - and around the world - would be helping those in misery without even having to be asked.
Contribute today to Homicide Relief. Your contribution of a severed head or disemboweled, um, bowel could help end the cycle of misery that life brings so many of us. Do it today.
...
...
(Homicide Relief and the Homicide Relief Fund are divisions of KillCo and are not endorsed by the My Side Foundation. The My Side Foundation promotes the regular donation of your entire income to Ken La Salle and not random killing sprees.... not random ones, at least...)
As we all know, every day of our lives is filled with its miseries. For some of us, they are little. For others, they are big. And sometimes they vary.
When you have one of those days when the world conspires against you, wouldn't it be better if someone would just kill you? You'd have a lot less to worry about, fewer things to remember, and you wouldn't have to watch that look of glee people get just before forcibly inserting a plunger handle into a hard to reach area.
But I've notice something and that is that people just aren't willing to kill you. No matter how much you might want them to, they'd much rather avoid that.
"Ken, you're going to be stuck at this dead-end job for the rest of your life."
"Can't you just kill me, instead?"
No, they don't kill you. They'd rather see you suffer. And so you continue through this maze of misery that is life, never seeing around the next bend where dangers that maim but never, ever kill await you.
How can we end this vicious cycle? It's really quite simple. If each of us would kill one person each day, there'd be a lot less suffering, a lot less misery. (Heck, you could spend a week on just one family and not have to look for anyone else!) Eventually, this homicide relief would catch on and groups all over the country - and around the world - would be helping those in misery without even having to be asked.
Contribute today to Homicide Relief. Your contribution of a severed head or disemboweled, um, bowel could help end the cycle of misery that life brings so many of us. Do it today.
...
...
(Homicide Relief and the Homicide Relief Fund are divisions of KillCo and are not endorsed by the My Side Foundation. The My Side Foundation promotes the regular donation of your entire income to Ken La Salle and not random killing sprees.... not random ones, at least...)
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