Yes! (not the band)

More people need to say yes. To the strange, to the unknown, to the scare, and the alien. Say yes to the radio, a different pizza at CPK, Natalie Dee (above, brilliant), and everything in between. Here's how I tried to be more yes oriented in the past week. It's not easy. Sometimes you just need things to start. Not endings from past projects; not momentum to keep new irons in the fire turning and burning the night through. Just the simple fate of someone giving you the “yes” to start the next step in your life…

…Sara needs to move down here. The Memphis cast members even thought she was stunning when the saw her yesterday. Yeah, I was flying high with a beautiful girl on my arm at the theater. Sara and I both have agreed that it is just too hard to do this routine of visiting for a few days, having a knock-down-drag-out blast of a good time, and then have to split ways in a mere seventy-two hours. This is no big news flash, but Sara knows the ball is in her court and that I’m game. She is, too, I think—now she’s just waiting for a “yes” from an employer and that’s a hard thing to sit still on. And yet, I’m finding it more and more difficult to sit on the fact that I have a truly wonderful person that I’m dedicated and committed to not by my side. Right now, I live in my apartment, but honestly, I wish it was ours already…

…Meghan leaves this week, which sucks big time. I didn’t really know what to think of Meghan when I first welcomed her to La Jolla a short four months ago. Now, she’s leaving for all the right reasons. No one gives her the time of day at the office for no good reason. People can’t remember her name or even realize that she works for the Playhouse. Her friend count is pretty low. The van she drove out here is now scrap metal and she was evicted from a dirty Pacific Beach apartment with a homeless guy living outside of her window. You’d head back to Georgia too. But through these tumultuous few months Meghan and I have shared the bond not of co-workers, but of people who share a private hell that no one else except the two of us understand. Drinking alone in the hot bar will not be as fun, I can assure you of that. But she just needed to say “yes” to herself. Yes to getting out of a bad job. Yes to wanting to live a life of happiness rather than trying to live up to the idea of a happy life. Yes to going home and embracing the people you love rather than try to make strangers love you. Meghan, I raise this one to you…

…Memphis closed tonight. I wasn’t working and I don’t know if that was intentional. Were these actors my best friends in the world? No, and I would not expect them to think the same of me—at best, we are colleagues of the same employer. This is not to say, however, that I will not miss a few of the folks. James, I was grateful that no matter what happened you kept your cool. Your smile and personal character has been an oasis during this entire run. Best of luck with the agent. Melvin, I love you and your girl, Nicky. You are a talented man with some skills. Keep up the good work because I think good things are just around the bend. And Montego—you are the most professional and courteous actor I’ve ever worked with. Oh, and did I mention you, along with these gentlemen, are master of your craft. You are destined for the sky and I look forward to seeing you perform again. Glad I said “yes” to this job and “yes” to leaving New York in this instance and “yes” to all the extra van runs with each and every one of you. Memphis in New York, just you watch…

…and moving a couch is sometimes the best way to kick start your engine. Or, should I say it’s the best way to re-kick start your engine. Justin called me up, asking if I could bring my truck out to East County with Sam and a few other people. Turns out he needed us to help him move a couch he recently bought into his mom’s second floor. We basically hoisted it on to the top of my truck, angled it vertical, and pushed it up on the balcony that Justin had removed one of the guard rails on. This was good for two reasons:

1. I got to act like a man with other men doing manly things

2. It took my mind off the girl I love leaving early in the evening

The rest of the time we just popped beers, wine bottles, and witty comments about the state of all things under the sun. Justin’s friend Annie took us over to her awesome bungalow in North Park/Hillcrest area. More wine, more beers, more talk. This is just another great argument for saying “yes” to more things. Moving cross country, dating roommates of people you know, and asking for a piece of apple pie from a tough guy in a kilt and skull-n-cross t-shit on Independence Day.

Fuck D.A.R.E. and just say “yes.”

Third Time's a Charm

I have already mentioned how I gave a rousing approval of Charles Busch's new play, The Third Story, above. In the late hours of last evening (and the wee hours of this morning), we celebrated the opening of this new work with a big party bash, La Jolla style. It went off without a hook: the food was great, the scenery was awesome -- something I have to give my boss credit for; dry ice is always great decor -- and everyone left in high spirits high off of spirits. What was really cool was that it didn't end like our last opening night party ended.

