Tonight & Tomorrow

Tonight is my wife's final night to deliver papers.

Tomorrow night will be our first night sleeping together in the same bed at the same time in more than six months.

I.

Am Very.

Excited.

What's Wrong With Me?!

My agent sent me an audition notice late last night.  I didn't get it until early this morning.
It's for a movie-- a feature-length movie-- not a commercial.  So I was interested.
The money isn't much.  and the shooting is for 6 days only, so it's possible that it could work around my work schedule. 

And as I think about doing the movie, I start to get really pissed.  Really, really pissed.  Here are some of the thoughts that I can put words to:

Fuckin' movie.  Gotta work around my fucking work schedule.  And they're going to yell at me at my work about asking for time off or asking for altered schedule or for causing a ruckus.  And the goddam movie is shooting over 2 hours away from my house, so the gas is going to be outrageous (which the movie says they will pay for).  But this all sucks!!

I don't understand.  I don't get it that I should get so upset about a stupid movie!  I would think that I would be happy about a stupid movie!  Right?!  So what's the big deal?  They're going to yell at me at work?  They're going to tell me I can't do it?  Fine, they yell at me.  Fine, they tell me I can't do it.  I don't get where my angst and anger is coming from.  I don't get myself.

But I've told my agent I'll audition for this bad movie.  And I'm a little excited about it.  There's just a large, screaming baby on top of my excitement right now, and it's pissing me off.  I'm an idiot.

Storming Through Insecurities

Feeling super insecure today in regards to performing.

I was a professional entertainer for over 10 years.  I have a bachelor's degree and completed two years in a masters program for performance.  I've been on a stage in some capacity since my age was in single digits.  I know that I was good.

And that's the crack-- the small crack-- "I was good."

I look at all these people who are currently performing, and I start to believe that they're better than me.  That it's pointless for me to even do it, because nobody will want to watch me.  No one will want to be entertained by me.  No one will be entertained by me.  I am not entertaining.  I am not good.  I WAS, but not now.  Keep my head down, do my day job.  Forget anything about what your professional dreams were.  That's over.  Embrace this sweat jacket schlub of a man you've become.  You fat, fat, farty fuck.

And yet, there's some part of me that feels really familiar... really comfortable... a part of me that is confident... and it remains confident in this flurry of insecurity... a part of me that persevered in my early days... a part of me that made my roommate say I was like Rocky, in that life would beat me down and I would pop right back up... it's a part of me that's continuing... it's making me do things like find out what clubs have open mics... it's making me say things like "it's going to happen"... it's the one little bit of me that keeps me standing when all I really want to do is lie down... and it's done this for me before... this part of me has been here before... and it's easier to trust this part of me, because it helped me before...

it sucks feeling beaten down
but i'm not giving up
i'm just super insecure right now
but, to quote Rocky...
"...I didn't hear no bell."

Teen Suicide

A coworker stopped by my office today and told me that her son has a friend, and that friend had a girlfriend who shot and killed herself yesterday.  She was 16 years old.  Her boyfriend was one of the first people to find her, still gasping, lying on the floor, bleeding.  She had sent out a mass text: "I am sorry.  Goodbye.  Call 911."  This caused a lot of her friends to show up at her house.  Her boyfriend was one of the first there.  The neighbors had broken into the house when they heard the gunshot.  The boyfriend was the next to arrive.  When he was pulled outside by police and questioned, his girlfriend was still alive, to some degree.  Then, in the back of a police car, showing the officers the texts on his phone, he saw his girlfriend's father crumple to the ground as his girlfriend's mother went crazy in the front yard.  He saw the EMS gurney being withdrawn from the house without anyone on it.  He knew she was dead.  And that's when the cop told him, "I know this is hard for you, but you're never going to know why she did this."  Soon after, my coworker's son received a call from the boyfriend, telling him about what was happening. 

It's hard being a kid.  It's hard being an adult.  Life is hard.  Period.  And sometimes, there's just nothing we can do about it. 

It's hanging on me today. 
Maybe it'll go away later today.
I really hope it goes away later.

