The older I get the more I see a scary by-product of age. One by one, I notice my friends turn into bitter, hateful old men and women… especially when it comes to the issue of crime. I hear them talk about draconian measures, death penalties for children, and even with no sense of irony cutting hands off of thieves. I feel like saying “How very Muslim of you” though they probably wouldn’t get it.
It concerns me because I hate to see my generation gobbled up so obediently by the previous one, taught to believe all the falsehoods that they themselves chose to believe. This leaves the hope in the hands of the next generation but it is too often an empty one, as I see them misunderstanding so much as well.
After all, what’s the point of our justice system? Is it to help bring people back to a point of understanding, so that they don’t repeat the same mistakes they once made? Because if that’s the case, death penalties for children and the forcible removing of hands is going the wrong way. On the other hand, take or leave the pun as you will, if the point is to eliminate those who offend us, then we should all form a line and get ready for a bullet to the head.
Laws are not established in order to provide us entertainment, so we can watch our government murder and maim. A more perfect society is not formed when we greet misdeeds with hate. The fact that nobody is perfect too often eludes even the best of us and it is the expectation that everyone should always be at their best that shows our petty, small selves and creates a society that is no more than a reflection of what we make of it.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Late night decisions…
Yikes. It’s 4am. I’ve been up since 11pm, got about an hour of sleep. Nice, huh?
Uncharacteristic of me, I think I’ve decided to go against my better judgment. You’ll see what I mean in a minute.
I have to be honest. The book on ethics hasn’t been going very quickly. It’s actually very difficult. And I’ve been struggling with that as much as I’ve been struggling with the subject matter. And I’ve come to a conclusion. I realized that, for as much as I want to write this book, I’m under far too much stress to really focus on it right now.
My life is an awfully shitty mess. And I realized that what I really need is an escape. I need some fun! And being cooped up in this house with no job interviews and not enough money to pay for WoW isn’t fun.
So, early this morning, I consciously put aside my book on ethics. This isn’t to say I won’t write it. I will. Just not now. This is kind of like not running marathons when you have pneumonia. No, what I decided to do this morning was to ask myself, “Well, self, what do you want to do right now?’
Almost as soon as I asked it, I realized what it was – and as cheap as it might sound, especially when compared to a book on ethics, I decided I want to write another comedy. Of course, I do! It’s fun! It’s a treat! And it’s a great way to escape! Jokes and gags starting pouring out of me and I’ve been up most of the morning jotting them down.
The new play already has a working title, Diamonds Are For Thursday; it’s a comedic mystery in the Marx Brother’s tradition about a jewel heist. This is a huge leap for me and should be a blast.
I’ll keep you posted.
I guess the takeaway here is that if you’re fighting something, if you’re under a lot of stress already, maybe it’s a good thing to give yourself a break. At least, I hope so.
Uncharacteristic of me, I think I’ve decided to go against my better judgment. You’ll see what I mean in a minute.
I have to be honest. The book on ethics hasn’t been going very quickly. It’s actually very difficult. And I’ve been struggling with that as much as I’ve been struggling with the subject matter. And I’ve come to a conclusion. I realized that, for as much as I want to write this book, I’m under far too much stress to really focus on it right now.
My life is an awfully shitty mess. And I realized that what I really need is an escape. I need some fun! And being cooped up in this house with no job interviews and not enough money to pay for WoW isn’t fun.
So, early this morning, I consciously put aside my book on ethics. This isn’t to say I won’t write it. I will. Just not now. This is kind of like not running marathons when you have pneumonia. No, what I decided to do this morning was to ask myself, “Well, self, what do you want to do right now?’
Almost as soon as I asked it, I realized what it was – and as cheap as it might sound, especially when compared to a book on ethics, I decided I want to write another comedy. Of course, I do! It’s fun! It’s a treat! And it’s a great way to escape! Jokes and gags starting pouring out of me and I’ve been up most of the morning jotting them down.
The new play already has a working title, Diamonds Are For Thursday; it’s a comedic mystery in the Marx Brother’s tradition about a jewel heist. This is a huge leap for me and should be a blast.
I’ll keep you posted.
I guess the takeaway here is that if you’re fighting something, if you’re under a lot of stress already, maybe it’s a good thing to give yourself a break. At least, I hope so.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Submit or be mitted…
I’m in month number… well, wait a minute… Vicky would say it’s the eighth month and I’d say it’s the ninth month… but just saying that means Vicky would probably say it’s actually only the seventh month… anyway, I’ve been unemployed now since the end of January, a pretty damn long time…
But I’m not going to write about that.
See, the thing is I’ve been looking high and low for a job but that’s not all I’ve been doing. I’ve also been working like a dog to get my books and plays out in front of people – you know, agents and publishers – in the hopes that I might be able to get something moving there. I’ve had no luck, yet. And, yes, sometimes like today I get disheartened.
But then I think about this website I saw a few days back. I wish I’d saved it so I could share it with you. The writer talks about how he just sold his first book and he provides a chart of all the submissions he’s done, sending his book out to agents and publishers and what have you… The final tally was over 500. Can you imagine? If he sent out one each week, that would have taken ten years! And that’s not always easy, let me tell you. Some weeks you find two or three places to send stuff but others you come up dry. That must have taken an awfully long time with a great deal of effort.
So, that got me to thinking. How many submissions have I done?
Take my book No More Blue Roses, for instance. That’s gone out to only about 112 agents and publishers, only about one fifth! How about With Eyes to See? Only 98 or so! Wormfood, a horror novel that has seen some of the most strident rejections, has only been rejected about 49 times! And Climbing Maya, which I’ve been faithfully plugging more than any other book, has only been rejected 264 times!
So, what’s my point? Well, on a day when I feel just about as down in the dumps as you can get I figured it would be good to remind myself that this isn’t a sprint and I’ve only started. Heck, I’m 43 years old. I’ve been writing seriously for over 20 years now. I’m proud of what I’ve done and this kind of rejection is no reason to lose heart. Because others have been here before me.
It’s time for me to keep going and not give up. I hope you do, too. They say anything worth it is, well, worth it. I hope we both find out… and soon!
But I’m not going to write about that.
See, the thing is I’ve been looking high and low for a job but that’s not all I’ve been doing. I’ve also been working like a dog to get my books and plays out in front of people – you know, agents and publishers – in the hopes that I might be able to get something moving there. I’ve had no luck, yet. And, yes, sometimes like today I get disheartened.
But then I think about this website I saw a few days back. I wish I’d saved it so I could share it with you. The writer talks about how he just sold his first book and he provides a chart of all the submissions he’s done, sending his book out to agents and publishers and what have you… The final tally was over 500. Can you imagine? If he sent out one each week, that would have taken ten years! And that’s not always easy, let me tell you. Some weeks you find two or three places to send stuff but others you come up dry. That must have taken an awfully long time with a great deal of effort.
So, that got me to thinking. How many submissions have I done?
Take my book No More Blue Roses, for instance. That’s gone out to only about 112 agents and publishers, only about one fifth! How about With Eyes to See? Only 98 or so! Wormfood, a horror novel that has seen some of the most strident rejections, has only been rejected about 49 times! And Climbing Maya, which I’ve been faithfully plugging more than any other book, has only been rejected 264 times!
So, what’s my point? Well, on a day when I feel just about as down in the dumps as you can get I figured it would be good to remind myself that this isn’t a sprint and I’ve only started. Heck, I’m 43 years old. I’ve been writing seriously for over 20 years now. I’m proud of what I’ve done and this kind of rejection is no reason to lose heart. Because others have been here before me.
It’s time for me to keep going and not give up. I hope you do, too. They say anything worth it is, well, worth it. I hope we both find out… and soon!
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Dynamic Pluralism… the rough cut…
Actually, I wish I was so far along that I could say I had completed the rough cut (or first draft) of Dynamic Pluralism. As it stands, I only finished the rough cut/first draft of the outline. One page of text… very little text… ugh…
The thing is, I’ve spent most of the past few weeks just making sure I had a reason for writing it to begin with. How silly I would seem if I was saying something that’s been acknowledged for years now or – just as bad – saying something any respectable philosopher would laugh out of the room. Clearly, the idea should be in the mainstream somewhere, maybe move it down the hill a bit.
Dr. Crippen at Cal State Fullerton turned me on to John Dewey as a starting point. Dewey actually comes very close to my idea but never goes all the way. While he says we cannot use set rules of ethics from the past because times simply change too much, just like me, he says the best way to move forward is to constantly analyze our motives and our ethical systems. But he is still keeping it internal and individualistic. The rest of the early-20th century Pragmatists are far worse, saying it’s impossible to establish any law at all.
The come close to Dynamic Pluralism but miss the key part: talking.
… I know. Not exactly revolutionary. But that’s okay. It doesn’t have to be. Dynamic Pluralism takes the dilemma established by the Pragmatists, that we can’t use outdated ethical systems, and provides hope for a new way. It doesn’t sound that impressive to say, “You should talk,” but it actually is, in a way, because nobody else has so far!
And so, I’ve written a single page of text, telling myself how to proceed with the book. It starts with the Introduction I’ve mentioned before and then heads into the different ethical systems laid out thus far. Early systems told us what was good – honor, truth, what have you – I call it the “I like pickles” idea – but that doesn’t help because everyone’s idea is different. That moved into Teleological systems: Utilitarianism. These said that maximizing the utility or the good – getting a good outcome – is what you want, but that just created an inherently selfish system. And that’s not ethical. Then, Kant came in with a non-consequential, Deontological system. And that put action over outcome. In other words, behave ethically and you will be ethical. Again, the problem lies in its individualistic roots – I could think I’m totally ethical as I brutally torture someone. (And hello to you, Mr. Cheney.)
Is it any wonder the Pragmatists thought it was hopeless? Well, maybe not. I just need to find the gumption to actually write the damn thing…
The thing is, I’ve spent most of the past few weeks just making sure I had a reason for writing it to begin with. How silly I would seem if I was saying something that’s been acknowledged for years now or – just as bad – saying something any respectable philosopher would laugh out of the room. Clearly, the idea should be in the mainstream somewhere, maybe move it down the hill a bit.
Dr. Crippen at Cal State Fullerton turned me on to John Dewey as a starting point. Dewey actually comes very close to my idea but never goes all the way. While he says we cannot use set rules of ethics from the past because times simply change too much, just like me, he says the best way to move forward is to constantly analyze our motives and our ethical systems. But he is still keeping it internal and individualistic. The rest of the early-20th century Pragmatists are far worse, saying it’s impossible to establish any law at all.
The come close to Dynamic Pluralism but miss the key part: talking.
… I know. Not exactly revolutionary. But that’s okay. It doesn’t have to be. Dynamic Pluralism takes the dilemma established by the Pragmatists, that we can’t use outdated ethical systems, and provides hope for a new way. It doesn’t sound that impressive to say, “You should talk,” but it actually is, in a way, because nobody else has so far!
And so, I’ve written a single page of text, telling myself how to proceed with the book. It starts with the Introduction I’ve mentioned before and then heads into the different ethical systems laid out thus far. Early systems told us what was good – honor, truth, what have you – I call it the “I like pickles” idea – but that doesn’t help because everyone’s idea is different. That moved into Teleological systems: Utilitarianism. These said that maximizing the utility or the good – getting a good outcome – is what you want, but that just created an inherently selfish system. And that’s not ethical. Then, Kant came in with a non-consequential, Deontological system. And that put action over outcome. In other words, behave ethically and you will be ethical. Again, the problem lies in its individualistic roots – I could think I’m totally ethical as I brutally torture someone. (And hello to you, Mr. Cheney.)
Is it any wonder the Pragmatists thought it was hopeless? Well, maybe not. I just need to find the gumption to actually write the damn thing…
Monday, August 31, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
And they said the cynic was dead…
So, I’m sitting here in the aftermath of a bit too much plum wine… that’s my excuse…
Vicky and I were watching Mad About You on DVD, which is always a bit odd for me because that was a show I watched with my ex back when it aired in the 90’s. So, we’re watching and Vicky pauses and asks me a question, which in itself isn’t odd except I remember my ex asking the same question – oh those many years ago.
And my answer is something along the lines of “The universe is one great big joke.” After all, the first time I watched this and was asked, my ex and I were still going through those sickeningly cute years. Actually, we spent about 10 of our years together sickeningly cute… with 5 spent in total fucking hate – there was no middle of the road. The lessen, or so it seemed to me at least, was that all relationships are doomed and that is life’s joke on us all.