Here's that tale now:

Memphis was the first really big musical I've worked on in my entire life. What I should have known from the start is that big productions require big extravaganzas to surround them. That's where we came in: company management plans the huge bash for the after party and the no one gets his or her rock 'n roll stolen until the next morning's hangover. Since it was our first party with catering from the newly opened restaurant, my colleagues and I got to enjoy ourselves at the party. Sure, we'd been setting up all day and it was going to be a hassle to clean it up once everyone left, but for the moment, raise a glass to your health.

Only a few people raised their glasses a little too high, a little too often. Our Boston Intern, one of the most dedicated, stoic, and honest-to-goodness guys to have on the team this summer, was chugging the Huckadoos (don't ask) one after the other. Girl Intern and Boston Intern engaged a little innocent flirting...they disappear for a while and Girl Intern comes back to help clean up. I walk into our offices to find Boston Intern boiling like a kettle filled with gasoline.

Me: Hey, man, are you okay?
Boston Intern (BI): Sit down.
Me: Okay.
BI: Do you...could you ever see me doing something bad to her?
Me: What?
BI: I spent this whole summer trying not to fall into a trap like her's and now...on my last night! My last fucking night she has to go and ruin everything!!!

I'm paraphrasing the dialogue, but this is pretty damn close to what was going down. It was his last night working for us and somehow he thought that Girl Intern had played him for a fool and the rest of us were in on the joke. No such thing, to my knowledge, was afoot. Anyways, Boston Intern starts punching a chair. Hard.

BI: Do you know what I did for her!?
Me: No...
BI: I seethed for her! I...lusted for her! I cut myself for her and I bleed for her! And when she asked me to go in there...that I would fuck her in a theater...that I could soil such a holy place in my heart. That I would fucking do that!!! (seriously)

At this point, I tried to calm the man down. He was not looking for the stove to be turned off. Instead of taking a breath, he grabbed me by the shoulders and I did the same, locking horns, so to speak. Boston Intern puffed like a bull about to charge and when he did, I almost couldn't believe it. I mean, he hit me! In the face! Who does that these days? It wasn't a slug, per se; more of an open fisted push that knocked me on my lower jaw. I countered with my green-belt-level-barely-remembered-karate skills to pin him back by taking hold of his lapel and with my other arm, leveraging my elbow against his chest to throw him outside. Now he's a bottle rocket let loose in an antique store. The tables are kicked over. The glasses are smashed to tiny diamond shards. And all the while screaming: "she's ruined it! She's ruined the last four fucking months! No pay and all my hard work down the fucking drain!" Finally he listened to me when I screamed back at him: "She didn't ruin a thing...but you are, right now! Right now, you are about to throw a whole summer's worth of work down the drain. You are about to throw a recommendation letter down the drain. You are about to lose a contact in a world you want so very much to be a part of." I ordered him down to the service yard to chill out.

He complied, but on the order that I find my boss and send her down to speak with him. At this point, everyone left at the theater heard the incident. One girl almost wanted to call the police, but Boston Intern was finally cooperating. I found my boss, who, at that point, was ready to be taken home by her husband. I walked her down to the service yard with her husband where Boston Intern was hitting himself on the head, crying and scrambling on the oily pavement, hollering at the moon. They had a brief, repetative chat -- y'know, the soulful ones you have when you are drunk for the first time in a college freshman dorm with a person you didn't really want to sleep with, but who will do for the time being -- that ended with me taking his keys and tossing him in our van. I had been designated driver earlier in the evening so it was no big deal to take him home. Between the cries...the laughs...and the screaming...he asked such questions as "have you ever tried black tar heroine?" and "do you think I can do better than a fat cunt?" We finally made it to his street. Boston Intern slummed out of the seat and, in a grand finale, tore up the going away card we had all signed for him, then proceeded to hit his head against the side of the van. Four...times. As the dawn was coming up as he rolled up his driveway to stay, tears streaming down his face as he waved me away from the scene of his overblown crime.

