Writings On The Wall

So you’re sayin’ there’s a chance. – Dumb and Dumber

It became pretty apparent to me early this week that by the end of the fiscal year at work they will no longer need me. Sad fact, but surprisingly enough, I didn’t flinch. Okay, maybe a little. I called up Sara and proposed the idea of staying in Sacramento as opposed to her moving down to San Diego with me. Let’s just say that the idea was less than thrilling to her, sparking an outrage of emotion with a time span that only a woman can dwell on. But she was right in the end. And though doubting the truthfulness to this statement, the night she got mad at me I figured it all out. Maybe it’s not foolproof; maybe it’s not even feasible; but it’s definitely a shot. Basically it came down to them sort of “announcing” the next season. It’s got smaller casts to cut down on paying more people when unnecessary. Smaller casts means reduced people needed for transportation and less of a need for apartments (along with people to maintain those apartments). I saw it and knew I had to make a plan. Shirley still has my writing samples from about six weeks ago, to which she told me at the Christmas party on Monday that I’d have an answer before the holidays. I also came into a bit of information both sweet and sour: my friend Johanna in the education department is leaving for New York to be with her boyfriend and attend the New School. I drop a tear to see her leave yet leap for the opportunity to do her job of education manager. Her boss loves me. There’s more of an artistic component to it. And, despite no one getting raises next year, would be a promotion for me. We talk tomorrow.

Take a lot more than that to get rid of me/See I do what they can’t do/I just do me. – Eve, “Let Me Blow Ya Mind”

Everything I’ve ever wanted to do in my life I have done. That’s not to say I’ve done everything in the world I’ve ever wanted to do (being a gaucho in Argentina’s Las Pampas, you’ve been tapped). Check list, please: performing improv comedy professionally. Check. Living in New York for an extended amount of time (and throw NYU in there for good measure). Check. Working for the Cherry Lane Theater and the La Jolla Playhouse. Check and check. I don’t get everything I want, but once I set my mind to something it’s almost a surefire shot that I’ll get it, with questions ranging only from the when and now, never the if or why. We celebrated Martin’s birthday last week with a bonfire on the sea at night. It was one of my best nights in California thus far. Some of the actor’s came down and one of them, Vince, asked me if I was looking to be a company manager some day. I laughed out loud and replied, “Hell no!” then went on to describe my ambitions for playwriting, how hopefully next season I’d be in literary. I then spent the next 30 minutes helping him out with an idea he’d been tinkering with for a while. “All right…I’d hire you,” said Vince. If only he were in a position to do so. Even more than that I met a guy named Dewey who’d worked at the Playhouse off and on for more than ten years. “I just told them what I wanted to do and they let me do it, “ Dewey explained to me, “at first it was front of house, then box office, then props and shops, back to box office, and then to backstage. I was an actor for a while, but I like backstage the most…so…that’s where I ended up.” And he seemed so confident that whatever came his way he’d be able to do his work. “Plus, when they like someone they don’t lose them without a fight.” That’s how last week started and that’s how this one will have to as well. Comin’ out the doors swingin’…

I wasn’t meant to play the role of the son. – The Wire, “Transitions”

Back in the South Bronx, things have changed and they are looking to go for better days. I have rewritten almost the entire play. It’s still about gang bangers and the emotional ties between them, but now it’s a gay love story between a graffiti artist and a barrio boy who’s on the straight and narrow. I’m going to repost it where I posted the original first act in some of my older posts so look for it soon (sorry to everyone who read the original first act; this one is different, but better, trust me). Jen and I started casting and while last night’s no show effort proved worthless, we Craigslist-ed that bitch to get her fired up for tomorrow. Hopefully someone will bite. I can’t wait to hear it read aloud. I can’t wait to see if the humor and irony and drama all collide like I imagine when I’m writing it in my head. Callan told me to write the play I believed in so I did. Sara made me an awesome t-shirt saying And The Bronx Got Bombed on it so I needed to write an equally awesome play to match it. And Douglas Carter Beane said don’t stop writing so I won’t. Maybe even Chris Ashley will come see it, find it perfect for the last play needed for the season, and I’ll be in business for the rest of my life. Or…perhaps baby steps…baby steps…inch by inch…

Words of a Mad Man

I usually don’t have full scale mental-crisis about what I’m doing with my life, but several factors in the past week have led to me questioning “just what the hell am I doing with myself?” There was:

1. The rejection letter. “So many wonderful plays pass through our office that it is almost impossible to choose.”

2. The actress with a statement. “XANADU just isn’t artistically fulfilling.”

3. Justin’s keen observation. “Aren’t you laid off at the end of the year?”

4. Justin being in New York and working with agents and…hustling his shit.

5. A plain and simple over-all self doubt that comes with being in your early 20’s.


But might I suggest to you, if you find yourself in this position, with writing or whatever it is you do, have an excellent girlfriend who can talk some sense in you. Have a group of friends you trust give you honest feedback on your work. And read about how Matthew Weiner, the 43-year-old exec producer of Mad Men got smart in five easy steps:

1. He realized he wasn't smart — yet. ''I started looking at people whose careers I wanted — David Chase, Woody Allen — and saw that I was not on that path.''