Vicky and I spent about 20 minutes in the sickeningly cute stage and I can’t help but think, “What chance do we have?” And I think I spend a little bit too much time doubting our love, waiting for the end – which is kind of like waiting for the end of a rollercoaster: you’re missing the fun!
I say this in the message in a bottle kind of way: I know all relationships are doomed, either your split up or you die, but you should try to enjoy the ride anyway… even if I’m not that great at it…
Vicky and I were watching Mad About You on DVD, which is always a bit odd for me because that was a show I watched with my ex back when it aired in the 90’s. So, we’re watching and Vicky pauses and asks me a question, which in itself isn’t odd except I remember my ex asking the same question – oh those many years ago.
And my answer is something along the lines of “The universe is one great big joke.” After all, the first time I watched this and was asked, my ex and I were still going through those sickeningly cute years. Actually, we spent about 10 of our years together sickeningly cute… with 5 spent in total fucking hate – there was no middle of the road. The lessen, or so it seemed to me at least, was that all relationships are doomed and that is life’s joke on us all.
Vicky and I spent about 20 minutes in the sickeningly cute stage and I can’t help but think, “What chance do we have?” And I think I spend a little bit too much time doubting our love, waiting for the end – which is kind of like waiting for the end of a rollercoaster: you’re missing the fun!
I say this in the message in a bottle kind of way: I know all relationships are doomed, either your split up or you die, but you should try to enjoy the ride anyway… even if I’m not that great at it…
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Finding that job…
A visit to CareerBuilder is basically just a sincere request to get pissed on. Seriously. And I don’t even know why I go there any more – oh, wait. I remember. Because Monster.com shits on you instead. And I’m desperate for a job. And nobody’s there to fucking help.
You’re probably wondering what I’m talking about. So, I’ll give you some examples.
According to CB, there have been seven new positions for “Writers” posted in the past seven days within 20 miles of my home. Oh wait, these are the same jobs that have been there since May. These jobs were probably filled months ago; I know that’s when I applied for some of them. Why haven’t I applied for all of them? Well, because some putz at CB thought “writer” also meant , “Movie Extra”, “Software Engineer”, “Senior Accountant”, “Medical System Consultant”, etc. Out of 30 positions, only one was for a writer.
It gets worse. When I look for a positions as a “Marketing Coordinator” (last seven days, within 20 miles), I find 144 new positions! Wow! That’s a lot… if I was a “Graphic Designer” or a “Retail Marketing Leader”. What is that? A “Retail Marketing Leader”? About 100 of the postings are for “Marketing Leaders” of one kind or another (and they all, miraculously, pay $125,000!!!) and they all go to a placement agency. I’m finding this more and more typical. Placement agencies get paid for placing people and don’t give a shit if they con you in with these made up titles, wild promises, etc. They just want warm bodies. “Look,” they say. “We’ve got thousands of potential employees!” All of whom waste their time begging for work and not getting any because there’s no such thing as a “Retail Marketing Leader” position. Aside from those, there are postings for “Movie Extras”, “AVON Sales Representatives”, “Pharmacy Techs”, and on and on. Actually, no “Marketing Coordinator” positions at all.
This same thing happens when I search under other titles. The thing is, there just aren’t a whole lot of jobs out there, so CB cross-posts many of them into areas that have nothing to do with what you want. Their “Marketing Manager” search gives me nursing positions for fucks sake!
And, so, there I am. Pisses on and I asked for it. But I’m desperate. I need a job.
You’re probably wondering what I’m talking about. So, I’ll give you some examples.
According to CB, there have been seven new positions for “Writers” posted in the past seven days within 20 miles of my home. Oh wait, these are the same jobs that have been there since May. These jobs were probably filled months ago; I know that’s when I applied for some of them. Why haven’t I applied for all of them? Well, because some putz at CB thought “writer” also meant , “Movie Extra”, “Software Engineer”, “Senior Accountant”, “Medical System Consultant”, etc. Out of 30 positions, only one was for a writer.
It gets worse. When I look for a positions as a “Marketing Coordinator” (last seven days, within 20 miles), I find 144 new positions! Wow! That’s a lot… if I was a “Graphic Designer” or a “Retail Marketing Leader”. What is that? A “Retail Marketing Leader”? About 100 of the postings are for “Marketing Leaders” of one kind or another (and they all, miraculously, pay $125,000!!!) and they all go to a placement agency. I’m finding this more and more typical. Placement agencies get paid for placing people and don’t give a shit if they con you in with these made up titles, wild promises, etc. They just want warm bodies. “Look,” they say. “We’ve got thousands of potential employees!” All of whom waste their time begging for work and not getting any because there’s no such thing as a “Retail Marketing Leader” position. Aside from those, there are postings for “Movie Extras”, “AVON Sales Representatives”, “Pharmacy Techs”, and on and on. Actually, no “Marketing Coordinator” positions at all.
This same thing happens when I search under other titles. The thing is, there just aren’t a whole lot of jobs out there, so CB cross-posts many of them into areas that have nothing to do with what you want. Their “Marketing Manager” search gives me nursing positions for fucks sake!
And, so, there I am. Pisses on and I asked for it. But I’m desperate. I need a job.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Turned down for another job…
I’ve decided that a blog is a good place for depressing news. Facebook is too cute and Twitter’s too short. That’s leaves here. Sorry.
So, as the subject line says, I got turned down again. And the longer I’m out of work, the more it hurts when I get passed up. Hey, I know there are hundreds of thousands of others out there – probably applying for the same job – but this position seemed to be right up my alley. The interview was good. It felt right.
Things started to go wrong, though, with the Thank You letters. I sent them out, using the addresses provided on the business cards of those I interviewed with, and got them back a week later marked “Undeliverable.” The fuck? So, I had to improvise an email, which probably didn’t look great. And today I received a short, form email from HR… it’s just devastating.
Like so many other Americans, I really want to work. I’m sick of being on unemployment insurance. I want to contribute something.
So, I’m going to spend the weekend depressed. I gave up smoking and pretty much gave up drinking… let’s hope I don’t find myself face-down in a half-gallon of ice cream…
So, as the subject line says, I got turned down again. And the longer I’m out of work, the more it hurts when I get passed up. Hey, I know there are hundreds of thousands of others out there – probably applying for the same job – but this position seemed to be right up my alley. The interview was good. It felt right.
Things started to go wrong, though, with the Thank You letters. I sent them out, using the addresses provided on the business cards of those I interviewed with, and got them back a week later marked “Undeliverable.” The fuck? So, I had to improvise an email, which probably didn’t look great. And today I received a short, form email from HR… it’s just devastating.
Like so many other Americans, I really want to work. I’m sick of being on unemployment insurance. I want to contribute something.
So, I’m going to spend the weekend depressed. I gave up smoking and pretty much gave up drinking… let’s hope I don’t find myself face-down in a half-gallon of ice cream…
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Pre-ride thoughts…
So, it’s 7:15am and 62 degrees (f) outside. That’s just too blasted cold for my liking.
You know, this has been a pretty fucked up summer on the left coast, weatherwise. It’s been far too cool in the south and far too hot in the north. You want to talk about whacked weather patterns, harbingers of climate change? We might be able to start there. A little coolness in the south is one thing and a little heat in the north is another – but a lot of both? I don't like the way that trends.
Last summer, I could go on rides at 5am and it was already in the 70’s. Now, I’m bundling up. Either we’re going to be hit hard by the heat and have a scorching Christmas or it’s going to be far too cold down here. One way or another, it’ll fuck with the growing seasons and with migrations and all kinds of other shit, just like the heat is doing up north.
It’s not good.
As for me, I’m waiting until the temp rises above 65 (f) so I can go out on my ride without freezing my ass off…
You know, this has been a pretty fucked up summer on the left coast, weatherwise. It’s been far too cool in the south and far too hot in the north. You want to talk about whacked weather patterns, harbingers of climate change? We might be able to start there. A little coolness in the south is one thing and a little heat in the north is another – but a lot of both? I don't like the way that trends.
Last summer, I could go on rides at 5am and it was already in the 70’s. Now, I’m bundling up. Either we’re going to be hit hard by the heat and have a scorching Christmas or it’s going to be far too cold down here. One way or another, it’ll fuck with the growing seasons and with migrations and all kinds of other shit, just like the heat is doing up north.
It’s not good.
As for me, I’m waiting until the temp rises above 65 (f) so I can go out on my ride without freezing my ass off…
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Jogging more than my memory…
So, I’ve started jogging again. This might sound like nothing but it's a huge deal for me. Back in high school, before I started smoking, I was a very good runner for the track team and I loved running. Then, of course, I started smoking, got hit by a car, jumped off a three-story building, got shin splints… and so on…
I’d done some jogging on the treadmill at the gym but, really, that’s not jogging. That’s jogging on the treadmill and anyone who has done both knows the difference is like that between ginger ale and gin. After I quit smoking a year and a half ago (yes, it’s been that long!), I hoped I might jog again someday.
So, several weeks ago… beginning of summer, really… I tried it out. All I got was pain. And lots of it. And this was from a mile – maybe! See, I was jogging up to the Santa Ana River so I could jog on the river because I knew my legs were going to hurt as a result of jogging on asphalt, concrete, pretty much anything. Vicky suggested I walk up to the river trail and that helped a bit but I spent week after week in just the worst kind of pain, limping back home. It was awful.
But then, slower that you can imagine, things got better. My legs started to let up a little and get used to it. I did a mile, then two. The other night, I jogged nearly five miles! I’m far from cool. I look like an old man out there and I know it! But doing it, actually jogging again, feels great.
Oh, and there’s more. Once I started getting used to it, I picked up a couple of three pound running weights to help me tone up a bit while I’m at it – cause I’m an idiot. That just brought on more pain, but I’m getting used to it.
I try to keep in mind what Peter O’Toole said in Lawrence: The secret is not minding that it hurts.
I’d done some jogging on the treadmill at the gym but, really, that’s not jogging. That’s jogging on the treadmill and anyone who has done both knows the difference is like that between ginger ale and gin. After I quit smoking a year and a half ago (yes, it’s been that long!), I hoped I might jog again someday.
So, several weeks ago… beginning of summer, really… I tried it out. All I got was pain. And lots of it. And this was from a mile – maybe! See, I was jogging up to the Santa Ana River so I could jog on the river because I knew my legs were going to hurt as a result of jogging on asphalt, concrete, pretty much anything. Vicky suggested I walk up to the river trail and that helped a bit but I spent week after week in just the worst kind of pain, limping back home. It was awful.
But then, slower that you can imagine, things got better. My legs started to let up a little and get used to it. I did a mile, then two. The other night, I jogged nearly five miles! I’m far from cool. I look like an old man out there and I know it! But doing it, actually jogging again, feels great.
Oh, and there’s more. Once I started getting used to it, I picked up a couple of three pound running weights to help me tone up a bit while I’m at it – cause I’m an idiot. That just brought on more pain, but I’m getting used to it.
I try to keep in mind what Peter O’Toole said in Lawrence: The secret is not minding that it hurts.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
New Play, New Book, Same Old Ken…
Suppose you and your wife went to another couple’s house for dinner. And suppose the husband suggested you should both kill each other’s wife, switching victims like in Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train (or Throw Mama From The Train, if you're so inclined). Suppose before you had a chance to say, “NO,” he already pulled out a gun and shot and killed your wife and suppose when he realized his mistake, he tried to raise her from the dead only to raise a zombie, which then had to be put down with multiple shotgun shots. Now, suppose that he invited the devil over to fix all this but you find yourself suspected of the murder.
This is the very twisted premise – or are the twisted premises – of my new play, Murder, Zombies, the Devil… and Stuff, which I finished this week. It is a very dark comedy mixed with a murder mystery mixed with a farce. I can’t wait until people see it; it should be a lot of fun.
And that does it for me and plays for a while. After all, since last autumn, I’ve written five new, full-length plays. From farce (Murielle’s Big Date) to drama (Meaning), from plays about marriage (After You Fall) to plays about family (Sometimes We Find Our Way)… and now dark murder mystery farces, I’ve done it all! Time to work on marketing them! After all, along with my first three plays, that makes eight total, which I figure is enough. (Sorry… couldn’t help it…)
Anyway, the time has come for my next book on philosophy. This is an idea that has been noodling around in my noggin for a while but once I confirmed with one of my professors that it was actually something new, a different direction in ethics, I’ve been just itching to start it. Unlike Climbing Maya, this would actually be my first scholarly writing. (I’m hesitant to use the term “scholarly”, for fear people may think I consider myself a scholar.) Mostly importantly, though, it has the potential to change our understanding of ethics completely.