I made it back to the theater where my great co-workers had a drink waiting for me and a camp fire like circle ready to hear the story. It was a crazy night, especially since my old RA instincts kicked in, even though I never dealt with anything this insane my entire time at NYU. Meghan and I went to her house to walk her dogs while sipping cocktails from cheap mugs. We did this last night too, not so much to take the edge off the night, but just to shoot the shit. I will really miss those walks. Meghan has been one of my first friends down her in SoCal and she's leaving for personal reasons that I understand fully (but won't make me miss her any less). Currently, she was staying very close to our work, which was good, because while I was able to calm the storm, it didn't change the fact that an actress needed to get to the airport at 6 a.m. that same morning. Guess who'd volunteered the night before to take her? Yep.

Looking back, I think they were both great parties for entirely different reasons. It might not be what I want to do in life or even close to my goals in theater, but I can honestly say this: I'm not bored in the slightest with my job and that's something not many people can say, so I gotta take the good with the bad. And this isn't even the end of the saga. Oh, no. We're doing a whole other opening night party in two weeks. Stay tuned for the ensuing adventure.

Curtain Calls

Ever since deciding to pursue my career as a writer I’ve been filled with a very cynical feeling. Sometimes that feeling is followed in tow by a wave of melancholy and depression—why be so depressed over things that do not really matter all that much? Now, don’t pull a David Foster Wallace exit and take this as seriously as I’m making it out to be. Really what it boils down to is this: me finding a problem in every thing I read, watch, or listen to. I think that my own take will somehow shape the whole into a better form than it already is. I heard that Kanye West—the megalomaniac, takes-no-shit genius MC—went back into the studio this week after fan feedback from his latest single was mainly negative. Put some new tracks on some new wax, ‘Ye. Still, got to show him props for taking constructive criticism in the best light an artist should.

So as I near (and by “near”, I mean a few weeks away) the end of my first draft of the new play, And the Bronx Got Bombed, I solicit to reviews of recently exposed material from the greater entertainment mediums:

The Third Story—a new play by Charles Busch playing at our theater is tonally off, about two scenes too long, but otherwise, ballsy, bold, and surprisingly heartwarming. It consists of three different stories all thematically interwoven with one another. The first is a fairy tale involving a sorcerer creating a double for a shy princess to woo her love. This tale is told by an aging female screenwriter, one of Hollywood’s golden girls in the 1930’s, to her failed screenwriter son, in an attempt to get him to collaborate on a script with her. The script (this being the third story, hence the name) involves a Mob Queen looking to clone herself with the help of a scientist and all the problems it creates. I liked it…some of the jokes fell flat, but those that succeeded, pull the slack up of the ones that didn’t (Best line came after Queenie beats her son’s teacher senseless: “Good thing I didn’t bring an apple; you wouldn’t have the teeth to eat it!”). And in the end, the connection between to two screenwriters that is honed in on, comes to a beautiful finale. All in all, thumbs up, C.B.

“Deadwood”, Season Two—a semi-cult series that was cancelled after three seasons was one of the most interesting things to come out of HBO. I say this a rabid fan of The Wire, Flight of the Conchords, The Sopranos, Big Love, and Extras. But Deadwood was something else: a down and dirty Western tale where it’s really, really hard to tell the good from the bad from the ugly. This season followed newly appointed Sheriff, Seth Bullock, as he sacrificed his affair with the widow, Alma Garrett, to honor the wife and son of his dead brother. Meanwhile, Al Sweargen is rallying his troops against the annexation of the camp with Yankton and the women of Deadwood start to find common ground in all their struggles. I'll admit that "Deadwood" didn't hook me right away because the episodes were so long (or at least felt like it) and the dialogue so dense (or maybe it was me...that can happen). However, with the fight between Bullock and Sweargen, Al's kidney stone arch, Mr. Walcott's lethal habit, Ellsworth's proposal, and Jonnie and Calamity Jane's friendship...well, I'm one gutted cocksucker for the show and can't wait to see the last season.