Wonderful Wife Weekend

I just had a fantastic weekend with my wife.
Absolutely.
Sparkling.
We spent a lot of time snuggling each other.
A LOT of time snuggling.
And kissing.
And kissing with the snuggling.
And then some more snuggling.
A very real and needed battery charger for both of us.
She got some work done.
I got some work done.
We drove around and listened to music in the car.
Did some work outside in preparation for putting a tarp ceiling over our deck.
We ate some delicious Long John Silvers.
We looked at storage buildings for our backyard, and neither of us was wearing underpants.

Just.
Marvelous.

I could really use another one just like that.
Like right now.

Pulled Muscles and Diet Pepsi

I took a drink of diet Pepsi as I was breathing in.
Diet Pepsi went into my lungs.
I coughed violently, exacerbating a pulled muscle in my stomach.
I pulled a muscle in my stomach when I was sneezing once.
I might have pulled my groin muscle when I was sneezing once, too.
Or I might have pulled my groin muscle when I was getting off the couch.
The point is, I pulled my groin muscle.

I suppose these things are happening because I'm 40.
If I say that, though, I have no control over them.
Which maybe I don't.
Butt... and I mean butt...
Maybe, just maybe... naughty girls need love, too.
And maybe...
These things are happening...
Because Baby Jesus is displeased with me.
Butt maybe...
And here's the real butt here...
These things are happening because I'm out of shape and my mouth forgot that I can't breathe and swallow fluid simultaneously.

Monday Morning Musings...

I think that we should completely allow school children to opt out of sex education courses.  I believe that the children who opt out of sex education courses should be prevented from having sex, as there are public diseases as well as children who are borne from their ignorance.  If a child opts out of sex ed, we should prevent that child from ever being able to utilize his or her genitals in a way that might be socially unacceptable, bringing consequences on others who have become unwilling victims of this child's ignorance.  Let's do this by, oh, let's say, cutting off his cock and balls.  And sewing up her vagina.  That way, neither the children nor the public they belong to will ever be bothered with their dirty, filthy, shameful genitals again, and they needn't learn how or why those former genitals could be used for anything other than chopping off or sewing up.

I think the abortion issue should be like the vegetarian issue: you don't see a lot of vegetarians protesting McDonald's because other people are eating meat.  Ok, to be fair, McDonald's doesn't have a lot of actual meat.  Let's change it to Outback.  You don't see a lot of vegetarians protesting Outback because they object to other people eating meat.  I'm pretty sure, at this time, no one is being forced to eat a steak if they don't want to.  I'm pretty sure, at this time, no one is being force to have an abortion if they don't want one.  If you have a moral objection to having an abortion... Don't Have One.

If you speed and get caught, you get a ticket.  Let's say you get a ticket for $1,000, hypothetically speaking, and this amount of money is the absolute most money you can get ticketed for when you get caught speeding.  And this is what we, as a society, have deemed is The Punishment for speeding.  If you make $2,000 a month, this punishment is much more severe than if you make $100,000 a month.  Seems to me, losing 50% of your monthly income is a different punishment from losing 1% of your monthly income.  Seems almost like it's not really a punishment at all to be fined 1%.  And yet, it's still considered The Punishment.  To me, this is like spanking a robot when it misbehaves.  A robot doesn't care if you spank it.  But a robot DOES care if you end a sentence with a preposition.  Syntax errors like that are torturous to computers at. 

Seems to me the old rule of If You Smelt It, You Dealt It unfairly punishes nonsmokers and others who have not destroyed their sense of smell.

Thumb Hard

I have this vivid memory from my childhood:

My mother and father were still married.  My father was working in the garage.  I was playing in the living room when I heard my father bellow my mother's name.  I went to see what he wanted, and he had driven a nail through his hand or finger, I couldn't tell specifically where, but there was blood streaming down his hand.  He was calm and cool, but a little agitated about the whole mess.  I couldn't tell if he was more agitated about the pain or about the actual mess the blood stream was creating on his clothes and in the house.  Then, my father vanishes.

I can't tell you how real this vivid memory is.  My mother doesn't remember it.  My mother also doesn't remember me flapping my 5-year-old penis at her to make her laugh, which I'm certain happened a lot.  But the vanishing part at the end of the memory makes me think that at least some of the memory didn't happen.