So, what is it? Well, right now, I’m calling it Dynamic Pluralism. (Yes, I’m putting it right here in my blog to lay claim to the idea.) Simply, ethical systems have historically been individualistic, addressing ethics only in terms of one person: you. But it seems clear to me that ethics always depend on the interactions of multiple individuals, which always change from situation to situation. And there’s the whole book in two sentences – so you can be sure there will be more than that.
What’s most exciting right now, is the book’s opening. I won’t even be able to write it for at least a couple of months. After all, I have a great deal of research that needs to be done, yet. But the opening it crystal clear in my head, just waiting to be written. It came about, quite by accident, as the result of a comment my friend Tim, from Washington, made. He said, “well now the way I see it, it is my morals that allow me to look at myself in the mirror. Where ethics are what the group deems correct at that moment. Yeah?” This got me thinking about the difference between morals and ethics. Shouldn't ethics allow you to look yourself in the mirror? These two terms have, traditionally, always been confused and interchanged because they both address how a person should behave but, to my mind, come from clearly different sources. We talk about morals in terms of religion: morality plays and finding morality in the Bible. Morality comes from the term mores, which are supported by religions and customs, and come with a strict punishment. Ethics come from ethos, which does not carry as strict a code in religion or customs. Ethics have, a I mentioned, been left to the individual. This can get rather confusing but watch what happens…
Morality is taught to us by whom? By ministers, preachers, and pastors. By mothers, fathers, and other family members. They are taught, then, by individuals. Tim observed that “ethics are what the group deems correct at the moment” but when you consider that morality is based on an individual’s interpretation of religion or custom, it too becomes what the group deems correct at the moment, as well. This shows that both ethics and morals are subject to the capricious nature of time and culture and individual whim. What may be a moral sin one day, Thou Shalt Not Kill, may turn into a caution the next, Thou Shalt Not Murder, and it’s all open for individual interpretation.
The deeper I delve, the more I realize an ethical system that comprehends all of this, takes this all into consideration, is necessary for our new century. Thus the name: Dynamic Pluralism, Ethics for a 21st Century World.
Anyway, I gotta do something with all this free time, right? And, I guess that's how you go from Murder to Ethics in two easy steps - ha, ha, ha...
This is the very twisted premise – or are the twisted premises – of my new play, Murder, Zombies, the Devil… and Stuff, which I finished this week. It is a very dark comedy mixed with a murder mystery mixed with a farce. I can’t wait until people see it; it should be a lot of fun.
And that does it for me and plays for a while. After all, since last autumn, I’ve written five new, full-length plays. From farce (Murielle’s Big Date) to drama (Meaning), from plays about marriage (After You Fall) to plays about family (Sometimes We Find Our Way)… and now dark murder mystery farces, I’ve done it all! Time to work on marketing them! After all, along with my first three plays, that makes eight total, which I figure is enough. (Sorry… couldn’t help it…)
Anyway, the time has come for my next book on philosophy. This is an idea that has been noodling around in my noggin for a while but once I confirmed with one of my professors that it was actually something new, a different direction in ethics, I’ve been just itching to start it. Unlike Climbing Maya, this would actually be my first scholarly writing. (I’m hesitant to use the term “scholarly”, for fear people may think I consider myself a scholar.) Mostly importantly, though, it has the potential to change our understanding of ethics completely.
So, what is it? Well, right now, I’m calling it Dynamic Pluralism. (Yes, I’m putting it right here in my blog to lay claim to the idea.) Simply, ethical systems have historically been individualistic, addressing ethics only in terms of one person: you. But it seems clear to me that ethics always depend on the interactions of multiple individuals, which always change from situation to situation. And there’s the whole book in two sentences – so you can be sure there will be more than that.
What’s most exciting right now, is the book’s opening. I won’t even be able to write it for at least a couple of months. After all, I have a great deal of research that needs to be done, yet. But the opening it crystal clear in my head, just waiting to be written. It came about, quite by accident, as the result of a comment my friend Tim, from Washington, made. He said, “well now the way I see it, it is my morals that allow me to look at myself in the mirror. Where ethics are what the group deems correct at that moment. Yeah?” This got me thinking about the difference between morals and ethics. Shouldn't ethics allow you to look yourself in the mirror? These two terms have, traditionally, always been confused and interchanged because they both address how a person should behave but, to my mind, come from clearly different sources. We talk about morals in terms of religion: morality plays and finding morality in the Bible. Morality comes from the term mores, which are supported by religions and customs, and come with a strict punishment. Ethics come from ethos, which does not carry as strict a code in religion or customs. Ethics have, a I mentioned, been left to the individual. This can get rather confusing but watch what happens…
Morality is taught to us by whom? By ministers, preachers, and pastors. By mothers, fathers, and other family members. They are taught, then, by individuals. Tim observed that “ethics are what the group deems correct at the moment” but when you consider that morality is based on an individual’s interpretation of religion or custom, it too becomes what the group deems correct at the moment, as well. This shows that both ethics and morals are subject to the capricious nature of time and culture and individual whim. What may be a moral sin one day, Thou Shalt Not Kill, may turn into a caution the next, Thou Shalt Not Murder, and it’s all open for individual interpretation.
The deeper I delve, the more I realize an ethical system that comprehends all of this, takes this all into consideration, is necessary for our new century. Thus the name: Dynamic Pluralism, Ethics for a 21st Century World.
Anyway, I gotta do something with all this free time, right? And, I guess that's how you go from Murder to Ethics in two easy steps - ha, ha, ha...
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Glass houses… and not the Billy Joel album…
I was walking my dog tonight and heard a kid screaming several houses away. It wasn’t a scary scream or a scream for help, just a kid screaming his/her head off. For just a split second, I began to wonder what the hell was going on and why nobody shut the kid up… for just a split second…
And then, I remembered being four or five years old… and having screaming contests in my front yard…
It will probably come as no surprise that I could scream the loudest…
And then, I remembered being four or five years old… and having screaming contests in my front yard…
It will probably come as no surprise that I could scream the loudest…
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Town Hall Protesters: Ruining it for everyone…
I’m going to assume you’ve heard all about the right-wingnuts who have been crashing the recent town halls held to help educate people on health care reform and get constructive feedback. They’ve not only been shouting to drown out the discourse but now they’re bringing guns. And corporate America is learning from this strategy and have announced they’ll use it to defeat any hope of finally cleaning up the environment we’ve shit all over.
The one thing this all pivots on, of course, is the town hall format, allowing anyone to come in and attend your event, getting their feedback, letting the common man be heard. What we’ve seen is that corporate America and the Repugs don’t give a shit about the common man and only care enough to manipulate them into a lather. They’re good at this because they have no respect for anything.
The town hall format is relatively new in its present incarnation. While it pre-dates the TV culture (and easily pre-dates the Internet), it wasn’t designed for instant media and this is its weakness. Mind you, Shrub and his ilk never used the format because they were afraid of just what they’ve faked. They were terrified that regular people would have a voice. Now, they’ve constructed these “grass roots” protests, funded by corporations who would rather make billions off the backs of the sick or the poor or just plain anyone.
So, what can be done? Certainly segregating the audience is not a good idea. That’s just what Shrub and his ilk did. No, I think the only thing that can be done is to abandon the town hall all together. Use the Internet for good just as the corporations and the Repugs are using it for ill. Don’t allow the powerful to sabotage everything just because they have power.
Oh, and Dems, grow a fucking spine, why don’t you?
The one thing this all pivots on, of course, is the town hall format, allowing anyone to come in and attend your event, getting their feedback, letting the common man be heard. What we’ve seen is that corporate America and the Repugs don’t give a shit about the common man and only care enough to manipulate them into a lather. They’re good at this because they have no respect for anything.
The town hall format is relatively new in its present incarnation. While it pre-dates the TV culture (and easily pre-dates the Internet), it wasn’t designed for instant media and this is its weakness. Mind you, Shrub and his ilk never used the format because they were afraid of just what they’ve faked. They were terrified that regular people would have a voice. Now, they’ve constructed these “grass roots” protests, funded by corporations who would rather make billions off the backs of the sick or the poor or just plain anyone.
So, what can be done? Certainly segregating the audience is not a good idea. That’s just what Shrub and his ilk did. No, I think the only thing that can be done is to abandon the town hall all together. Use the Internet for good just as the corporations and the Repugs are using it for ill. Don’t allow the powerful to sabotage everything just because they have power.
Oh, and Dems, grow a fucking spine, why don’t you?
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
K is for Maso…
You might call me Ken. You might call me Masochist. Either way…
See, I screwed up my legs when I was younger. Before then, I could run and run and run – I loved to run. But after jumping off a three-story building and getting hit by a car and getting shin splints and generally thinking I was indestructible… well… let’s just say I wasn’t running any more.
But then, I found I could run on a treadmill. That was nice. But I hate having to drive somewhere to run – that’s just stupid.
Recently, I took up running on the river trail using the theory that if I ran on dirt it would cushion my legs the way the treadmill did. It’s taken several months for that to prove correct, several months of serious motherfucking pain. No fun. But I was running (well, jogging) again, and that was nice.
So, because I’m an idiot, I decided to add some weights to the routine. You know, really add some pain back in the mix. What I didn’t realize was that adding weights – just two 3-pound weights, mind you – wouldn’t hurt my arms as much as they would hurt my legs. Now, it’s like starting all over again and every jog is painful.
What the hell is wrong with me? Well, I’m fat and out of shape… there’s that…
Oh well. Such is the price I pay, right? All the same, I wish I’d added two 3-pound weights of ice cream…
See, I screwed up my legs when I was younger. Before then, I could run and run and run – I loved to run. But after jumping off a three-story building and getting hit by a car and getting shin splints and generally thinking I was indestructible… well… let’s just say I wasn’t running any more.
But then, I found I could run on a treadmill. That was nice. But I hate having to drive somewhere to run – that’s just stupid.
Recently, I took up running on the river trail using the theory that if I ran on dirt it would cushion my legs the way the treadmill did. It’s taken several months for that to prove correct, several months of serious motherfucking pain. No fun. But I was running (well, jogging) again, and that was nice.
So, because I’m an idiot, I decided to add some weights to the routine. You know, really add some pain back in the mix. What I didn’t realize was that adding weights – just two 3-pound weights, mind you – wouldn’t hurt my arms as much as they would hurt my legs. Now, it’s like starting all over again and every jog is painful.
What the hell is wrong with me? Well, I’m fat and out of shape… there’s that…
Oh well. Such is the price I pay, right? All the same, I wish I’d added two 3-pound weights of ice cream…
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Continuing my great acting career…
I have some news for you, which I found out last night. People say “The worse they can do is say No.” They’re wrong. There is worse and it pissed me off.
I went to a theater in Newport Beach last night to audition for Social Security, a farce I’d seen produced at Long Beach Playhouse once upon a time. My friend, Annie, had been in it and it had been performed with subtlety and class. I really enjoyed the show and was eager to audition.
There are, essentially, two parts for a male my age. David is a suave, New York art dealer. Martin is his nebbish brother in law. My ego told me to audition for David, and I did. I filled out the audition form: Part you’re auditioning for – David. Would you accept any other role – NO. I was extra intense when filling in the NO box. See, I’m too tall to be nebbishy. You’ve got to think about who you’d be acting against. I’d have to work off of someone taller than me and someone with a smoother style than me – I’m not saying I’m smooth but, as an actor, it’s important that I feel that in order to play the underling. As I said, it’s mostly ego. It’s also, I think, because I don’t see myself as a nebbish. I don’t want to spend ten weeks of my life doing that. So, there you are.
I began reading opposite this guy with a goatee and a great sense of timing. He had a great New York accent – mine came across more like a Boston Jew – and I knew this was the guy. It was obvious. I figured, “Okay, they should just let me go home.” They didn’t, though. The director started having me read as Martin. Now, I knew she had to have seen my audition sheet so I figured: a) she needs guys to read for Martin so I’ll help her out, and b) she may just be testing me to see how easy I am to work with. So, I read as best I could. But then, this other guy, a short, balding guy who sounded just like Richard Dreyfus, read for Martin and I figured that was it. “Okay, they should just let me go home.”