Burn After Reading--there was a point where I'd leap at the chance to see an Coen Brothers' movie out. Then came Intolerable Cruelty. And then Ladykillers. But this is an entry about looking up in life when it is so easy to look down and I have to say that's no hard thing with the latest from Joel and Ethan. There humor and off-beat style work wonders with the phenomenal cast, especially Brad Pitt. There are parts where it lulls, but by the end, when everything is a mess and the Coen Brothers fully admit it's a big mess, it's like a Jackson Pollack black comedy -- spattered together just right that it's mesmerizing. George Clooney lives up to his title of "last movie star alive", showing he can do just about anything. Brad Pitt shows us once again that he's a four-star comedy actor when given the right role. And John Malkovich, together with Frances McDormand, do what they do best in the quirkiest way possible: show us real human emotion under duress. So far, it's up there on my top ten list for 2008 movies.

I suppose the reasoning behind this entry is that as the week wraps up (and what a shitty week it's been. For further reading on the subject, look at my last post or open up the business section of the newspaper). Sara, Scott, and my mom have all called this week depressed with "after-bar-mitzvah-blues" among other things and I'd be a liar to say I haven't felt that way too. My homesickness for New York is at an all time high. One of my bosses at work yelled at me today for a mistake I made. Was the error mine? Yes, to the fullest extent. Was it that big of a deal? No. In fact, my boss' boss said it wasn't anything to break a sweat over. Could it be that every year we get older we start from scratch and I'm just in my guppy phase of twenty-three? Perhaps, but I'm not willing to let myself get off that easily. I thrive in situations where dumb people need my help. Now I'm the one who's head is not quite in the game.

However, there is light...

Coming home tonight on my bike, some drunk guy who I heard down the street walked up to me and said, "You're a faggot, faggot!" I haven't been called that in a long time. Brought back memories of woe from the pizza-face with extra anchovies years, when all was in the gutter and there was no end in sight. God bless you, you drunken frat boy! Your mother might not be proud of you; you obviously have some self issues that need resolving, yet bygod you've made a believer out of me!

Stoopidnuss Is Bad For Your Health

Put me in the category of: DO NOT RESUSCITATE. Last night, after working hard and feeling much better from my quasi-flu induced symptoms brought on my allergies; I headed home with Biggie and Moby on the iPod. I pulled up in front of my apartment, ready to sit down to another delicious episode of Flight of the Conchords, which Sara purchased for me for my birthday. I get out of my truck, rummaging through my keys to find…wait, no keys. I’ve lost the keys to my apartment! “Goddamnit,” I scream into the Wednesday night only populated by snarky drunks. I hate it when I do stupid things. Even more so, I hate it when the stupid things are monumental. Now it’s too late to call my landlord and God knows that when I do, I’ll be out on my ass by about $100.00. Short-term solution is to retrace the steps from my day…

…I head back to La Jolla, back to University City, my mind racing through the day as to where these keys might have slipped out. I did drop my keys (all of them) while carrying three quiches and a box of cookies out from Trader Joes. That’s the first place I look. Surly the eco-friendly, organically snobbish customers would turn it in…or just leave it on the ground, perhaps. No luck on either front…I visited Ralph’s Grocery store, but the guy behind the counter couldn’t locate mis pobres llaves. Que lastima, indeed! “Hey, man! How you doin’? Havin’ a good night?” asked a local drunk chick sitting on the hood of her car. I wanted to grab her by the face and scream, “Does it look like I’m having a good night!?!” Instead, I went with the almighty thumbs up and pursed lip smile.

…Next step, back to work. The administrative offices are very creepy at night. Once midnight rolls around, regardless if you are in the building or not, the lights go down. Some people still lurk the theater (like Doug from the shops, who sleeps in a van in the parking lot…for real), but mostly it’s just empty. If you are lucky enough to walk the hallways of darkness and catwalks lit to pitch black nothingness, like I did, you can genuinely creep yourself out. Fun fact: you can also use the space to hold movie nights with your friends—I sat in on a little of their screening of Blazing Saddles and forgot how much I love that scene where Slim Pickens holds himself hostage. Beautiful.