2. He said no. ''I turned down a contract at [Ted Danson's sitcom]] Becker even though I had no other job. It proved that I was uncompromising. Or crazy.''

3. He made stuff. ''I wrote the Mad Men script to show what I could do.''

4. He never gave up. ''It takes hundreds of no's to get a yes. How many networks are there? That's how many no's I got.''

5. He played nice with everyone. ''My Mad Men script was given to AMC by my manager's former assistant. Taking your aggression out on anyone will always come back to bite you. Sometimes in the parking lot after the meeting.''

Leftovers

Thanksgiving 2008 Best and Worst


The Best Things:
1. Bocce ball with a foul-mouth, elderly Scottish woman
2. Stuffed belly video chatting with my girlfriend
3. Tales involving “poop” at Tone and Melissa’s house
4. Season one finale of Battlestar Galatica (shit, another TV show I’m hooked on)
5. Free parking…EVERYWHERE
6. Libba’s homemade California style stuffing
7. Camp fire nightcap
8. The middle of Chip Kidd’s “The Learners”
9. Not freezing my balls off outside a Target store at five in the morning in North Tonawanda, NY (everything else about last Thanksgiving I miss)
10. Eating until I am satisfied, not until I’m bloated


The Worst Things:
1. Blues band downtown that started play music at 7:00 a.m. (!)
2. Meal starting a little bit after 1:00 p.m.
3. Being on-call for work
4. Going into work the very next day
5. Only one helping of leftover food from the day before
6. Missing family, friends, and other loved ones across the country
7. Regretting not taking advantage of Black Friday and getting a new digital camera—after all, it’s not that cold here (read: it’s warm)
8. Down to my last loaf of Great Harvest pumpkin chocolate chip bread
9. The Rosie O’Donnell variety show
10. It’s a whole ‘nother year until Thanksgiving comes back around
Most Egregious Number: The Wal-Mart employee who was trampled to death by the crowd when he opened the doors on Black Friday. Jesus Christ!

Bitch, I Dunno Yo' Life

Come to think of it, or rather, when I come around to be able to think about it, I don’t remember much of my life either. Nope, strike that. I don’t remember much of last night and this morning. Through the thick haze of a brown Whiskey headache I see it…it’s all coming back to me…the glitter…the pinkness…the disco balls.



Martin and I are in back, the cast’s quarters for the XANADU opening night party, the place that I’m sure will be unused—it’s always an unnecessary hassle because most of the time the cast wants to be getting drunk with their admires—eating the remains of Yoshi’s salmon lettuce wraps. They are delicious, along with the orange chicken. I don’t know why, but for some reason tonight’s “Venice Beach” menu of hamburgers and corn dogs just don’t really sell my stomach. Eat up because we must venture to the liquor cabinet and pull a copious amount of alcohol, theatre’s only true form of payment.



All the rounds are made: my operation peeps, my box office peeps, and actual marshmallow peeps on the dessert table. Tonight, I’m not driving. I’ve done it at all the other parties so this is the one where I get to hand my keys off to someone else then hit the bar. Again…and again…and uhgen…’n ugg-in…from there, why the dance floor of course! I’m a crazy drunk club girl at this point, but it’s okay, namely because I haven’t been one for quite some time. Dancing with Jen, dancing with Ned, dancing with Martin and Desiree, and then dancing with Jonny C. who, as it appears, has traded in his suite pants for a pair of silver-glitter biker shorts (emphasis on the “short”) he stole off the merchandise manikin. When did this happen!?! He had a full dress suite on a few minutes ago! I turn my head and Jonny C’s getting’ his freak on every which way…



…Keep dancing, keep drinking…hey, there’s one of the girls from XANADU. Snap a picture, she snaps off her bra. Wait, what!?! So now I’m dancing around with a cute lesbian’s bra on head for about five minutes until the gay boys swipe it from me and it is lost to the throng of performers. I’m really sorry if that was a good bra but I highly doubt you’ll get it back (and even if you do, clean it thoroughly or better yet, just throw it out)…

…Okay, it’s all getting way too bizarre in here. I’m looking at the FLASHING…Flashing…flashing….LIGHTS…Lights…lights…and through them I see two people making out who, for the absolute life of me, should not be making out. Even I know that and I’m hammered as a nail. A string of reasons run through my head: because you are in the show together…because he’s very, very gay…and because his boyfriend is right there giving you two the look of death. Oh, you’ve noticed him too. The boys go off together, I imagine to work things out, laugh the whole thing off (probably not) and she goes off to dance with the three ten-year-old boys who are her biggest fans tonight…

…The November fog has settled over the hill and makes the street lamps look like motionless fireflies caught in plastic bags, glowing warm, unearthly yellow on the parking lot. I’m in my car, it’s 2:30 in the morning, and I’m just letting the cold air fill my lungs. That was another great perk of New York; just walk it off on your way back home. Now I got to sober up and I will, but oh god, it’s going to hurt in the morning…when, in six hours, I must return to clean the whole thing up.