But they didn’t. And the evening grew later and later.
About a half hour before we finished, this actor came in that I knew from other shows. He’s a big, fat, balding guy who can’t pull off an accent and couldn’t act his way out of a used condom. This guy they had reading for the part of David. He read horribly and didn’t even try to pull off an accent. I was shocked! I thought, “You have perfect people for David and Martin already!” But I didn’t say anything. The director might have been being polite, give everyone their chance, etc. etc. etc.
Then, just after 9pm, the stage manager came out. She said, “I’m going to read a list of names. If I read your name, please stay. If I don’t, you can leave. This doesn’t mean you haven’t been cast, though. You might still be receiving a call.” She started reading off names. She read mine!
Great, I thought! And when the guy with the goatee left, I wondered, “Am I David?” Then, the guy who sounded like Richard Dreyfus left… and I wondered, “Am I… wait a minute…” Something was very wrong. And I realized the only two males were myself… and the big, fat, balding guy who can’t act. Now, call me egotistical… I’ll wait… but I did the math. Surely, I figured, they must have cast me as David because the thinner guy would be the more suave, yes? And surely, they couldn’t have cast me as Martin because I was taller than this asshole, right? But here’s the part of the equation I’ve left out: The asshole knew people. He was friends with the director and the woman who runs the theater, who was there at the audition. So, when we were called in to see the director, I was leery.
See, I would rather be in no show than a shit show. That’s just me. I would have much rather the director cast the two actors who were obviously better suited for either role. Because the asshole would suck in either role and I knew the guy with the goatee would have been far better than me.
I waited for the verdict. I knew the outcome if I was Martin. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I was David.
The director kept making jokes about how suspicious I looked. I wanted her to get to the point.
I didn’t have to wait long. The part of the suave New York art dealer was given to the fat, balding asshole who didn’t even attempt an accent. And I was to play his nebbish brother in law… me… who was taller, thinner, and had more hair than the guy who was supposed to be the suave one.
The director kept joking around but I walked right up to her. I felt bad, too, because my friend Tony was sitting next to her. He’d been laughing every time I delivered a funny line. I could imagine him when I was outside the room saying, “That Ken La Salle guy reads really well.” I regretted fouling up his support. But I put the script down in front of the director, gritted my teeth, and said, “I want you to know I appreciate your faith in me. Thank you very much. But I can’t take this role.”
She was shocked. “What?”
“I’m sorry. I really am. I appreciate the faith you have in me but I can’t take this role.”
She scoffed. Really. She scoffed. She said, “Have an open mind!”
I gritted my teeth further. I told her about the guy who sounded like Richard Dreyfus and how he was much better suited for the role, especially if they were going to cast the fat asshole. (Granted, I gave his name. I didn’t say “Richard Dreyfus”.) I thanked her again and I apologized again for not being able to take the part. I knew this would probably mean she’d never cast me again and that I’d probably be blacklisted at the theater, so I was as gracious as possible. “I’m sure you’ll have a great show. I’m sorry I can’t be a part of it. I’m going to go now.”
“What?” she shouted.
In the quietest voice I could muster, I replied, “I’m going to go.” And I left the room without another word.
Richard Dreyfus was outside. “What happened? Didn’t you get cast?”
“Let’s just say I’m not in the play. I hope you get a call though.”
They worse they can do is not just to say NO. They can say YES and put you in a pile of shit. This happened to me at D-Link. I’ve been there before. But I really pissed me off last night. After all, theaters produce the same rotten shows over and over and over – you’d think that, at the very least, they’d want to do it well.
I went to a theater in Newport Beach last night to audition for Social Security, a farce I’d seen produced at Long Beach Playhouse once upon a time. My friend, Annie, had been in it and it had been performed with subtlety and class. I really enjoyed the show and was eager to audition.
There are, essentially, two parts for a male my age. David is a suave, New York art dealer. Martin is his nebbish brother in law. My ego told me to audition for David, and I did. I filled out the audition form: Part you’re auditioning for – David. Would you accept any other role – NO. I was extra intense when filling in the NO box. See, I’m too tall to be nebbishy. You’ve got to think about who you’d be acting against. I’d have to work off of someone taller than me and someone with a smoother style than me – I’m not saying I’m smooth but, as an actor, it’s important that I feel that in order to play the underling. As I said, it’s mostly ego. It’s also, I think, because I don’t see myself as a nebbish. I don’t want to spend ten weeks of my life doing that. So, there you are.
I began reading opposite this guy with a goatee and a great sense of timing. He had a great New York accent – mine came across more like a Boston Jew – and I knew this was the guy. It was obvious. I figured, “Okay, they should just let me go home.” They didn’t, though. The director started having me read as Martin. Now, I knew she had to have seen my audition sheet so I figured: a) she needs guys to read for Martin so I’ll help her out, and b) she may just be testing me to see how easy I am to work with. So, I read as best I could. But then, this other guy, a short, balding guy who sounded just like Richard Dreyfus, read for Martin and I figured that was it. “Okay, they should just let me go home.”
But they didn’t. And the evening grew later and later.
About a half hour before we finished, this actor came in that I knew from other shows. He’s a big, fat, balding guy who can’t pull off an accent and couldn’t act his way out of a used condom. This guy they had reading for the part of David. He read horribly and didn’t even try to pull off an accent. I was shocked! I thought, “You have perfect people for David and Martin already!” But I didn’t say anything. The director might have been being polite, give everyone their chance, etc. etc. etc.
Then, just after 9pm, the stage manager came out. She said, “I’m going to read a list of names. If I read your name, please stay. If I don’t, you can leave. This doesn’t mean you haven’t been cast, though. You might still be receiving a call.” She started reading off names. She read mine!
Great, I thought! And when the guy with the goatee left, I wondered, “Am I David?” Then, the guy who sounded like Richard Dreyfus left… and I wondered, “Am I… wait a minute…” Something was very wrong. And I realized the only two males were myself… and the big, fat, balding guy who can’t act. Now, call me egotistical… I’ll wait… but I did the math. Surely, I figured, they must have cast me as David because the thinner guy would be the more suave, yes? And surely, they couldn’t have cast me as Martin because I was taller than this asshole, right? But here’s the part of the equation I’ve left out: The asshole knew people. He was friends with the director and the woman who runs the theater, who was there at the audition. So, when we were called in to see the director, I was leery.
See, I would rather be in no show than a shit show. That’s just me. I would have much rather the director cast the two actors who were obviously better suited for either role. Because the asshole would suck in either role and I knew the guy with the goatee would have been far better than me.
I waited for the verdict. I knew the outcome if I was Martin. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I was David.
The director kept making jokes about how suspicious I looked. I wanted her to get to the point.
I didn’t have to wait long. The part of the suave New York art dealer was given to the fat, balding asshole who didn’t even attempt an accent. And I was to play his nebbish brother in law… me… who was taller, thinner, and had more hair than the guy who was supposed to be the suave one.
The director kept joking around but I walked right up to her. I felt bad, too, because my friend Tony was sitting next to her. He’d been laughing every time I delivered a funny line. I could imagine him when I was outside the room saying, “That Ken La Salle guy reads really well.” I regretted fouling up his support. But I put the script down in front of the director, gritted my teeth, and said, “I want you to know I appreciate your faith in me. Thank you very much. But I can’t take this role.”
She was shocked. “What?”
“I’m sorry. I really am. I appreciate the faith you have in me but I can’t take this role.”
She scoffed. Really. She scoffed. She said, “Have an open mind!”
I gritted my teeth further. I told her about the guy who sounded like Richard Dreyfus and how he was much better suited for the role, especially if they were going to cast the fat asshole. (Granted, I gave his name. I didn’t say “Richard Dreyfus”.) I thanked her again and I apologized again for not being able to take the part. I knew this would probably mean she’d never cast me again and that I’d probably be blacklisted at the theater, so I was as gracious as possible. “I’m sure you’ll have a great show. I’m sorry I can’t be a part of it. I’m going to go now.”
“What?” she shouted.
In the quietest voice I could muster, I replied, “I’m going to go.” And I left the room without another word.
Richard Dreyfus was outside. “What happened? Didn’t you get cast?”
“Let’s just say I’m not in the play. I hope you get a call though.”
They worse they can do is not just to say NO. They can say YES and put you in a pile of shit. This happened to me at D-Link. I’ve been there before. But I really pissed me off last night. After all, theaters produce the same rotten shows over and over and over – you’d think that, at the very least, they’d want to do it well.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Submitting yourself…
Sometimes I wonder what people must think of my “writing career.” After having written 16 novels, 7 plays, and god only knows how much other stuff, even I tend to think “If you’re really that good, wouldn’t you have been published by now?” Of course, I haven’t been. All that work has only brought me rejection and disappointment.
And so, another week passes. In the past 7 days, I’ve send out 34 submissions. These are query letters for books or plays that go out to agencies, publishers, theaters – you name it. Vicky has been an incredible help getting some of these out through regular mail. Most of them go out via email. One way or the other, though, they end up in someone’s slush pile and all I can do is hope someone sees just one and finds it interesting enough to take a chance.
There have been a lot of near misses over the years, plenty of times when things have almost come together. And I can’t lie to you; I haven’t a clue as to what keeps me going.
It’s more than just a big depressing. Perhaps this is on my mind today because I’m also thinking of all the resumes I’ve been sending out for jobs – resumes that also fall into someone’s slush pile. My only option is to just keep trying and keep hoping and keep sticking with it. And I consider how much work I put into this with no reward, with no hope of success… and I’m pretty amazed.
To think of all the girls I never asked out because I was afraid of rejection. To think of all the auditions I’ve avoided because I was afraid of rejection. To think of all the things I haven’t done because I was afraid of rejection.
Who knew I was actually so good at rejection!
… oh well…
I know a few people who have the same dream as me, who have dreamed since they were young about becoming “a writer.” I’ve probably come closest to achieving that dream… which is kinda scary because my achievements have been fleeting at best.
But they’ve kept me going, still chasing that rabbit…
So, to all you folks still out there trying to make things happen – this goes to you. I’m with you.
And so, another week passes. In the past 7 days, I’ve send out 34 submissions. These are query letters for books or plays that go out to agencies, publishers, theaters – you name it. Vicky has been an incredible help getting some of these out through regular mail. Most of them go out via email. One way or the other, though, they end up in someone’s slush pile and all I can do is hope someone sees just one and finds it interesting enough to take a chance.
There have been a lot of near misses over the years, plenty of times when things have almost come together. And I can’t lie to you; I haven’t a clue as to what keeps me going.
It’s more than just a big depressing. Perhaps this is on my mind today because I’m also thinking of all the resumes I’ve been sending out for jobs – resumes that also fall into someone’s slush pile. My only option is to just keep trying and keep hoping and keep sticking with it. And I consider how much work I put into this with no reward, with no hope of success… and I’m pretty amazed.
To think of all the girls I never asked out because I was afraid of rejection. To think of all the auditions I’ve avoided because I was afraid of rejection. To think of all the things I haven’t done because I was afraid of rejection.
Who knew I was actually so good at rejection!
… oh well…
I know a few people who have the same dream as me, who have dreamed since they were young about becoming “a writer.” I’ve probably come closest to achieving that dream… which is kinda scary because my achievements have been fleeting at best.
But they’ve kept me going, still chasing that rabbit…
So, to all you folks still out there trying to make things happen – this goes to you. I’m with you.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Not smoking… really…
I woke up this morning from a dream in which I was standing out on the patio with Jeff, sharing a smoke.
Actually, I had my own cigarette and he had his. “Sharing a smoke” in this context just means we were sharing the experience. There we were, talking about this and that, enjoying the smooth tobacco flavor… and I woke up. And I could taste that acrid… wonderfully acrid taste of burnt refuse on my mouth.
That alone would be weird except it was the second night it happened. Night before last, the dream was about a killer who was leaving me bizarre clues as he hunted me down. In the midst of all of this, I was there with Jeff and used-to-be-Clostio. And they figured I needed to relax and distress and “Hey, would you like a cigarette?”
“Sure,” I told them. After all, there was this mad killer chasing me down. Who knew how much longer I’d live, right? I mean, the justification was entirely… justifiable!