At the time when this "memory" happened, I remember thinking that my father was incredibly tough because he didn't cry about the nail being in his hand or finger.  Maybe I was trying to make my father tougher than he was.  Maybe I was boosting him, because even then, I knew that my father was a complete and utter waste as a human.  Maybe it helped me feel better about myself to think about coming from somebody who wasn't a complete pussy.  Maybe it was just a cooler story.  I don't know.  But I thought he was tough for not crying.

Yesterday, I sliced my thumb open on some errant PVC pipe I was working on.  It bled everywhere.  And as I took my bleeding hand in to the kitchen to clean up, I realized I was grumpy about the mess I was making with my blood.  And I thought about my memory, and the possibility that my father had been grumpy about the blood mess he was making.  And any time I draw a comparison between my father and myself... I become very, very angry.  It's not my fucking fault that part of him is swimming in me!  I didn't choose him!  But I can certainly choose to be completely different from him!  I don't have to be the failed abortion my father is!  And at that moment, I changed.  I had been grumpy about the mess I was making with my blood.  I change to being John McClain in Die Hard as he pulls the broken slivers of glass out of his foot, trying not to feel the pain.  As I turned on the tap and waited for the hot water to turn cold, I faked a grimace and held my hand as if it was my foot with broken glass in it.  And I imagined a radio sitting on the counter next to me as I ran my thumb under the water.  And as the blood came off into the sink, I imagined struggling to speak to my newly-made cop friend, trying to help me on the outside of the building I'm trapped in, and grunting into the radio, "Al, I want you to find my wife," (my wife was sitting, concerned, behind me at our computer desk), "I don't know how you'll know, but by then you'll know how.  She's heard me say 'I love you' a thousand times.  She never heard me say 'I'm sorry'.  I want you to tell her that, Al. I want you to tell her that ah, John said that he was sorry. OK? You got that, man?"

Movies are the perfect way to help you have fun when you slice open your thumb, and they help you forget that your father is a fuck.

15-Year-Old-Mid-Day Text

My 15-year-old just texted me (in the middle of his school day, during which time he's not supposed to use his cell phone), saying he has a girlfriend.

My first thought: Fuck, I hope she's not pregnant.

My second thought: Great.  Now all I have to do is kill his father and grandmother, and have sex with his mother and today will be perfect.

...eh, I'm a simple man.  I really only need to have sex with his mother, and I'll be good. 
I can always fantasize about killing people without all the reality getting in the way and making it ugly.

So now my wife and I will be going to see Prometheus sometime soon.  And we'll be sitting nowhere near the boy and his date.  We're just providing transportation and parental whateverit'scalled [when you need to get a parent to be with you when you see an R-rated movie]. 

I hope the girl's parents are okay with her seeing an R-rated picture. 

I hope the girl's parents don't own guns.

I hope he has fun with her.

God, I hope he doesn't get her pregnant.

Sam Neil Will Save Us All

Just listen to me without fighting me.  After I've had my time, you're free to make up your own mind about life:

How much money would somebody have to pay you to have your picture taken and have that picture plastered all over billboards across the nation?  Maybe you'd do it for free, right?  I wonder why anyone would pay thousands of dollars to take your picture and put it on a billboard?  Well, I suppose if I stood to gain something from your picture on the billboards it might justify spending thousands of dollars, right?  Like, if I was selling something, and I knew that if your picture would help me sell my whatever, maybe I would pay you thousands of dollars for your picture in the hopes of making that money back when I sell my whatever-I'm-selling, right?  Okay, so maybe I won't pay *you* thousands of dollars for your picture, because you're not really going to help me sell my whatever.  But maybe Sam Neil's picture can help me sell my whatever.  Maybe I'll pay him thousands of dollars to help me sell my whatever.  And maybe people will buy my whatever because they like Sam Neil, they believe Sam Neil, they feel like Sam Neil took care of them when they went to Jurassic Park and Dr. Grant wouldn't lie to me.  If Sam Neil/Dr. Grant's picture is on something, it's probably a pretty good thing, right?  Maybe it won't save me from rampaging velociraptors, but it will sure try. 