The Dog and The Days and The Afternoons

Dog Day 1, Wednesday—coming back from vacation is never an easy thing to do. Those lazy days can get you caught in a stupor of relaxation and before you know it, you’ve told the world to chill out. Bills will take care of themselves. Rent—what do you mean “rent”? It’s nice to come back and still have a day off to prepare for jumping back into the tank. Wednesday was my day to take it easy. I watched some television, read a lot, and went out on my bike for lunch and a trip to the park. I decided to go to up to the small park next to Interstate 5 exit and wedged in the top corner of San Diego’s Little Italy. I was listening to my reading of Philip Roth’s American Pastoral as recorded by the amazing actor Ron Silver when a woman caught my attention through the barred fence

Woman: Excuse me…? Excuse me!?
Me: Yes?
Woman: Did you lose a dog?
Me: No.
Woman: Have you seen a dog—specifically, an orange chow?
Me: Not in the last five minutes.
Woman: I think this woman lost it and now it’s out by the highway…
Me: The highway!
Woman: Yeah…she was running the opposite direction. I shouted, but…
Me: Jesus…I’m sorry…
Woman: Yeah…if you see her…tell her the dog is by the highway.

I snapped into Batman mode. No, I wasn’t going to let a dog be run over if I could help it. I sped over on my bike and saw the dog through the chain link, timid and testing the waters of black asphalt containing highly dangerous motorized fish. I whistled to it and it ran. Locking up my bike, I went past the “No Pedestrians Beyond This Point” warning, along the exit’s shoulder, and into some thorny scrub brush. The dog was nowhere. I ventured further passed what looked like a homeless person’s dwelling of rags and dirty blankets until I saw the orange puff with a long, neon-green leash hanging from its neck. I was able to get it to retreat back towards the exit, but not before darting in front of a car and quickly back stepping. Jesus, this dog was going to get itself killed. I barely could reach it, seeing the leash in sight, when it took off for the city. Hoped on my bike and picked my direction. From Date Street, I rode down to Beecher turned right, and spotted the dog immediately. I knew I could either try walking up to it or staying on my bike, both options being limited. If I got off the bike, I risked it getting away from me; if I stayed on, I’d be an intimidating figure chasing it. I chose the latter and the chase began—down Ketter, over to Front, heading South, the dog always in quick pursuit, but me hot on it’s heels. After shouting at various pedestrians “hey, could you step on that dog’s leash before—never mind…” and all of them looking dumbfounded even if I got their attention half a block up. Damn, this dog could run. Passed Broadway, down to G and back over to First Ave, it went all the way down to the light rail track, once again giving me a heart attack, but turning on the jogger path instead. I’ll follow him ‘til I’ve run him ragged I thought. Each time I got within inches, centimeters even, I couldn’t quite get him. Then we came to J Street and the chow, who’s plotting of course I was beginning to anticipate, took the wrong side of the street and trapped itself on the pavilion of a restaurant, surrounded by another barred fence. Two of the guys working there were caught by surprise yet didn’t hesitate to help me one bit. I got him. I can get him back to his owner. I did something good today. Not quite. Right before I got right up to the dog he turned, squeezing himself through the bars as if his torso was made of putty, and took off running up Sixth Avenue. “Damnit,” I yelled in my sweaty and worn down Jack Bauer voice. “I’ll watch your bike while you chase him,” said one of the dudes. “No, I can’t keep up with him on foot.” I picked up my bike and headed off in the direction I’d say him going, towards Petco Park. My pursuit was about to come to an end, however, as I’d lost the dog once again. Instincts didn’t hold up this time and while I spoke with a security guard who’d seen the dog run through the park and up towards the direction of my apartment, that was the last I’d see of the dog again.

I went home to rest, to regroup, to get some water, and take it all in. I’d been chasing the dog for two hours—TWO HOURS! How did that happen? Darting into oncoming traffic, burning my legs to the point where they could have been renewable energy, and wanting so badly to be a Boy Scout for the day…god, I completely lost track of the time. At 4:30, I went back out only to find the sun calling it quits. I ran into a lady walking a dog that had been burned in a fire and a Wisconsin girl for Green Peace, both interesting, both fun, and both unable to help me in my search. By 6:00 I shook my head as I pedaled home in defeat. I have no idea, but saving that dog meant everything to me. Crushed, I drowned my sorrows in beer and sushi. Sigh…

Dog Day 2, Thursday—my job, at times, can be frustrating, but I’ll never ever say that it’s boring or doesn’t leave the day unfilled with surprises. I had to go over to our apartments to oversee the exchanging of furniture. Long story short, the theater rents most of their furniture, they want to buy the furniture—new furniture, and replace the old stuff. Bit by bit, piece by piece. Yesterday was trading out dressers for a smaller set of drawers. The higher-ups insisted we be there to supervise in order to ensure our talents’ items are not messed with. All fine and dandy, now the curveball: the movers say they have nightstands and headboards the match the new drawers, should they put them in? One call to general management and we are green lit. All I have to do is remove the contents of the nightstand and holyshitwhatthefuckisallthispotdoinghere? Alongwiththosedimebagsofliquid? Andwhatthehellisthatbottlefullof—“LoveSpray”? Oh god, now the movers are looking at me. One of them asked if this was my apartment—no! No, it’s not. Normally, I have no problem with drugs. You wanna do them, be my guest. Want me to be your guest? Thank you, but god, not while I’m at work. And two strangers are watching me struggle to hide eight big ounces of sticky green under the sink. I call my boss. She calls her boss. We’re waiting. The movers have stopped and we are just waiting to proceed.