Only, last night, there was no killer. No, Jeff and I were hanging out and I was telling him how I planned to quit smoking but it was just so difficult… as I lit another cigarette. And, once awake, I had to remind myself that it’s been over a year and a half since I quit, not just a few hours. But, lying there, with the familiar aroma of burnt Camel filter in my nose, it seemed as though I had just been out there… and the feeling was oh so good…
Now, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t spend the day thinking about buying a pack or anything, or even bumming one for old time’s sake. But it’s funny how much it holds on to you – even after all this time… but I don’t mind. I got all the enjoyment of smoking without any of the rotten side effects.
Actually, I had my own cigarette and he had his. “Sharing a smoke” in this context just means we were sharing the experience. There we were, talking about this and that, enjoying the smooth tobacco flavor… and I woke up. And I could taste that acrid… wonderfully acrid taste of burnt refuse on my mouth.
That alone would be weird except it was the second night it happened. Night before last, the dream was about a killer who was leaving me bizarre clues as he hunted me down. In the midst of all of this, I was there with Jeff and used-to-be-Clostio. And they figured I needed to relax and distress and “Hey, would you like a cigarette?”
“Sure,” I told them. After all, there was this mad killer chasing me down. Who knew how much longer I’d live, right? I mean, the justification was entirely… justifiable!
Only, last night, there was no killer. No, Jeff and I were hanging out and I was telling him how I planned to quit smoking but it was just so difficult… as I lit another cigarette. And, once awake, I had to remind myself that it’s been over a year and a half since I quit, not just a few hours. But, lying there, with the familiar aroma of burnt Camel filter in my nose, it seemed as though I had just been out there… and the feeling was oh so good…
Now, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t spend the day thinking about buying a pack or anything, or even bumming one for old time’s sake. But it’s funny how much it holds on to you – even after all this time… but I don’t mind. I got all the enjoyment of smoking without any of the rotten side effects.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Things that scare the hell out of me…
These may come as some surprise.
1) Making breakthroughs in philosophy.
I like to think I’m pretty good at finding cracks in arguments, loopholes in reasoning. For the past several months, I’ve been working on a theory of ethics that fills in the cracks and loopholes of traditional ethics and brings ethics into the 21st century. So, today, I sent a professor I respect a short email explaining my theory, asking him where my problems may lie… and I feel like a jerk. I can’t help but be reminded of what my ex and my mom used to always tell me back when I first decided to study philosophy: “Why do you think you’ll come up with something nobody else has so far?” That’s exactly what I’ve been saying to myself as I dragged myself, kicking and screaming, to send this email.
2) Writing comedy
I like to think I can write comedy but, so very often, I remind myself, “You’re not funny. Nobody thinks your funny.” This is why I’m always so surprised when someone laughs at something I wrote, because I have such a negative self-image. And I recently sent a film idea to a guy (who knows a guy) involved in film and he said he laughed out loud and I thought, “Why?”
3) Acting
I’m not even going to explain this one because you know where it’s leading. I really need to have a little more confidence in myself and this is kind of my own way of reminding myself of that. Because the fact of the matter is I am a good actor and I am a good writer and I am smart enough to figure out new wrinkles in philosophy other people haven’t… well, maybe… I guess…
I’ve had a lifetime of people trying to kill off my dreams and this is what it brought me. So, fair warning. If I see you trying to wipe out someone else’s dreams, I’m gonna hit you… and I won’t even tell you why…
1) Making breakthroughs in philosophy.
I like to think I’m pretty good at finding cracks in arguments, loopholes in reasoning. For the past several months, I’ve been working on a theory of ethics that fills in the cracks and loopholes of traditional ethics and brings ethics into the 21st century. So, today, I sent a professor I respect a short email explaining my theory, asking him where my problems may lie… and I feel like a jerk. I can’t help but be reminded of what my ex and my mom used to always tell me back when I first decided to study philosophy: “Why do you think you’ll come up with something nobody else has so far?” That’s exactly what I’ve been saying to myself as I dragged myself, kicking and screaming, to send this email.
2) Writing comedy
I like to think I can write comedy but, so very often, I remind myself, “You’re not funny. Nobody thinks your funny.” This is why I’m always so surprised when someone laughs at something I wrote, because I have such a negative self-image. And I recently sent a film idea to a guy (who knows a guy) involved in film and he said he laughed out loud and I thought, “Why?”
3) Acting
I’m not even going to explain this one because you know where it’s leading. I really need to have a little more confidence in myself and this is kind of my own way of reminding myself of that. Because the fact of the matter is I am a good actor and I am a good writer and I am smart enough to figure out new wrinkles in philosophy other people haven’t… well, maybe… I guess…
I’ve had a lifetime of people trying to kill off my dreams and this is what it brought me. So, fair warning. If I see you trying to wipe out someone else’s dreams, I’m gonna hit you… and I won’t even tell you why…
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Next!...
I don’t know about you, but I’m the kind of person who spends a lot of his time considering what comes next. I know this might come as something of a surprise, since I also spend so much time considering what came before – where do I get the time for now? – but as important as the past is to me, I’m also obsessed with the future. But not the far future – I rarely think in terms of the next decade of my own life – I’m talking about the near future. The next day. The next week. Or the next month.
What’s next?
What’s next?
What’s next?
It’s after midnight as I’m writing this, in an evening in which I’m fairly certain I’m won’t get much sleep if any at all, and I’ve just finished writing seven more pages of the new play. I’m 31 pages in. It’s a silly play, a very dark play, about a murder that the characters are responding to as an oopsie. It’s almost like they spilled milk, except the milk is blood and they spilled it by shooting someone several times at point blank range. It’s a dark comedy, of course, something new to me. It’s a style I admire, though, and I’m very pleased at how easily it’s coming along. Of course, later they raise the dead, have to put down a zombie, and call on the devil. Very strange.
I told Stephanie and Tony and Robert about this at today’s reading and they looked at me as though I was nuts. (Call me typecast.) I feel like people often typecast me as either an serious actor or a comedic actor or a novelist or a playwright – and then a certain type of playwright or a certain type of novelist – but really, I’m all those things. I’m more, too. And I like to grow. I like to surprise myself.
For instance, after this play, I’d like to write a book on ethics. I know my friend (who was first Vicky’s friend) Jennifer, from up Seattle way, won’t like it much. I tend to put her to sleep with stuff like that. But that’s okay. Not everything I write will please everyone. But that’s what’s next – at least, so I thought. More on that in a minute.
The reading of After You Fall went very well today. My writing was received as funny and meaningful, which I like quite a bit. Vicky read and, though novice, did good work. What struck me, though, was how quickly she moved, after it was over, from “that’s over” to “what can I do next?” She immediately started asking me questions about acting. Now, I’m not sure about Vicky as an actress; she doesn’t really strike me as the type. I feel like she’d get her fill very quickly and tire of silly actor people. I don’t know if she’d ever find the fulfillment that’s there because she doesn’t need it as much as I do. To her, it would be intangible and, dare I say, cheap. But you never know.
Anyway, I thought my next thing was going to be a book on Ethics and it might be. However, after the reading was over, I told the actors about this idea I had for a short film. It’s a silly idea, really, not at all meaningful. But it made them laugh and they immediately encouraged me to call a couple of contacts and pitch it. So, I guess I might do that. You never know.
Right now, being out of work as long as I have, the world has become a much larger place. Opportunities can come from any number of directions and I’m trying not to limit myself with how things are usually done. I’m applying for jobs but I’m also trying to sell books and plays, writing new plays, starting new books, and on and on.
Every day, I find myself asking “What’s next?” And every day, the need for an answer becomes that much more urgent.
What’s next?
What’s next?
What’s next?
It’s after midnight as I’m writing this, in an evening in which I’m fairly certain I’m won’t get much sleep if any at all, and I’ve just finished writing seven more pages of the new play. I’m 31 pages in. It’s a silly play, a very dark play, about a murder that the characters are responding to as an oopsie. It’s almost like they spilled milk, except the milk is blood and they spilled it by shooting someone several times at point blank range. It’s a dark comedy, of course, something new to me. It’s a style I admire, though, and I’m very pleased at how easily it’s coming along. Of course, later they raise the dead, have to put down a zombie, and call on the devil. Very strange.
I told Stephanie and Tony and Robert about this at today’s reading and they looked at me as though I was nuts. (Call me typecast.) I feel like people often typecast me as either an serious actor or a comedic actor or a novelist or a playwright – and then a certain type of playwright or a certain type of novelist – but really, I’m all those things. I’m more, too. And I like to grow. I like to surprise myself.
For instance, after this play, I’d like to write a book on ethics. I know my friend (who was first Vicky’s friend) Jennifer, from up Seattle way, won’t like it much. I tend to put her to sleep with stuff like that. But that’s okay. Not everything I write will please everyone. But that’s what’s next – at least, so I thought. More on that in a minute.
The reading of After You Fall went very well today. My writing was received as funny and meaningful, which I like quite a bit. Vicky read and, though novice, did good work. What struck me, though, was how quickly she moved, after it was over, from “that’s over” to “what can I do next?” She immediately started asking me questions about acting. Now, I’m not sure about Vicky as an actress; she doesn’t really strike me as the type. I feel like she’d get her fill very quickly and tire of silly actor people. I don’t know if she’d ever find the fulfillment that’s there because she doesn’t need it as much as I do. To her, it would be intangible and, dare I say, cheap. But you never know.
Anyway, I thought my next thing was going to be a book on Ethics and it might be. However, after the reading was over, I told the actors about this idea I had for a short film. It’s a silly idea, really, not at all meaningful. But it made them laugh and they immediately encouraged me to call a couple of contacts and pitch it. So, I guess I might do that. You never know.
Right now, being out of work as long as I have, the world has become a much larger place. Opportunities can come from any number of directions and I’m trying not to limit myself with how things are usually done. I’m applying for jobs but I’m also trying to sell books and plays, writing new plays, starting new books, and on and on.
Every day, I find myself asking “What’s next?” And every day, the need for an answer becomes that much more urgent.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Cronkite’s passing reminds me of a life in journalism…
Or, I should say, one that almost happened.
I grew up on Walter Cronkite. I remember the news in the evening, the gravelly voice, and “that’s the way it is”, but I especially remember being in awe of the idea that one person could be so in touch with the world, so in tune, to actually know what was going on and its context, to see the world honestly. And though my first writing was far from journalistic, I took an early plunge into journalism in Junior High School, writing for the school paper.
I wanted so much to be able to speak with authority. I wanted to tell what happened, to say something important. Sadly, though, I didn’t have what it took. I always fell back on easy one-liners and wit because, despite my love of journalism, I wanted to make people laugh. So, by the time I was on the high school paper, I’d eschewed real journalism for my own brand of opinion pieces, embracing a column I called My Side.
I loved journalism from afar and yet now I stand on the brink of writing my next book of philosophy and find that, though I’ve written more than my share of material to make people laugh, I’ve also learned from the example Cronkite (and so many others) set for me. And I will try in my own way to be in touch with the world and put things in context, honestly. I may not do it in front of a camera – not many of us do – but I think if more of us strived to do that the world might be a better place.
I grew up on Walter Cronkite. I remember the news in the evening, the gravelly voice, and “that’s the way it is”, but I especially remember being in awe of the idea that one person could be so in touch with the world, so in tune, to actually know what was going on and its context, to see the world honestly. And though my first writing was far from journalistic, I took an early plunge into journalism in Junior High School, writing for the school paper.
I wanted so much to be able to speak with authority. I wanted to tell what happened, to say something important. Sadly, though, I didn’t have what it took. I always fell back on easy one-liners and wit because, despite my love of journalism, I wanted to make people laugh. So, by the time I was on the high school paper, I’d eschewed real journalism for my own brand of opinion pieces, embracing a column I called My Side.
I loved journalism from afar and yet now I stand on the brink of writing my next book of philosophy and find that, though I’ve written more than my share of material to make people laugh, I’ve also learned from the example Cronkite (and so many others) set for me. And I will try in my own way to be in touch with the world and put things in context, honestly. I may not do it in front of a camera – not many of us do – but I think if more of us strived to do that the world might be a better place.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
And quite frankly, I love it!...
And a Brit shall lead them...
Britian is teaching "An orgasm a day keeps the... I'm not sure really, but who the fuck cares?"
An orgasm a day? I can't imagine a single problem - Hell, let's all get on the same schedule. "It's 1:30. Orgasm time!"
Of course, there are those who suggest that it will encourage underage sex... really? Do they remember being a teenager? I do and I can promise you I never needed encouragement!
Britian is teaching "An orgasm a day keeps the... I'm not sure really, but who the fuck cares?"