…Back to the search, which meant going to Crossroads, the apartment complex our theater rents out to house our actors, designers, and visiting staff. It’s a nice place to temporary stay in. I actually lived in one of the units for a month after first moving down to San Diego. But when you are tired, gross, homeless, and upset, it’s not the best place to cheer one’s spirits. I was there earlier in the night to clear out some apartments, so I knew at least one of them was empty. Yes, folks, I bummed it in the dirty apartment of my workplace. I was officially homeless…what else could I do?

Only got four hours of sleep. I was surprisingly lucid this morning as I went to the JCC to swim. I really didn’t care about the workout—though it seems to help when I’m frustrated—I just wanted to feel clean. Retraced my steps one last time around the shopping mall city of our fair land with no trace of my keys. I went into work early, repressed my bad thoughts by diving into work (on a good note: one of my co-workers who’s helping me with my proposal for the Hodder Fellowship got back to me with some great notes!) and called my landlord. Here we go! I get paid today and already a third of it will go to getting me back in my apartment. He called me back with a monotone assistance to his voice: “It’s your lucky day. I have an extra set. Are you on your lunch break?” I am now. I rushed down, got the keys as he was leaving, and bolted home to make some lunch and put on a fresh pair of underwear.

Such an idiot sometimes.

Bar Mitzvah OY!

“Do you believe in miracles!” cried my father from the bimah of our synagogue. Everyone laughed because it was quite hilarious and my father knows how to bring the house down. Sam was even smiling at this point—not out of embarrassment. Yes, my brother exceeded all expectations and became a bar mitzvah/grown up Jew/still teenager last weekend with all my family, friends, and the five other Jews in Salt Lake City watching (just kidding…there’s about 7 or so, depending on the sporting season).

The highlights are as follows…

Nightmare on 13th: upon Sara’s arrival and the meeting of my friends Skaughttie, Justin, and Jamie, she was instantly hooked on the notion that we had to go to a haunted house. What my lovely girlfriend didn’t realize is that in Utah we take our haunted houses very, very seriously. I think it might be part of a scared straight tactic—y’know, the devil freaks the living daylights out of you in order to bring you closer to the denominational flock. So, after a lovely Shabbat dinner where the waitress was a girl I went to school with from elementary to high school and after we checked in to our hotel room for the evening (where the bell boy went to junior and senior high school with me), we ventured down to 1300 S. and 330 East to meet Skaughttie, Lizz, and Skaughttie’s friend Mitch-The-Bitch. We got freaked out! Pitch black rooms with body bags that moved! Eerie tunnels with the shadows of rats crawling all over you! Freaky insane asylum set-up! All that said, this was the first year an actor went a little overboard. The psycho-clown took Sara hostage forcing me to give myself up to him to let her go. Then he really didn’t let me go. Skaughttie actually had to use his body as a barrier in order for me to pass. But really, it was Lizz, the un-PC ska-girl, who got the worst of it. One of the clowns was asking her out and popped some black-light soap bubble on her cheek. Any time the black lights set the stage, Lizz was reminded of the time she gave Cummy the Clown a blowjob in the haunted house.

Religion and Food: nothing—and I mean nothing—helps me stay with my Hebrew peeps like our food. Seriously, if ever my faith wanders, give me some challah and a falafel and you’ll have me saying the shema like it was my morning prayer. For Sam’s shindig, it was no exception. My parents went all out with kugal, salmon, strawberry salad, and the best desserts possible. But did I get to eat anything? Barely! Dodging the people of Kol Ami Temple is not easy, especially when you’ve a) graduated recently b) started a new job c) have your girlfriend to introduce around and d) spoke in your brother’s ceremony. I grabbed a quick plate at kiddush, but it didn’t sustain me through the evening, when the BBQ was laid out in fine, non-kosher glory. This I did chow down on. So much so that my the end of the night, I felt like I was going to keel over and all the brisket was going to bust out of my like I was a beached wale exploding. Really, though, I think it was the chair lifting that did me in. It was my last time for a while and even though indigestion followed…totally worth it.