But what if Sam Neil doesn't have any idea about what he's selling his picture to?  What if he's selling his picture to, oh... say Cox Cable.  Let's say, hypothetically, that Cox Cable went to Sam Neil and said, "We want you to sell our stuff to people because they believe you and like you and think you will keep them safe."  And Sam Neil then said, "No, I don't know about your products and I don't want to do that."  And then Cox Cable says, "We'll pay you far more money than is needed because we're putting a price on your integrity, likability and public appeal.  If we try to sell our products, people won't buy them.  But if we have your influence, people will buy our products.  Please let us use you to benefit us.  Let's translate this previous sentiment into this concise, socially acceptable statement: we'll pay you a fuck-load of money."  And Sam Neil then sells his integrity, his influence, his POWER OVER YOU for a fuck-load of money. 

I wonder if his mother is proud of him for influencing people with his powers simply because he got paid.  I wonder if his wife is happy that he got paid a lot of money to persuade people to give their money to Cox when they normally wouldn't have.  I wonder why more people don't think it's a bad thing to lie to others and not improve the world simply because there is a fuck-load of money at the end of the story.

If I had gotten paid a fuck-load of money from Cox Cable to write what you have just written, you would probably have a different feeling about what you had just read.  "Oh, he got paid to write this?  Well then, it's okay.  Good job!"

Carry on.

Good Stuff

I was just able to listen to the entire soundtrack for Rise of the Planet of the Apes and The Untouchables on my iPod.

Wanna know why?!

Because I used to be able to do that with my old iPod, and I loved it, but then my music collection became too large to hold all of it on my old iPod, and then my old iPod broke completely, and I switched to a little 8GB iPod, which was functional but couldn't really carry the number of songs I wanted, and then my wife bought me a brand new, awesome, top of the line iPod that allows me to carry all my songs on it, so if I feel like listening to all of one record or just shuffling through all my music I can do it, and it's rock-fucking-awesome!

My iPod fucking kicks ass!
My wife fucking kicks ass and fucking rocks and is fucking hot and awesome!

My Last Name

I never did like my last name.  Kinda stupid sounding, I always thought.  Tom Cruise has a good last name.  Tom Selleck has a good last name.  Tom Hanks has a good last name.  A lot of Toms have good last names.  Maybe I should have been called "Tom".  Maybe it's the first name that makes the last name sound good. 

I started to like my last name much better when my wife made it her last name.  I really like associating myself with her, and somehow my last name seems a little cooler now that she's got it.

Last night, my 15 year-old and I had a moment alone in the rumpus room.

"I wanted to ask you and mom something."
"Okay.  What's on your mind?"
"When I'm 18, I can do whatever I want, right?"
"Well," I hemmed, thinking about all the things he can't do when he's 18-- buy a drink, rent a car or hotel room, become president.  "Just about anything."
"Well, 18 is the age of majority, right?"  He's more sheepish than normal.  Something important is on his mind.
"Yeah, 18 is the age of majority."
"Well, I was wondering how you and mom would feel if-- when I turn 18-- if I changed my last name to your last name."
A flood of emotions hit me like a tidal wave.  I recognized some of them-- love, empathy, anger that my 15 year-old would ever have to have a name he was uncomfortable with and angry with his father who made that name uncomfortable for him, gratitude that I had found a place where I felt accepted so completely that someone else's child wants to identify himself with me and the woman who chose to take my last name-- some of them hit me and I had no idea what they were.  It was a time-stopping moment for me.  I managed to sputter out a semi-laugh.  I'm not sure why that was my reaction.  My 15 year-old wasn't deterred by my response.
"I'm not joking," he said, still sheepish.
"I know you're not joking.  I just had a flood of emotions, and that laugh was how my body responded.  I know you're serious."

I think our moment alone ended with my 11 year-old, his brother, walking into the room, so our conversation stopped.  And my wife and I talked about it later, and we both agreed that the road between 15-almost-16 and 18 is long and anything can happen in that time.  And there would be no way that our boys' father would allow me to adopt either one of the boys, so that was out of the question.  But it was something good and positive.

I wanted to record it.  For some day in my unknown future when I need to remember such things.

My last name isn't sounding so stupid anymore.