Finally, I get the call:
GM: We didn’t order nightstands so we have no business with them.
Me: Okay.
GM: We needed a heads-up on stuff like this and we didn’t get it.
Me: Right.
GM: We clear?
Me: Yes. Except…what about the contents of the nightstand?
GM: Put it back.
Me: Okay.
GM: I realize this puts you in a compromising position, but put it back before he gets home.
Me: I’ll try.
GM: Good. And we won’t bring it up again.

I told the movers about replacing the nightstand. They barely flinched as they started to undo the majority of the work they had just completed. Problem was that they took the original nightstands down to their truck so now they needed to bring them back up. Fine, let’s just do it so—“Hi! We got out of rehearsal early!” Oh shit. This guy is out early. He has a car. He’ll be here any minute! Nope, wait…he’s here right now. The man, let’s call him Res, walks in and I can barely make eye contact with him. Everyone back at the office said this was to be kept on the down low, very hush-hush. Is it a big deal? I don’t know! But now he knows as we walks into the bedroom! “I didn’t know they’d be changing…everything…” Res said. I reassured him that all of his items were under the sink, safe and sound. He smiled and gave a little embarrassed laugh. “Thanks…” he rolled his eyes, both of us afraid to acknowledge the other. Wait…so maybe it’s not a big deal…or is it…? I don’t know. But after dealing with this for two hours I’m surprised I didn’t smoke up the whole bag just to calm my nerves down.

Dog Day 3, Friday (today)—after all the excitement of Dog Day 2 I drove up to Los Angeles to meet my father for dinner and stay the night with him while he was on a business trip. When I moved to San Diego I drove through L.A. on the Sunday of Memorial Day Weekend, the day where no one was coming or going and ran into no traffic whatsoever. Now, I was going into one of my seven rings of hell (the other being long afternoons of department shopping). I met up with my dad after his game and we proceeded to have a lovely dinner at the Cheesecake Factory in Marina Del Rey. As always, I love seeing my dad, but encounters with him are accompanied by a fifty/fifty split of conversation: lots of laughing followed by very sobering and sometimes saddening discussions. Last night we talked about jobs, opportunities, stupid people, television and movies, and finally about what it’s like getting old. It’s disturbing as he told me that a family friend had been diagnosed with ALS and not given much of a chance. He wrote an article in Newsweek, the same one with our amazing President-elect on the cover, documenting his mental battle with the disease by going to a fantasy baseball camp. (read the article here: http://www.newsweek.com/id/166832)

It was hard as my father reminded me that the whole reason he knew Michael was because of me and because of the Jewish families in Utah. When my parents first moved to Salt Lake, my godparents, Ed and Gene Eisen, got four families together from the synagogue and they quickly became close friends: my family, the Waxes, the Goldsmiths, and the Lassers. The friendship, however beautiful and warming, however deep and unique, was short-lived. The Waxes moved to San Diego. The Goldsmiths divorced. Then the Lassers divorced. Michael started having brain aneurysms. Jeff Lasser killed himself. And just this year Mr. Wax fractured his skull and my father had a stint placed in his heart. Of all of the men from the four families, of four friends united by their families into one another, my father was actually doing the best. Now, Michael Goldsmith…diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease…just isn’t right. We went to bed that night recalling our past trips, the four corners road-adventure of 1999 and other camping adventures. It made me so sad to recall them and at the same time so happy to have lived them and still have my father around to recall them with me.

But it’s hard to know that I’ll never get to have the same relationship with my dad as I did when I was a kid—carefree. Now we both have worries and we both commiserate. It’s still father and son talking, but now it’s man-to-man, not adult-to-child. And it will simply continue onward: like an affliction with no ailment; like a situation without solution, like a dog that cannot be caught.

Ready to be Poor

Open your books/let’s get down to the lesson
To read a story about/economic transgression
If you wonderin’ the era/no need to be guessin’
The time is the present/the what’s a recession

The why…we don’t really know the why, you see,
But we all about to wind-up in some poverty
Politicians say we’re fine/so why they gotta mask it?
They’ll be payin’ off the debt/in a foreclosed casket.

I ain’t really that worried about bein’ dirt poor
I’ll survive once again just like I did it before
Drop the pen ‘n pad/exit the stage door
Grab my fishnets/I’m back to bein’ Jarky the whore.

(the hook):
So put your hands up if you ain’t got dollars
Puttin’ in full days for blue and white collars
Shovel other people’s shit, wash their Impalas
If you’re an unemployed, underpaid
Fuckin’ Rhodes scholar
And put your hands up if you ready to be poor
Wave good-bye to the house and the grocery store
While your bank account starves into skin and bones
Bob your head up and down just like the Dow Jones

Free market now a free-range target
Powder keg with a short fuse and we sparked it
Stocks in the gutter/beggin’ on Wall Street
To invest in live cattle/when all they got is dead meat.