An orgasm a day? I can't imagine a single problem - Hell, let's all get on the same schedule. "It's 1:30. Orgasm time!"
Of course, there are those who suggest that it will encourage underage sex... really? Do they remember being a teenager? I do and I can promise you I never needed encouragement!
Saturday, July 11, 2009
I like Corona but I’m not crazy… or am I…
Did I tell you about the Santa Ana River Trail website? It shows you, step by step, how to make your way all the way up the river trail. When I first saw this, I thought, “What a swell idea! I should try this!” And immediately, I started riding my way east.
This week, I did a twenty mile ride up to La Palma. Then, I did a thirty mile ride up to Coal Canyon. Then, I was ready to make it to Corona, just like the website showed, and here’s how that went.
You should know that the river trail heads east from Featherly Park beneath branches heavy with shade. There’s a water fountain. It’s deceptively serene – because it gets fuck-all tough shortly after. Okay! Point of fact! It gets fuck-all tough FOR ME. I rode out of there in the lovely shade up and down little hills and only my previous experience kept me from thinking it was going to be easy. I knew that shortly before Coal Canyon there’s this hill… it’s not really steep or scary… but it keeps going up… and up… the fucker doesn’t stop… it says “if you were in shape, you’d be able to do this”… and you pant and wheeze… or, at least, I do… and then I got to Coal Canyon feeling like I was going to die but knowing that the hurting was far from over.
The trail drops sharply downhill and the riding is fairly easy again until the trail dumps me out at Green River. This is as far as I’d gone before but I could see the ugly hill the road leading up and steel my nerve and my legs for the climb. Up and up and up I ride until I pass the cars parked on the north side of the 91 freeway. When I reach the summit, it is with stomach-dropping exasperation that I watch the road descend. Downhill is bad because I know it means uphill again and, sure enough, I can see the road ascend once again at the bottom of this hill. It goes up and up and up and appears to level off but that’s a trick. It doesn’t level off. It just turns. And I ride up and up and up and I ride into the turn that goes around and around and around. It looks like it’s never going to stop and, with disgust and dying legs, I dismount and begin to walk my bike. There’s no disgrace in walking, just in quitting.
I walk my bike up and up, around and around, and finally see the hill rise over the 91 freeway. Ain’t that a bucket full of suck. It takes a while but I walk my bike to the top of the overpass and climb back on again for the downhill ride. I should mention that I’m riding my old Mt. Shasta mountain bike/road hybrid. With its Kevlar tires, it’s not getting any flats or any votes for world’s lightest bike. The thing is a tank. I ride it because I think it’ll help condition me. Sure, condition me for walking!
Down the overpass I ride. My legs are rubber. The hills have taken everything out of me. Finally, I reach the Welcome to Corona sign and I’m more disgusted than relieved as I snap a picture for Vicky to let her know I made it and to tell her I’d never make that mistake again… I hope…
Returning now, I can’t even make it up the overpass. My legs have given up the ghost, destroyed by the hills. I’m in such rotten shape! But at the top, I ride again and make it back through the hills without dismounting. I’m thinking I should stop, though, and refuel with one of my Kashi Rolls – but there’s a cyclist coming towards me. Vicky and I make the distinction about cyclists being the hardcore – so this guy really isn’t a cyclist. (For the record, neither am I. I’m just saying…) He’s just a rider out for a ride. He’s cycling on the wrong side of the road. No helmet. No clue. He’s not getting out of my way, even as I flag him down. He’s a moron, so I give him a wide berth lest I catch what he’s got. Back on the trail now, I’m thinking about how tired I am and how much I need to eat. I figure I’ll eat at Coal Canyon but what I forget is that the downhill slope that made the trail such a relief in the other direction is going to make it hell this way… damn!
Up and up I go, seriously questioning my activity of choice at this point – but I make it to the top and ride wearily to the “rest stop”. I lean in the shade and pull out my snack and realize that I’m almost out of water. What to do? Well, I know Featherly has a water fountain and – fuck it – I’m thirsty AND I’m going to be eating Kashi, which requires generous lubrication! So, I much and gulp my water and think, “Shit, I’m tired. I’m taking tomorrow off.” And that’s good because it’s 1am and I can’t sleep so it’s not like I’d have the energy for cycling anyway.
It’s going to take someone in better shape than me to make that ride again… I hope I get to be that person. We’ll see…
This week, I did a twenty mile ride up to La Palma. Then, I did a thirty mile ride up to Coal Canyon. Then, I was ready to make it to Corona, just like the website showed, and here’s how that went.
You should know that the river trail heads east from Featherly Park beneath branches heavy with shade. There’s a water fountain. It’s deceptively serene – because it gets fuck-all tough shortly after. Okay! Point of fact! It gets fuck-all tough FOR ME. I rode out of there in the lovely shade up and down little hills and only my previous experience kept me from thinking it was going to be easy. I knew that shortly before Coal Canyon there’s this hill… it’s not really steep or scary… but it keeps going up… and up… the fucker doesn’t stop… it says “if you were in shape, you’d be able to do this”… and you pant and wheeze… or, at least, I do… and then I got to Coal Canyon feeling like I was going to die but knowing that the hurting was far from over.
The trail drops sharply downhill and the riding is fairly easy again until the trail dumps me out at Green River. This is as far as I’d gone before but I could see the ugly hill the road leading up and steel my nerve and my legs for the climb. Up and up and up I ride until I pass the cars parked on the north side of the 91 freeway. When I reach the summit, it is with stomach-dropping exasperation that I watch the road descend. Downhill is bad because I know it means uphill again and, sure enough, I can see the road ascend once again at the bottom of this hill. It goes up and up and up and appears to level off but that’s a trick. It doesn’t level off. It just turns. And I ride up and up and up and I ride into the turn that goes around and around and around. It looks like it’s never going to stop and, with disgust and dying legs, I dismount and begin to walk my bike. There’s no disgrace in walking, just in quitting.
I walk my bike up and up, around and around, and finally see the hill rise over the 91 freeway. Ain’t that a bucket full of suck. It takes a while but I walk my bike to the top of the overpass and climb back on again for the downhill ride. I should mention that I’m riding my old Mt. Shasta mountain bike/road hybrid. With its Kevlar tires, it’s not getting any flats or any votes for world’s lightest bike. The thing is a tank. I ride it because I think it’ll help condition me. Sure, condition me for walking!
Down the overpass I ride. My legs are rubber. The hills have taken everything out of me. Finally, I reach the Welcome to Corona sign and I’m more disgusted than relieved as I snap a picture for Vicky to let her know I made it and to tell her I’d never make that mistake again… I hope…
Returning now, I can’t even make it up the overpass. My legs have given up the ghost, destroyed by the hills. I’m in such rotten shape! But at the top, I ride again and make it back through the hills without dismounting. I’m thinking I should stop, though, and refuel with one of my Kashi Rolls – but there’s a cyclist coming towards me. Vicky and I make the distinction about cyclists being the hardcore – so this guy really isn’t a cyclist. (For the record, neither am I. I’m just saying…) He’s just a rider out for a ride. He’s cycling on the wrong side of the road. No helmet. No clue. He’s not getting out of my way, even as I flag him down. He’s a moron, so I give him a wide berth lest I catch what he’s got. Back on the trail now, I’m thinking about how tired I am and how much I need to eat. I figure I’ll eat at Coal Canyon but what I forget is that the downhill slope that made the trail such a relief in the other direction is going to make it hell this way… damn!
Up and up I go, seriously questioning my activity of choice at this point – but I make it to the top and ride wearily to the “rest stop”. I lean in the shade and pull out my snack and realize that I’m almost out of water. What to do? Well, I know Featherly has a water fountain and – fuck it – I’m thirsty AND I’m going to be eating Kashi, which requires generous lubrication! So, I much and gulp my water and think, “Shit, I’m tired. I’m taking tomorrow off.” And that’s good because it’s 1am and I can’t sleep so it’s not like I’d have the energy for cycling anyway.
It’s going to take someone in better shape than me to make that ride again… I hope I get to be that person. We’ll see…
Monday, July 06, 2009
Another day… another play…
This is true. It really happened.
I’m going to start a new play. It’s about a married man who figures out that if his friend kills his wife for him and he kills his friends wife for him – because he’s fucking sick of his wife – it’ll be the perfect murder. Ignoring the fact that he got this idea from an old movie, he suggests this to his friend and takes the most passive acknowledgement as agreement and, so, shoots the man’s wife dead. This, of course, exposes his own marital problems and so he is forced to come to terms with his wife. Meanwhile, his friend is a bit distraught that his wife has been killed, so the guy and his wife bring out a copy of the Necrominicon and raise the wife from the dead. But she comes back as a zombie… so they kill her again. The dead woman’s husband, becoming ever more agitated, demands resolution. This is when the killer and his wife call over their next door neighbor who is, in fact, the devil.
And here’s where the true part comes in.
I said to Vicky, “I’m not really sure why the devil’s there. I think once I figure that out, it’ll all come together.”
… seriously…
Because at that point the important thing is making sure you understand why the devil is there… you know, get his motivation straight.
Bloody hell.
And I guess the point of this story is to help you understand why I decided to say “Fuck all” and just start the damn thing and let it sort itself out… because, really… the devil can get his own motivation. I’ve got 11 pages of jokes and if I can’t get just the right motivation, at least he’ll get some good jokes.
I’m going to start a new play. It’s about a married man who figures out that if his friend kills his wife for him and he kills his friends wife for him – because he’s fucking sick of his wife – it’ll be the perfect murder. Ignoring the fact that he got this idea from an old movie, he suggests this to his friend and takes the most passive acknowledgement as agreement and, so, shoots the man’s wife dead. This, of course, exposes his own marital problems and so he is forced to come to terms with his wife. Meanwhile, his friend is a bit distraught that his wife has been killed, so the guy and his wife bring out a copy of the Necrominicon and raise the wife from the dead. But she comes back as a zombie… so they kill her again. The dead woman’s husband, becoming ever more agitated, demands resolution. This is when the killer and his wife call over their next door neighbor who is, in fact, the devil.
And here’s where the true part comes in.
I said to Vicky, “I’m not really sure why the devil’s there. I think once I figure that out, it’ll all come together.”
… seriously…
Because at that point the important thing is making sure you understand why the devil is there… you know, get his motivation straight.
Bloody hell.
And I guess the point of this story is to help you understand why I decided to say “Fuck all” and just start the damn thing and let it sort itself out… because, really… the devil can get his own motivation. I’ve got 11 pages of jokes and if I can’t get just the right motivation, at least he’ll get some good jokes.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
My Michael Jackson connection…
No… seriously…
Michael Jackson was so distraught over insomnia that he begged for powerful drug, this is what the headline read. And it is with some irony that I write this at four in the morning. Insomnia is a thing with me, has been for years.
In high school, insomnia was no big thing. I was a teenager and every extra waking hour meant more trouble I could get into… and often did… But then, my twenties were accompanied by the relative calm of marriage. So, I slept. My thirties brought meningitis and marital strife, which fucked things up pretty good. And then, my divorce hit towards the end of my thirties… I might as well have had a farewell party for sleep right then and there, because it’s been a relationship that is, at best, rocky.
A few years after my divorce, during one particular summer, I slept only one or two nights each week and when I did sleep I sleepwalked or suffered from nightmares. By the end of that summer, I tried to kill myself. So, I can understand begging for a drug to get some sleep. My drug of choice was vodka.
Summers are especially difficult due to the heat – I don’t sleep well in warm weather. But recognizing this has helped quite a bit. Knowing it’s seasonal helps. I know it will pass.
But then, I saw this headline and thought, “There but for fortune….” I’ve been there a few times.
Now, instead of fighting it, I play WoW. I watch TV. I blog.
Michael Jackson was so distraught over insomnia that he begged for powerful drug, this is what the headline read. And it is with some irony that I write this at four in the morning. Insomnia is a thing with me, has been for years.
In high school, insomnia was no big thing. I was a teenager and every extra waking hour meant more trouble I could get into… and often did… But then, my twenties were accompanied by the relative calm of marriage. So, I slept. My thirties brought meningitis and marital strife, which fucked things up pretty good. And then, my divorce hit towards the end of my thirties… I might as well have had a farewell party for sleep right then and there, because it’s been a relationship that is, at best, rocky.