Souljaboy’s Cash Money: if it were up to me I would have had the Kelzbros (Utah’s first, and as far as I know, only Kelzmer band) play all night. But my parents wanted to hear Lyle Lovett. I sorta wanted to sneak some Rhymefest in to the mix. And my brother…oh, my brother, wanted to hear “Souljaboy” by Souljaboy Tellem. I’ve told my brother time and time again, this is not a good song. Don’t listen to it! Not out of content or explicit lyrics—no, Superman that ho’ all you want—but really!? It has an awful beat, stupid words, and the guy’s voice is almost as annoying as Lil’ Wayne. But seeing how it was his day and not up to me, I told the DJs they could lay down that wax. Okay, little bit of advice for all the un-hip folks who are out of touch with today’s music: it’s not “Soldier Boy” by The Shirelles. Apparently these DJs, bless their hearts, had never heard of the headache-inducing version that my brother wanted to hear. He lost his temper, started breaking things, and throwing chairs. Cue Sweet Sixteen music right about…now! Sam went on a full rock star blowout that, of course, he forgot by the morning when his pockets were flooded with checks marked in numbers he still has no idea how to divide. Plus, an iPod. Instantly, he was happy again. Souljaboy what? He could download that ho’ now and listen to it day in and day out for the rest of his life. Or until he loses the iPod, which is exactly what happened the very next morning when I was supposed to leave. Not only did he misplace his newfound pleasure electronic, he misplaced all his cash and checks. Or so he says. What it comes down to, and I, ahem, might be slightly responsible for this, is that he does not trust my parents with the money. Now, I told him not to let mom and dad invest it for him. Much of my money was off wondering around in money markets and stocks, several which took big dives over the years, and none of which I had control over until it was all spent on tuition (which is what I have should have saved it for all along…in a saving’s account). But my brother is a different story. He has no accounts. He has no savings. He needs my parents to help him put the money in the bank and then obtain said money. “You stole it all,” Sam accused my parents, “I know you came in here and took it all!” These were the parting words as I went to hop a plane back to San Diego.

I…Cried: Shut up, I did. I’m not ashamed. In fact, despite the last highlight, I am very, very proud of my brother. He’s more like a son to me than a brother with the ten year age difference. He came so close to not making it (another rockstar moment I was not present for…) or doing anything like this…it’s really amazing to think he got up there and did it all by himself. I have to give him props for that. So when it was my time to get up there and give him a speech, my Lenny Bruce quote faltered me and I just cried. In between tears I said something I really meant, but can’t quite remember because I was breaking down like my mom should have been doing (and did later on). Yep, very proud of my little brother.


…shut up.

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?

Candles Out

Look at this: twenty-three years old and calm as a Zen cucumber. Okay, so I don’t really know what that means, but I will put it in the simplest terms possible: twenty-three ain’t all that bad, especially when the best thing about it is all the people wishing you a happy birthday. Yes, somebody alert Hallmark that I have a new sentimental card idea—I’ve gone sappy as a maple tree.

Seriously, though, I feel very grateful to have friends coast to coast now who have been calling in like I’m the hottest radio station around to wish me the best of birthdays. When that happens, you almost want nothing in terms of gifts. Two or three years ago, nuh-uh, would not have been standing for it. Where’s the new CD? Where’s the new book? Huh? It’s my sweet sixteen!!! All that has gone to the wayside now. Sure, that Allen Ginsberg collection is tempting and I do wish I had a few new tunes. Yet at the heart of the matter: I have a home, I have a job, I’ve a girlfriend, and I have my health. Complaints…naah! The rest of my white, middle-class brethren are flooding the market with whiny anecdotes about how hard their lives are (for more on this, watch MTV Real Life: I’m a Shop-a-holic).

Last night I went out with my buddy Justin to a party with some of his friends that I’m slowly corralling to be my friends. Anyways, long story short: great party, interesting people, lots of booze, and an end time of 3 AM. That is the way to do a birthday (my only minor detail to alter: the 6:30 AM wake up time the next morning for work). In an ideal, bizarre world what more could I have asked for? My girlfriend, Sara, to be here. The day off. My student loans eternally deferred. But all-in-all I’m a failed Jim Carrey thriller and it feels great.