You’d think after Enron we’d learn
Lehman Brothers is shady
And don’t feed the Bear Sterns

This is for everybody who worked hard for that home
Got tricked by Gordon Gekko and his lies on the phone
And yes I’m upset about the sub-prime buyers
But more in a rage at all the sublime liars

You a lotta the reasons that I got holes in my clothes
Wear shoes on my feet that don’t cover my toes
I know just how cold these winters really feel
Stop steppin’ on my back/get hot off my heels
Sellin’ my wheels/for a weeks worth of meals
F the D’s and the R’s/where’s my new deal?

(the hook)

Truthfully I think the crash might give us a fresh start
To invest in the future—like food, schools, and the arts
I know this maybe hard for most of you kids to believe
Bail-outs the only aces Bush got up his sleeve

All of the other aces gone in unregulated poker
Turnin’ nice guys like me all into the Joker
So now I rob the pockets of every stock-broker
Pour gas on those stacks/light a match
And then smoke’er.

Start breathin’ in the fumes/’til I start feelin’ delirious
Laugh in Greenspan’s face and scream, “WHY SO SERIOUS?”
I’m like Mister Tyler Durden/the anti-hero’s hero
Fight you in the club/ ‘til we all back to zero
Crash credit cards/make Master Card wrecks
Shit, I’ll take another round of those stimulus checks

Fall 2008 Scrambled Reviews

I've recently become addicted to the Scramble application that you can get on Facebook. Ever since junior year of college, when I started playing Boggle with my friends Dan, Luke, and Gina, I've been drawn to letter combination games (used to me more so Scrabble, but now it's definitely Scramble...ah, wordplay). My time has to be filled since this week has a lot of my hours cut back due to XANADU now being our only show to take care of. So, in between Scramble matches and conversations where my girlfriend tells me how much she hates Scramble matches, I saw some stuff and here are some brief reviews:

Deadwood, Third Season -- I should also mention that this was the final season of "Deadwood" and by far the best. Al Swearegen and Seth Bullock actually join forces to protect the camps future against a sadistically murderous and greedy entrepreneur, George Hurst. This season also saw the new addition of Brian Cox to the cast (awesome!), the departure of Jim Beaver's character (no! God no!), Joanie Stubbs and Calamity Jane starting an affair (I knew it), and the best fight scene of the whole series when Dan rips out the eye of one of Hurst's men in the finest episode of the series, "Rich Find".

Bottomline: write HBO and demand a movie version to wrap up all the storylines left hanging by the show's cancellation. You won't regret it.

Man Men, Second Season -- if you didn't see the season finale last night, I'll keep my mouth shut. What I will say, though, is that this show keeps getting better and better, but it hasn't reached, in my opinion, the level of great television. The writing is smooth and the acting is amazing, along with all the little scenic elements that bring the show to life. But for every "Three Sundays" episodes there is "The Jet Set" and like the main character, the show pulls us in better never delivers all the way. I guess there is charm to that. And if anything, credit goes to to "Mad Men" for making the last fifteen minutes of each show absolutely amazing.

Bottomline: who am I kidding? I'm hooked.

W. -- it's Oliver Stone. It's flawed. Get over it. Beneath the all to simplified historical recapping of the past eight years and the behind-closed-doors discussions based solely on assumption lives a unique character study of a man who's never beeen in control of anything (his country, his businesses, his demons) in his entire life. I was worried upon reading reviews that audiences would feel sympathetic towards the portrayal of George W. Bush, but it wasn't really sympathy that I garnished for the man; rather, and understand of what it's like to be used by those around you. It backed what I had long time suspected: that while he's an bumbling idiot, he's also a puppet used by a shadowy group of individuals to have their way in the world. Notice he's never alone in a scene, even in his dreams his father haunts him. If he's in the room with only one other character that person has control over his actions and ideas. By the end of the film, when everyone is sitting at the table, devouring their pecan desserts, W.'s the only one without "a piece of the pie" as it were.

Bottomline: the movie is okay, but Josh Brolin is amazing.

Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist -- this was the only other movie playing at the theater with "W" that I had a remote interest in. And by the end, I had no interest whatsoever. Sara and I already grumbled over the fact that the movie makes New York City way too accessible to a bunch of high school kids (line cutting to clubs, parking spaces out front, bars where they don't I.D. you), but what really kills me is that here's a movie that could actually be funny and smart, but takes the dumb road. Not only is George Michael Cera playing a mopey hipster in tight jeans, he looks down right bored. Nora is semi-appealing until you realize that a girl this smart would have no business hanging out with her dropped-in-the-Port-Authority-poopy-toilet-gum chewing BFF so why should we? Also, it's another movie about music where certain band define people's lifestyles and instead of building their own road in life, they merely are seduced by lyrics that they feel will be relatable to them ten years after graduating high school.

Bottomline: unless you are sick-o who enjoys hearing a fifteen year old girl have her first orgasm, shuffle-play yourself to something else.

