Back in the Saddle

It’s hard to believe that sometimes the things you love to do most will every once in awhile let you down. This can be an easily recognizable pattern of destruction. Just ask any Jack Black fan since High Fidelity (though I will say, 2008 has been quite good for roll for him—Tropic Thunder was great, but Kung-Fu Panda was awesome!) Therefore, it’s hard to come back to the relationship of “where do we stand” with some of our favorite activities and pastimes. If breaking up is hard to do, getting back together is the ultra-Mormon prom queen who’s finishing top of her class and eyeing an ethic degree from Brown.

The past few days I’ve encountered several things I know and love that have been hard for me to get back in the saddle for a full ride.

Writing – it sounds awful, but at the moment I have too many ideas in my head that I just can’t get them all down on paper. For reals, people. I went to the park last Friday to literally walk-through my story, wearing my huge headphone and having an open page journal strewn out on the grass, so that I could go step-by-step through my muck of an Act 2, Scene 1. Hipsters would have blushed if there had been any around (or if they did blush…). Needless to say, I walked away feeling incredibly artsy-fartsy, but with no new ideas for my play. Simultaneously in the works are a screenplay (which I’ve barely cracked and won’t reach the inciting incident until way past page 30), a television pilot (to be fair, my writing partner on this has a new job and is taking a little while to get back to me), along with a well of other ideas—namely a Dr. Dre play, a Dell “Super Dell” Schanze play (look him up), and another screenplay that probably I should write, but won’t. I took some days off from the ol’ laptop after this. I just let the ideas sit. Today I opened it back up again and sat down with my Strawberry Frosted Pop Tart, a cup of coffee, and the new notion that my character is a gay thug. I was genuinely surprised to find that this all worked. Now, for at least the next few days, I actually feel like a writer who’s writing…until I go away on vacation.

Sex/Keep Hustlin’ (or Not) – sometimes you just go so far to come so little. Sorry, had to say it. Back on my twenty-third b-day, a whole three days ago, I decided to indulge myself and head to the porn shop. With my girlfriend at home in Granite Bay, CA and it being my birthday, I was feeling a little randy for some attention. What I didn’t anticipate was getting all the wrong kind of attention. Now, mind you, I’ve seen much in the way of adult entertainment, but purchasing it on the other hand, is almost completely foreign to me. Though San Diego produces a heavy amount of XXX movies and websites, they are surprisingly timid when it comes to local vendors. Larry Flynt to the rescue! The Hustler Store is a mere five blocks from my apartment, making it a breezy walk to the large, fairly expensive DVD collection. Frugal Jew that I am, I found a relatively new DVD that was reasonably priced at $5.00. As I picked it out, I hear a voice from above say: “yo, do you guys have an ATM here?” The following conversation took place:

Me: Uh, I dunno. I don’t work here.
Guy: You don’t?
Me: Nope.
Guy: OH…sorry, bro…thought you did.
Me: It’s okay.
Guy: Like, really…I’m so sorry.
Me: Nah, it’s cool.
Guy: Just…yeah…y’know…I thought…and all it would…yeah, bro…[He side-step exits].

Great. It’s my birthday. I’m horny. I can’t afford the good porn and I look like one of the Hustler guys in my favorite Target t-shirt. This not deterring me, I decide that since it’s my birthday—a new year, a new page—I should buy a toy, another thing I have never experienced. Searching through the shelves, I spy one that looks pretty legit, not pricy, and could open new terrain in my shallow valley of love. I buy this and the DVD, walk down the stairs, and run into my friend, the Guy.

Guy: Hey, bro…so sorry about that again…
Me: Really…it’s fine. No need to apologize.
Guy: Yeah [Pause.] Just so y’know…they do have an ATM.
Me: Great.
Guy: [sees my bag] What did you end of getting?
Me: Oh, just some stuff.
Guy: Let me see. [looks into my bag, nods with affirmation] Good times.

I nearly run home after this. I’m excited, scared, embarrassed, and a little weirded out by the whole experience. But it’s not going to ruin the only type of birthday sex I have available to me. Back at the apartment I draw the shades, prepare the bed, and open up my purchases. The DVD has a thick plastic smell to it, like they are preparing for it to get soggy in…something. The toy has a luke-warm Jell-O smell that would be fine, except who wants luke-warm Jell-O, except maybe Cosby? Nonetheless, it’s time. The DVD plays. My figure out just exactly how the toy works. Hey, this isn’t bad. Screw embarrassment, I’m doing this more often so that – shit! I broke it! All that to have a lousy, cheap piece of shit break as some coked-out girl with highlights moans for her daddy. So long libido—write when you get work.

California – I'll admit that I am an East Coaster at heart (Brooklyn, stand up!). Still, that does not deter me from thoroughly enjoying the west coast, including SoCal. God knows I’ll have to work in Los Angeles one day, which won’t be so great, but I think I could handle it better now that I’ve eased into the hot-tub that is San Diego. Then it hits you: taxes are through the roof, the cost of living is crazy, and unlike New York, you must have a car. And cars come with insurance. And insurance won’t cover your car unless it’s fully licensed in the state of California. My car hasn’t been out here that long, but I got insurance very early on to protect me for when I did come out. This was part of my now-I’m-a-big-boy-who-can-pay-his-own-way warpath I can’t seem to get off of. Now I get a letter from my insurance company saying that the DMV has a discrepancy between my info and their’s. Why? Because my car is still licensed in Utah! I called up the hotline for the company and the woman on the other line fed me the ultimatum that “all California residents must license their cars within 30 days or you can get fined for every day over thirty days that you don’t have it.” Really? “Uh-huh. My sister got fined like that. The DMV ran her social security number, found out when she’d started to received payments from her job, and then fined her.” I freaked out—having to pay for something I don’t know about always puts the anxiety on me—until I checked with DMV’s website that gave a list of categories, none which applied to me, that would have put me in the red zone. Bottom line: I got to get my car registered and fast. Went to the DMV today, saw the line, and immediately drove out. Somehow, I think they saw that and, with spite in their hearts, are ready to fine me just for walking in the door. California dreamin’, eh?