Established 1985

On the eve of my 23^rd birthday, I am surprisingly numb to the event. “It’ll happen”, claimed my father in his very all-knowing, all-seeing, almost always wrong tone of voice, “you’ll wake up one day and it’s your fortieth birthday, but you just don’t care.” Today, father, you are correct. And he was also right on calling my cards out for becoming like him: more and more I just find myself turning into Carl. Which is neither a good, nor a bad thing. My father is a fantastic human being, one of the pillars of my life, and all around great dad—just these days he’s tending to forget many entrees that used to be common eats on his memory plate, even, in fact, that it was my birthday.

If it sounds like I’m being harsh on my old man then I apologize. I really don’t mean to be. I simply think that his predictions for me turning out a lot like him are going to come true one of these birthdays (undoubtedly, the one I care least about. Pick a number) and will find myself a bald, slightly overweight, college play-by-play announcer, who’s trying to raise a Jewish family in conservative (re: Mormon) Utah. And, frankly, that’s just not what I want in life.

“You’re doing it better than I ever could,” my dad told me early this year. “You eat better. You live better. You keep yourself in control.” At this moment, my mom and I were scared to death about his heart that had miserably failed a recent stress test and put my father in the hospital to get some minor surgery done (another Carl witticism: “minor surgery is surgery done on someone else.”) And to this, I do agree, but only partially. Neither my dad nor I smoke anything. He’s a rare drinker and I’m a casual one, though I have been known to go into the heavyweight division, namely during my 21^st two years ago. We both swim, both sight our sights high in what we want to do in life, and both have a good head on our shoulders. Huh, now that I lay it all out it doesn’t sound too bad. And if Carl thinks that I’m version 2.0 of him then it can’t all be bad.

Still, I can’t shake my current state of mind right now. I’m excited with the prospect of having a play I wrote (okay, my college thesis play. There. I said it.) getting some attention at a legitimate regional theater. Right now I’m on a kick of getting my work out to as many people, theaters, and literary organizations that I can. Getting out of college and jumping into the real world scared me half to death. Now that I’m there, I want back in to the cushy student-yeah-I’m-a-serious-writer lifestyle I had only four months ago. Carl would be proud: he always told me those were the best years of my life. Damn, another point goes to the parental unit. But back to the point at hand: I was contacted earlier this week by a director who has ties with the Berkeley Reparatory Theater and the Magic Theater, both in Northern California. (Funny side note: I applied to both of these theaters for employment after school. Though I never heard back from Berkeley Rep, I was promptly rejected for the position of artistic director of the Magic. I still really wish I could have gotten the job—one day…) I was so excited that a) she had actually lived up to her promise to read my work b) she liked it and c) she was interested in helping me get it on it’s feet. We have yet to discuss c) in greater detail, but I have a good feeling about this, something that my dad likes to dash whenever he gets it to keep his expectations down. But not me; no, I like to put it all out there and get hurt numerous times, which is part of the reason I’ve stopped attending clubs.

It always seems to happen like this: I write something. I take my sweet-ass time to re-write it into something half way decent. Then I take a hell of a lot more time researching contests and theaters that are “very excited to produce new work” and “always looking for fresh voices”. More time passes as I print off copies, write the obligatory letter, and schlep the heap of words off to the post office. The ones I hope to get and track with fervor usually fail. It’s the stuff I send out and forget about that usually prove to be fruitful. Here’s me crossing my fingers.

So that’s the primary school of thought going into my 23^rd year on this planet: please, God, give me a cushy life where work and money are no object. Yep, I certainly am a rarity, let me tell you. In all seriousness, I feel more than ever that I’m on the right path in life. I want to be a writer and the world is starting to barely-sorta-maybe pay attention to that. Today was my day off and spent it very scribe like: sitting around in my newsman hat and boxers, watching Netflix with a sandwich from the bakery downstairs, before going to the park to finish a book (who is this Ned Vizzini guy? I kinda really like his books) and outline the second act of my Bronx centered play that’s been keeping me up at night with a beginning, an ending, and nothing in between.

Hey, it’s one step closer.