Crumb -- I rented this documentary about the famed underground comic book artist R. Crumb based on a recommendation from my friend Justin. I am severely brain damaged now, but probably in a good way (no, probably not). Terry Zwigoff showcases six years with Crumb, bring his work and twisted family history to light. It's particularly disturbing when Crumb and his brother Max are talking about Max's molestation of a young girl or when his other brother, Charles, talks of repressing desires to stab Crumb in the head with an axe. And they are all laughing about it! Mostly, it feeds into my paranoia that here's a successful artist who's life was fucked up so that means should I reach his level of exposure I will inevitably live a fucked-up life. Of course, this is not a certainty, but it's scary when you realize that for some people it is a reality.

Bottomline: don't make a date night out of it, but don't watch it alone either.

The Yin and The Yang

"If it's not one thing, it's another." This is a famous quote of Carl's (aka, Papa Bear) and for all it's cynical worldliness, I have to agree with my father on this one. Feels like every time I pull myself out of one ditch I turn my head to the sky and don't see the next one I'm about to fall into. Slip. Fall. Oof!

Yin: My cell phone broke. How? I'm not really sure only that it kept trying to turn itself on. Suppose it didn't help that I said it was a cheap hooker all the time. That probably killed its self-esteem. So I took it back to the Verizon store, having only purchased it a short two months ago after my last phone had a screen full of white snow instead of a visual display. In the store, I was helped by Andrew Bernard's gay doppelganger, Drew (why did they stop calling him Drew on "The Office" -- that was funny). Drew told me that he could give me a new phone free of charge (go disposable society), but since the phone could not turn on all the way he could not retrieve my contacts. Worse has happened to better people in the world. Yet in this day, having to reload everyone you know into your phone...then their phone number...and other info if you got it can be a mind numbing task. That's why Liev Schreiber's people had me do it all those years ago and don't know anyone as famous as was in that phone. Therefore, I must rebuild. Make my contact list stronger than before, with even more people I don't know taking up space on the memory card.

Yang: It took two months but I finally have a new refridgerator in my apartment. It's beautiful. New and custom made especially for me, it's weird to have a lot of room in my already-very-small-kitchen. Seriously, I have a whole six square feet of space that I have absolutely no idea what to do with. The refridgerator was delievered by two guys from my apartment management agency who were very friendly, helpful, and even apologized for it taking so long for them to get the replacement in. Service with a smile and a functioning fridge to make my kitchen complete? Pinch me, I'm dreaming!

Yin: My bike's back tire is flat. Again. What the fuck, Bike Gods? Seriously, I just got the tube in it replaced back in August and have been loving my two-wheel life ever since. Now I gotta load up the bike in the back of my truck, take it all the way up to University City, and deal with the upper-crust elite of bike riders at the shop up there that put the tubes in wrong. I know that I'm going to get hell from this one neo-Nazi youth reject who thinks that if you don't know the size of your spokes off the top of your head you better not procreate. What was even worse was that I realized the tube was shot while on a ride downtown today. I got off and started to walk my bike home only to have probably twenty or so people pass me on bikes all the way home. San Diego is great because it is a bike town (plus we get the majority of our energy from solar panels!) but it sucks when you are reminded of that fact by fat guys on their low ride-high bar bikes flying past you as you push your injured oldy back to Market Street.

Yang: I know this sounds weird but it was great to walk a city again. As much as I missed the bike, I got to explore downtown San Diego on foot and made some great discoveries. We have a Chinatown! Okay, not really, but Third Avenue between Market and Island seems to be catering to the Chinese community. Much nicer than Canal Street. Sorry New York! Also, I found some great cafes and restaurants to try out. One of them I tested out tonight: MaryJane's Cafe. I found out later it is part of the Hardrock Hotel, but that's forgiveable because it was a really cool place. Reminded me of the Orbit Cafe from Salt Lake where I got my first job. It was retro-60's decor with flat screen televisions and funky, modern lights finding a nice harmony with each other. The menu was strictly out of "Mad Men", however, so I decided on their famous meatloaf entree and it was delicious, as was the ebony and ivory milkshake that chased it. Forget how much you miss when you are worried about weaving through pedistrians.

Yin: Hard to hear about the Dramatic Writers reunion this weekend in the city. I miss all those people so much it's not even funny. I've been fantisizing about moving back to New York if the Playhouse does not hire me back in any capacity, but I know that it really wouldn't happen or be feasible for at least three years. I moved out to California, I should give it a shot. My dad is encouraging me to visit Los Angeles. I would love to, but honestly, I don't have any thing in my bag of tricks that's L.A.-worthy. New York, New York...you keep calling me. You keep haunting my dreams. Has the wind picked up? Have the movies started to gear up for the Oscars? Are you still just the greatest city in the world? Yes. Yes. And, uh, yes.