A few years after my divorce, during one particular summer, I slept only one or two nights each week and when I did sleep I sleepwalked or suffered from nightmares. By the end of that summer, I tried to kill myself. So, I can understand begging for a drug to get some sleep. My drug of choice was vodka.
Summers are especially difficult due to the heat – I don’t sleep well in warm weather. But recognizing this has helped quite a bit. Knowing it’s seasonal helps. I know it will pass.
But then, I saw this headline and thought, “There but for fortune….” I’ve been there a few times.
Now, instead of fighting it, I play WoW. I watch TV. I blog.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The place after “What’s the use”…
That’s where I find myself today, in the place after “What’s the use.”
You see, writers – and by “writers” I mean “me” – often have to talk themselves into doing what they do that makes them writers… that is, writing. They have to talk themselves into it because they’ve encountered hundreds upon hundreds – hell, thousands – of rejections, and can’t bare one more. At the same time, though, this manic need to write keeps pressing on them like a twelve-pack on your bladder.
There’s a spot between “I need to write” and “What’s the use”… and this is it.
I just finished my seventh play and the success I’ve faced has been minimal at best. And if you don’t think all the rejection from publishers, theaters, and friends is hard, please share your stash! It hurts – a lot. So, you start to tell yourself, “Maybe I can just ignore this need to write, because actually writing never leads to anything good.”
So, you do. But this doesn’t last. Because that feeling of “What’s the use” is nothing compared to the need to write, which is as strong as the beat of your own heart… and it sucks.
So, I’ll probably start this new play pretty soon. After all, I have little say in the matter.
Anybody tells you they want to be a writer, slap them.
You see, writers – and by “writers” I mean “me” – often have to talk themselves into doing what they do that makes them writers… that is, writing. They have to talk themselves into it because they’ve encountered hundreds upon hundreds – hell, thousands – of rejections, and can’t bare one more. At the same time, though, this manic need to write keeps pressing on them like a twelve-pack on your bladder.
There’s a spot between “I need to write” and “What’s the use”… and this is it.
I just finished my seventh play and the success I’ve faced has been minimal at best. And if you don’t think all the rejection from publishers, theaters, and friends is hard, please share your stash! It hurts – a lot. So, you start to tell yourself, “Maybe I can just ignore this need to write, because actually writing never leads to anything good.”
So, you do. But this doesn’t last. Because that feeling of “What’s the use” is nothing compared to the need to write, which is as strong as the beat of your own heart… and it sucks.
So, I’ll probably start this new play pretty soon. After all, I have little say in the matter.
Anybody tells you they want to be a writer, slap them.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Worry warts…
Here are two personality types you don’t want to put together: The Worrier and The Complainer.
I’ll preface this by saying my unemployed status is really beginning to get to us. I’ve never been out of work for this long and I know it has me very stressed. I can’t imagine how Vicky must be feeling and – as you’ll soon see – I don’t think she’s imagining much, either.
I’m a worrier. I worry about everything. It’s just how I am. During the best of times, I don’t worry so much but it’s the nature of the beast (and I’m the beast) that when things get bad the worrying ratchets itself up. And things are bad. Without going into too many details, no work and little money have eroded our dreams like sand castles on the beach during a hurricane. My car is in desperate need of service. Our savings are long gone. We are forced to have to decide if we can afford Del Taco.
Vicky, on the other hand, is a complainer. She bitches and moans about everything – even if it has nothing to do with her or if there’s no way to fix it. I guess she figures it’s her way of contributing.
So, she got home last night and I was already very stressed out and she starts bitching – the sprinkler outside is broke, the washing machine is a mess, and on and on… And all I hear is, “If you had a job, we could move somewhere where the sprinklers aren’t always broke.” “If you had a job, we could get the washing machine fixed.” And on and on.
And I lost it. And I started yelling like a crazy person – because that’s pretty much what I am right now. Everything is falling apart. I can’t catch a break no matter how hard I try or what I do.
My bad.
I don’t know how many other people are there are in this boat but I’m trying to keep in mind I’m not alone. It just feels a lot like it.
I’ll preface this by saying my unemployed status is really beginning to get to us. I’ve never been out of work for this long and I know it has me very stressed. I can’t imagine how Vicky must be feeling and – as you’ll soon see – I don’t think she’s imagining much, either.
I’m a worrier. I worry about everything. It’s just how I am. During the best of times, I don’t worry so much but it’s the nature of the beast (and I’m the beast) that when things get bad the worrying ratchets itself up. And things are bad. Without going into too many details, no work and little money have eroded our dreams like sand castles on the beach during a hurricane. My car is in desperate need of service. Our savings are long gone. We are forced to have to decide if we can afford Del Taco.
Vicky, on the other hand, is a complainer. She bitches and moans about everything – even if it has nothing to do with her or if there’s no way to fix it. I guess she figures it’s her way of contributing.
So, she got home last night and I was already very stressed out and she starts bitching – the sprinkler outside is broke, the washing machine is a mess, and on and on… And all I hear is, “If you had a job, we could move somewhere where the sprinklers aren’t always broke.” “If you had a job, we could get the washing machine fixed.” And on and on.
And I lost it. And I started yelling like a crazy person – because that’s pretty much what I am right now. Everything is falling apart. I can’t catch a break no matter how hard I try or what I do.
My bad.
I don’t know how many other people are there are in this boat but I’m trying to keep in mind I’m not alone. It just feels a lot like it.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sunblock - or, I married the smart one...
Vicky and I were watching Stuff Happens, Bill Nye's great new show on Planet Green. In this particular episode, he covered the importance of using environmentally friendly sun block. Why? Because that stuff gets into the ocean, into the fish, and back into you. So, if for no other reason than self preservation (a reason most people overlook when they think of the planet - as if we don't live on it), it's a good idea.
So, I said, "We should do that."
And that's where I stopped. Why? Well, because we weren't in a position to buy sunblock at the time so, you know, why worry about it? I tend to wait until action is necessary to take some.
Not Vicky. And that's one of the reasons I like her - she's smart. She found sunblock that isn't just made in an environmentally friendly manner, but can also be purchased in a way that's better for the environment because it's local. Too, it's a way to support small businesses and local communities.
So, what kind of sunblock is this? Surf-vival! It's made locally by Smart Girls Who Surf and can be purchased locally or over the omni-useful Interwebs! They've got a great website you should check out.
And that's product placement for today. Thanks Vicky and Bill and Smart Girls Who Surf!
So, I said, "We should do that."
And that's where I stopped. Why? Well, because we weren't in a position to buy sunblock at the time so, you know, why worry about it? I tend to wait until action is necessary to take some.
Not Vicky. And that's one of the reasons I like her - she's smart. She found sunblock that isn't just made in an environmentally friendly manner, but can also be purchased in a way that's better for the environment because it's local. Too, it's a way to support small businesses and local communities.
So, what kind of sunblock is this? Surf-vival! It's made locally by Smart Girls Who Surf and can be purchased locally or over the omni-useful Interwebs! They've got a great website you should check out.
And that's product placement for today. Thanks Vicky and Bill and Smart Girls Who Surf!
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Sometimes We Find Our Way...
I just finished (the first draft of) my seventh full-length play! I'm very pleased!
You can read more about it over on My Side, which I'm putting over there due to references to a certain person I don't mention here...
You can read more about it over on My Side, which I'm putting over there due to references to a certain person I don't mention here...
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Joke's on me...
So, this was unexpected... I got called back!
Now, this is probably a fluke. There's no way I'm getting cast at Long Beach Playhouse, but I'll go make an ass of myself anyway.
I don't know what I'll do if I get cast and still can't find a job, though... cause I really need one of those...
Now, this is probably a fluke. There's no way I'm getting cast at Long Beach Playhouse, but I'll go make an ass of myself anyway.
I don't know what I'll do if I get cast and still can't find a job, though... cause I really need one of those...
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Time Traveler's Wife is coming...
I've listened to this book a dozen times and every time I cry like a little girl... Vicky and I will go with a box of kleenex...
Now I remember why I’m not an actor…
This is all Stephanie’s fault. She told me to audition. She said, “Hey, are you going to audition for Fools at Long Beach?” And I said, “Yes.” Damn her. And it’s Vicky’s fault, too. I said, “I don’t think I should go; I’m nervous.” And she said, “Oh, go ahead.”
Fucking women.
So, I went to my first audition in (mumble) years today. I got myself all psyched up at home… and then Vicky said, “Oh, go ahead.” So, I went anyway. I wanted to wear just the right thing. So, I put on my jeans and a white dress shirt. Of course, I’m so fat, it looked kinda like a mumu… so I tucked it in… that didn’t help, either.
Driving out there, the early evening was unseasonably cold. I was concerned that I might freeze at the audition and kicked myself for not bringing a jacket. I parked as this beautiful blonde was getting out of her car. I didn’t want anything to do with the beautiful blonde; I was sure she’d be one of those conceited bitches that are so stereotypically… you know… conceited. (Also, I felt fatter and uglier just looking at her…)
I waited before I got out of my car. I was early. I hate being early. Because that means, you know, you’ll be called to audition… you know… early. Oh well. Eventually, I walked up. The beautiful blonde came around a corner and asked, “Do you know where to go in?” Actually, I did. I felt very smart. I opened the door for her and showed her in to the theater’s lobby.
Like a gentleman, I let her sign in first – hell, at that point, I would have let anyone get in line first… but there was no one else, so I stepped up next.
And I started signing in on the wrong form. And then I missed the sign-in forms I was supposed to sign. And then, I realized a line was forming behind me as I hurried to filled out said forms… Things weren’t turning out well…
Then, I gagged. And choked. And gagged. I realized a horribly smelly person had entered the theater lobby – and he was walking towards me! I tried to write faster.
“I’m in SAG. Where do I sign in?”
Of course, the unwashed was union. Behind him, a woman said, “I’m in equity. I shouldn’t have to wait.” Oh Lord.
So, I finished signing in and hurried away so I could breath. Next thing you know, I hear, “Ken? Ken? Ken La… Ken?”
“That’s me,” I said, cause really you don’t want to make things difficult, and found out I was being paired up with Lauren, the beautiful blonde. Of course. “Can we read outside?” I asked. “It’s a little hot in here.” It was, too. It was like 400 degrees in there. I had already sweat through my white shirt – LOVELY! – and was pitted down to my waist!
Turns out Lauren had aspirations to be a director… of me, at least. But that was okay because she was actually, you know, good. I noticed her face moved; I wished I could do that. And she gestured and… you know, acted. I just kind trembled and muttered.
And then, we were called in. We were called first… of course.
The director looked at my resume. “Oh, look! Best Christmas Pageant Ever.” I felt like the kid whose mother still has the finger-painting he made when he was two on the refrigerator door… only he’s 19 now… and his mother is showing his date. You know, he might as well have said, “I see you have no talent whatsoever!”
Then, he looked at Lauren’s resume. “Oooh, you played Cruella Deville? What was that like?” “Oh, it was wonderfully evil,” Lauren told him. “It must have been,” he moaned, creaming his pants.
And, of course, no one killed me.
So, we auditioned and I screwed up my lines and Lauren, who I hold nothing against because she was very beautiful and very talented, did just fine. And I wanted to die.
“Okay, if I call you back it’ll be via email,” the director told us. And at this point, I swear to you, I said, “Can I write my email address down again? My handwriting is pretty bad; I want you to be able to read it.” It was like, “Here, let me rewrite what I am sure will be the first email address you send a gushing acceptance to… cause I’m so fucking cool…”
Oy.
Meanwhile, he’s telling Lauren – because seriously, he did not need to tell me this – that callbacks would be all improv! Great! Please do not call me back! If there’s one thing I’m worse at than not sweating and fucking up auditions… it’s improv!
God, what a miserable night. I know we all have auditions like this – all of us who strut upon the stage – but, damn… I’m just glad it’s over.
(PS. Vicky told me I had bad breath, too! SCORE!)
Fucking women.
So, I went to my first audition in (mumble) years today. I got myself all psyched up at home… and then Vicky said, “Oh, go ahead.” So, I went anyway. I wanted to wear just the right thing. So, I put on my jeans and a white dress shirt. Of course, I’m so fat, it looked kinda like a mumu… so I tucked it in… that didn’t help, either.