Yang: Well, besides the weather only being slightly chilly at night, SoCal is nice and toasty. Justin invited me over for a dinner party last night at his house. Sam, Justin, and I, along with some other folks I'm becoming acquainted with, cooked up a great meal of homemade Mexican food. It was so lip smacking good that we got arrested for assault. So, okay: good food? Check. Good weather? Check. Now, after we ate a bunch of us kicked back with some beers and had a little to smoke, something I don't normally do because I don't like the smell or taste, plus I hate the fact that smoke is in my lungs. But last night was actually a good experience. We were sitting around, coming up with words like "Thundergina" and making up raps about Jenny Craig. Then this one guy Pat started talking about his new job that sounded incredibly boring even though he explained it like it was losing his virginity. By the time he told us that he monitors how many time the word "the" is entered in to search engines Sam, Justin, and I lost it. Sam and I had been making stoned faces at each other and not cracking up, but at that point it was priceless. We laughed for about five minutes straight. Yeah, I know it was one of those "you had to be there..." situations, but y'know what? I was there. And it was great. Cheers to last night.

Closers Get Desks

Secret-secrets are no fun. Secret-secrets hurt someone. – The Office, “Ben Franklin”

“Actually, I’m pregnant,” she said. I had to do a double take. This woman from work, who I’ve had all of about twenty minutes conversation with during my five months here, was putting this news to me first. Of everyone. In our whole entire office. A few minutes before hand I was explaining to Steve about how fasting for Yom Kippur works. Then this woman walked into the kitchen and simply stated, “I’m not fasting this year.” Steve, being the in-the-know-person that he is remembered that she had gone to Scotland where a stomach virus had attached itself to her insides. Scotland? Stomach virus? It all seemed a little weird to me. Steve went about his merry way and not a second after the door had closed did she drop this small, almost meaningless spec of information on my ears. Why me? I’m not sure. I didn’t even know she had a husband or was Jewish up until this point. “I just don’t want to tell Steve because then, y’know, the whole place will know within a matter of minutes.” I nodded in agreement. She said there would be a big announcement this coming week, but it still does not answer the question of why she would inform something so private and personal to an almost complete stranger. But there you, now I’m in the know. That was enough to fill me up until breaking the fast later that night.

Hey, man, are those pennies from Heaven? – Passerby on the incident below

“Damn, man, that sucks,” Hipster Shoe Owner dully let hang from his lips with the same post-modern ennui gloss he has over his eyes whenever I see him. Yes, I live above a shoe store. Run by hipsters. Which never has any one in it except other hipsters who never seem to buy anything. Honestly, I have no idea how the place stays open. I wish I lived above the bakery, but that’s slightly adjacent to my building. The bakery is the reason I gathered the past four months coin collection. The coin collection is the reason I had to go outside yesterday. The old Fruity Pebbles cereal bag, which I put the coins in for transportation to CoinStar and ripped seconds later, is the reason Hipster Shoe Owner chimed in with his two cents (seriously, no pun intended). The economy is going down the tubes! So says every single news report in the country. I was the poster boy for the American Recession at that point—an unwashed 23 year old writer in his pajamas and on a bike picking up his seventeen dollars and eighty-two since in nickels and dimes to buy an overpriced sandwich (in all honesty, the bakery is local and grass roots, so I don’t mind forking over a little extra change for the quality…the sandwiches are amazing). But y’know what? I didn’t let the economic climate get me down. I got down on my hands and knees to pick up every last goddamn piece of currency…so, who’s broke now, suckas?

Strange times… — The Black Keys, “Strange Times.”

My mind has been a little bit of a buzz the past few days. I’m not high and I have had one beer and half a glass of wine in the past 72 hours. Very rarely do I feel like I’m on the right path—the right direction to getting to the right path I feel constantly—but this week I saw a glimmer of hope. A director at our theater, who is in charge of selecting plays and molding new ones for the seasons, had a talk with me about next season. Out of nowhere in this little chit-chat conversation I told her, “I want to be your assistant next season.” She looked a little bewildered and then got a smile on her face, “You do, do you?” I nodded. “Have any experience?” I listed my former jobs of coverage writing, which, I realized at that point, tallied at a grand total of three years. Jeez, I didn’t realize the time had added up. “Okay, send me your resume and a writing sample. I’ll see if it’s in the budget for next year. Maybe just part-time.” Hey, I’m getting no time now so part-time sounds like an oasis in the desert at this point. Since then (Tuesday) I’ve been in a state of thinking what to give her and how I should compile everything. Use Doug’s letter of recommendation? Perhaps, but that was specifically for Princeton. Melanie’s! Yes, she even told me to talk to this director! I’ll use Melanie’s and then my coverage on The Food Chain. Perfect! All of these ideas were swirling in my head today as I was driving our beat up POP Tour van out of the Whole Foods parking lot. Without warning, a black 1976 Mustang pulled out in front of me. I was confused because a big Latino guy rolled down his window, making erratic hand gestures. I motioned for them to move ahead, but that wasn’t what he was talking about. I rolled down my window…

Me: Uh…?
Mustang Guy: Homes, for reals, yo…
Me: For reals? What?
Mustang Guy: I own a body shop. I could do a custom job on your ride.
Me: OH!
Mustang Guy: Good work at a good price.
Me: Well, it’s my boss’ car. I’d have to ask.

At this point I shrugged and the guy pulled away. This is the second time I’ve been approached car-to-car, driver-to-driver by a salesman. Strange, yes, but also a good example about the mindset in SoCal. You have to sell yourself because no one is going to do it for you. So Monday, I’ve got to be prepared. I’ve got to walk into this director’s office ready to show her what I got. I’m the diamond in the rough who isn’t going to wait to be discovered. I’m going to dig myself out if that’s what it takes!

Xanadu In, Summer Out

With the arrival of the XANADU cast yesterday it seems that summer has finally come to a close. I always knew it would happen, even if the climate change and weather patterns hardly reflected it, when our big holiday musical came to town. This meant a long day in the van with much frantic running around, but an overall smooth landing for nearly everyone involved. All that on the road time did get me thinking about the radio I've been subjected to since moving to California and driving in the vans all day long. Summer radio has to be the worst. It's unimaginative, overplayed drivel that makes some artist careers off dinky one-hit-wonders and makes most of us cringe to the point that we'll take the commercials where the two people are fighting over something any day.

Keeping that in mind, I present to the 5 Best and Worst Songs from the Summer of 2008:

The Best

1) "Look Out Young Son" -- by Grand Ol' Party. Probably not the most mainstream song across the country, but here in San Diego, where Grand Ol' Party is from, this song broke up the monotony of summer strumming tunes. It's got blue grass inflections over classic rock riffs and who wouldn't want to date the devil's daughter?

2) "Paper Planes" -- by M.I.A. Yes, yes, yes this isn't exactly a new song, but thanks to it's includement with the "Pineapple Express" movie trailer, a Sri Lankin terrorist's daughter became a household name. With good reason: it's so catchy it gives you heatstroke. Just try listening and not pumping your hand back with your trigger finger.

3) "Whatever You Like" -- by T.I. I'm usually not that big of a T.I. fan. Nothing against him, it's just until I heard this song I didn't really respond to what he was saying or how he was saying it. This song is pretty typical: girls, money, gangsta shit, etc. but T.I. is smarter to take the music to another level along with his lyrics and with a prison stint looking to come in his near future, this might be a farewell for now single that leaves us wanting more.

4) "Bottle It Up" -- by Sara Barellis. Look, "Love Song" was great until it wasn't (see more on that below) and this one could technically be called that love song she didn't want to right, but that's not digging deep enough. Barellis is smarter than all of us because she's still not giving us the typical romantic serenade about "girls across the nation who'll eat this up" and "you're shit out of your luck" but we all think she's talking about "love, love, love."

5) "A-Punk" -- by Vampire Weekend. Another hipster band that hipsters can be all hip about? Not so much. This song actually took a creative bend and combined mainstream rockband chords with hipster lyrics and mentality. It goes down delicious, even if the words to the song really don't make a hell of a lot sense (but then again, what song really makes sense?).

The Worst

1) "Dangerous" -- by Kardinall Offishall feat. Akon. How many times did it played? Way too many than it deserved. Probably the saddest thing about the last ten years of rap music is how overused some artists were for hooks (this being Akon, Lil' John, Lil' Wayne, and every other scratchy voiced singer who was featured on hip hop songs). The beat was uninspired, the lyrics and rhymes even more so. Example: "I can't help but notice you/noticin' me/noticin' you/noticin' me..." Now, just have that replay in your head for an entire four months and you'll know why this song is number one for the worst radio single this summer.

2) "A Milli" -- by Lil' Wayne. Speaking of Lil' Wayne...God, how could anyone have come up with this song? The track behind tha Carter's voice is some guy repeating "Amilliamilliamilli..." for a whole 3 minutes. Perhaps he's proving that he could say anything and the world would lap it up, but honestly, who doesn't know that audiences will eat what they are told. Perhaps Advil paid him a chunk of change to produce the song in order to boost sales of headache medication. That seems more likely.

3) "I Kissed A Girl" -- by Katy Perry...and I sorta liked this song when it came out. Yeah, it was raunchy, hardcore girl-on-girl action. That was June, this is October, when the song was milked for all it was worth and I was witness to numerous drunk girls pretending to lock tongues in clubs just to prove that they could kiss each other and pretend to like it. For a better version, check out SNL's version of "I Pet a Cat and I Liked It".

4) "Love Song" -- by Sara Barellis. We all know by now that she's not going to write us a love song. That it was based on the fact that record producers wanted her to write a love song. That this is what we got instead. Novelty officially worn off.

5) "Keep Bleeding" -- by Leona Lewis. It came close to calling "American Boy" by Estelle Feat. Kanye West the last on the list, but really, that song is just overplayed. This one is over produced, over the top melodramatic, and annoyingly clingy while putting the listener to sleep. Ever seen the music video? Leona Lewis looks bored during her own personal drama. Zzzzzz....

Seeing how this is the week of Yom Kippur, I apologize to all artists in advance for saying my harsh words. I have no problem with pop music. In fact, I love pop music. I have so much pop music you wouldn't believe. But there is a standard that radio music should live up to, if not for the intergrity of the artists or their work, then the Sarah Palin mentioned Joe Sixpacks such as me, who are stuck in the cars all day and looking for a little bit of entertainment. For the future, kissing a girl might feel like a milli, but it's very dangerous to write such a love song that will make our wrists keep bleeding.

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!

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.