Driving out there, the early evening was unseasonably cold. I was concerned that I might freeze at the audition and kicked myself for not bringing a jacket. I parked as this beautiful blonde was getting out of her car. I didn’t want anything to do with the beautiful blonde; I was sure she’d be one of those conceited bitches that are so stereotypically… you know… conceited. (Also, I felt fatter and uglier just looking at her…)
I waited before I got out of my car. I was early. I hate being early. Because that means, you know, you’ll be called to audition… you know… early. Oh well. Eventually, I walked up. The beautiful blonde came around a corner and asked, “Do you know where to go in?” Actually, I did. I felt very smart. I opened the door for her and showed her in to the theater’s lobby.
Like a gentleman, I let her sign in first – hell, at that point, I would have let anyone get in line first… but there was no one else, so I stepped up next.
And I started signing in on the wrong form. And then I missed the sign-in forms I was supposed to sign. And then, I realized a line was forming behind me as I hurried to filled out said forms… Things weren’t turning out well…
Then, I gagged. And choked. And gagged. I realized a horribly smelly person had entered the theater lobby – and he was walking towards me! I tried to write faster.
“I’m in SAG. Where do I sign in?”
Of course, the unwashed was union. Behind him, a woman said, “I’m in equity. I shouldn’t have to wait.” Oh Lord.
So, I finished signing in and hurried away so I could breath. Next thing you know, I hear, “Ken? Ken? Ken La… Ken?”
“That’s me,” I said, cause really you don’t want to make things difficult, and found out I was being paired up with Lauren, the beautiful blonde. Of course. “Can we read outside?” I asked. “It’s a little hot in here.” It was, too. It was like 400 degrees in there. I had already sweat through my white shirt – LOVELY! – and was pitted down to my waist!
Turns out Lauren had aspirations to be a director… of me, at least. But that was okay because she was actually, you know, good. I noticed her face moved; I wished I could do that. And she gestured and… you know, acted. I just kind trembled and muttered.
And then, we were called in. We were called first… of course.
The director looked at my resume. “Oh, look! Best Christmas Pageant Ever.” I felt like the kid whose mother still has the finger-painting he made when he was two on the refrigerator door… only he’s 19 now… and his mother is showing his date. You know, he might as well have said, “I see you have no talent whatsoever!”
Then, he looked at Lauren’s resume. “Oooh, you played Cruella Deville? What was that like?” “Oh, it was wonderfully evil,” Lauren told him. “It must have been,” he moaned, creaming his pants.
And, of course, no one killed me.
So, we auditioned and I screwed up my lines and Lauren, who I hold nothing against because she was very beautiful and very talented, did just fine. And I wanted to die.
“Okay, if I call you back it’ll be via email,” the director told us. And at this point, I swear to you, I said, “Can I write my email address down again? My handwriting is pretty bad; I want you to be able to read it.” It was like, “Here, let me rewrite what I am sure will be the first email address you send a gushing acceptance to… cause I’m so fucking cool…”
Oy.
Meanwhile, he’s telling Lauren – because seriously, he did not need to tell me this – that callbacks would be all improv! Great! Please do not call me back! If there’s one thing I’m worse at than not sweating and fucking up auditions… it’s improv!
God, what a miserable night. I know we all have auditions like this – all of us who strut upon the stage – but, damn… I’m just glad it’s over.
(PS. Vicky told me I had bad breath, too! SCORE!)
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Garden mid-mortem…
Cause it’s not quite over, yet… kinda…
Where did I leave off? I planted three tomato plants, a couple of herbs, and a jalapeno bush/shrub/thing… the herbs had all of their sunshine blocked off by the tomatoes as the tomatoes took off and the jalapeno plant/tree/thing grew like crazy. Was that about where I left off?
So, I didn’t get to tell you about the painters. Our building was painted recently, a process taking over a month (it seems), what with the prepping and washing and painting and what all. The painters were of the “kill all plants” variety. So, they proceeded to… well… kill my plants. Someone stomped one of my tomato plants and the others were lightly beaten to a pulp. I don’t want to sound racist/ethnist/or anything but the jalapeno vine/weed/thing was left perfectly alone.
The result has been an endless font of jalapenos – so many Vicky doesn’t know what to do with them while I’m thinking long and hard about making chili – and just a few tomatoes from vines struggling so hard you want to weep.
Part of this has also been my fault. After all, I’m growing in planters so I wasn’t expecting some of the problems with crowding. Also, the last time I grew tomatoes, I never had a single bug. That was Orange. Here, in Anaheim, it’s bug city! I’m crazy with bugs! It’s very frustrating. (Vicky was kind enough to turn me on to some organic bug killer, though. That's worked pretty well.) Again, though, jalapenos like crazy. I’m going to start bringing them to parties, I swear. They’re of a milder variety, too – Vicky hates it, of course. I find it rather nice.
Oh well. Summer’s not over, yet. The tomatoes may still bounce back… though I doubt it… but I could get three or four more. You never know.
Meanwhile, I’ve got to transplant this jalapeno thing because it’s growing into redwood proportions! That’ll be around for a while!
(… providing I don’t kill it when I transplant it…)
Where did I leave off? I planted three tomato plants, a couple of herbs, and a jalapeno bush/shrub/thing… the herbs had all of their sunshine blocked off by the tomatoes as the tomatoes took off and the jalapeno plant/tree/thing grew like crazy. Was that about where I left off?
So, I didn’t get to tell you about the painters. Our building was painted recently, a process taking over a month (it seems), what with the prepping and washing and painting and what all. The painters were of the “kill all plants” variety. So, they proceeded to… well… kill my plants. Someone stomped one of my tomato plants and the others were lightly beaten to a pulp. I don’t want to sound racist/ethnist/or anything but the jalapeno vine/weed/thing was left perfectly alone.
The result has been an endless font of jalapenos – so many Vicky doesn’t know what to do with them while I’m thinking long and hard about making chili – and just a few tomatoes from vines struggling so hard you want to weep.
Part of this has also been my fault. After all, I’m growing in planters so I wasn’t expecting some of the problems with crowding. Also, the last time I grew tomatoes, I never had a single bug. That was Orange. Here, in Anaheim, it’s bug city! I’m crazy with bugs! It’s very frustrating. (Vicky was kind enough to turn me on to some organic bug killer, though. That's worked pretty well.) Again, though, jalapenos like crazy. I’m going to start bringing them to parties, I swear. They’re of a milder variety, too – Vicky hates it, of course. I find it rather nice.
Oh well. Summer’s not over, yet. The tomatoes may still bounce back… though I doubt it… but I could get three or four more. You never know.
Meanwhile, I’ve got to transplant this jalapeno thing because it’s growing into redwood proportions! That’ll be around for a while!
(… providing I don’t kill it when I transplant it…)
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Oh the childrens books I could write...
(I just found this jotted down on a piece of scratch paper, hidden amidst a bunch of old stuff...)
Cynthia Contrerez Alonzo Jones
Never ate nothing
No, nothing with bones
She loved to eat scones
because scones were a treat
but she wouldn't eat anything
made out of meat...
Cynthia Contrerez Alonzo Jones
Never ate nothing
No, nothing with bones
She loved to eat scones
because scones were a treat
but she wouldn't eat anything
made out of meat...
A new coat of paint…
Writing the first words of anything is, to this writer at least, like laying down a first coat of paint must feel to a painter or making that first chisel mark must feel to the sculpture. Characters who did not exist but moments ago are now speaking! And somehow, a void is filled.
This time, I’m starting a play rather than a novel. Novels begin as narrative threads and landscapes of possibility. But when I begin a play, I feel as though the words belong to the characters who speak them. As if the words are more theirs than mine. Sure, they come through me but I get the sense that I’m relaying them more than saying them.
I laid down the first coat for my new play, Sometimes We Find Our Way, yesterday. It’s a play about the toxins in our lives that keep us from being healthy. Sometimes, they are real, sometimes they are imaginary, and sometimes they fall into a third category where you can’t really tell and it’s up to the person to decide. I think it’s also about wanting love so much you’re afraid you’ll get it wrong – so you miss out, instead. To some people, love comes at such a high price they can’t imagine it being real.
So, I’ve begun my seventh play and I’m hoping I finish it. What separates this from the others? In a way, it’s a return to my autobiographical form of writing but it is more so a leap into something new. I call it autobiographical to some degree because I can feel my father in there – one character you never see is the father who just died – and I know I’ll be talking about what it was like to lose him having never had him. But it’s new because while the other autobiographical plays were a way for me to hold on to things, I can already feel this one allowing me to let go.
It’s going to be a bit of a comedy but also a drama. It should be fun.
This time, I’m starting a play rather than a novel. Novels begin as narrative threads and landscapes of possibility. But when I begin a play, I feel as though the words belong to the characters who speak them. As if the words are more theirs than mine. Sure, they come through me but I get the sense that I’m relaying them more than saying them.
I laid down the first coat for my new play, Sometimes We Find Our Way, yesterday. It’s a play about the toxins in our lives that keep us from being healthy. Sometimes, they are real, sometimes they are imaginary, and sometimes they fall into a third category where you can’t really tell and it’s up to the person to decide. I think it’s also about wanting love so much you’re afraid you’ll get it wrong – so you miss out, instead. To some people, love comes at such a high price they can’t imagine it being real.
So, I’ve begun my seventh play and I’m hoping I finish it. What separates this from the others? In a way, it’s a return to my autobiographical form of writing but it is more so a leap into something new. I call it autobiographical to some degree because I can feel my father in there – one character you never see is the father who just died – and I know I’ll be talking about what it was like to lose him having never had him. But it’s new because while the other autobiographical plays were a way for me to hold on to things, I can already feel this one allowing me to let go.
It’s going to be a bit of a comedy but also a drama. It should be fun.
Saturday, June 06, 2009
Wisdom tooth… post mortem…
I think I offended the surgeon just a little bit with my level of suspicion. After all, how could it go well? He was removing 1/36th of my mouth!
Typically, I arrived with Vicky all jokes and quips. This just got worse as the procedure neared. Some people shake when they’re terrified. Some people cry. I crack wise.
They took me into a little waiting area with a recliner and a video monitor where they showed me a tape from 1987. It was a “scare you out of your mind” kind of tape. “You may develop a serious infection after the procedure.” “Your jaw may need to be broken.” GREAT! I mentioned this to the doctor afterwards, trying to explain that the old tape didn’t really ease the patient into the procedure – but he got a bit defensive. A new tape (I’m hoping it would be on DVD by now) would cost him $1,100 and he had to play it for full disclosure! Only later did I work out the four or five bullets he could have on a 3x5 card to deliver the same information in a more personalized, sympathized manner. I miss marketing so much I’m doing it at the dentist!
Actually, he’s an oral surgeon. Dr. Paul Braun in Orange. Great guy. The receptionist told me, “He’s just like a doctor.” I replied, “Point of fact, he really is a doctor. Right? He’s not just kidding?”
They were backed up, so I was asked to remain on the recliner and try to relax. Try to relax? How would I do that? Well, the receptionist (Phyllis) dimmed the lights and brought me a blankie. That was nice. So, I waited. When my time came, I was brought into the procedure room, where I was met by two young ladies named Erin. After they told me their names, I promised to try not to get them wrong. I lied down on a comfy looking bed and the Erins got me prepped. A nitrous oxide mask was strapped onto my nose and EEG tape was put on my chest. The girls and I were joking around so much that I wasn’t getting the nitrous oxide – you have to really breath it, you know?
When Dr. Braun came in, he set up my IV and I huffed nitrous while he give me my general anesthetic.
“Oh yeah,” I said, feeling something happen. “That’s it.”
As they prepped, one of the Erins asked, “You feeling it?”
My body slipped down into itself, that feeling you get when sleep is pushed upon you. I replied, “You bet. G’night folks.”
“What did he say?” Dr. Braun asked.
“I think he said, G’night folks.”
I tried to laugh. “That’s right. G’night folks.” And that was it for me.
Next thing I knew, I heard the doc say, “Okay, Ken, you can wake up now. We’re done.”
And I did wake up. I wasn’t groggy. I wasn’t medicated. But best of all, I wasn’t in any pain at all. That’s the important part. As we were walking out, I asked one of the Erins (who can tell them apart?) what happened to the tooth. She said they provide them dental schools to help their education. That’s nice. Still… I wanted to see it. “Can I see it?” I asked. “Sure,” she said, and went and got it. Holding it in gauze, it was a mother of a tooth. It came out in one piece, perfect, and huge. No wonder my mouth was hurting. I had a rhino molar in my mouth!
I went home, started taking my vicodin, and eased back with Vic to watch some TV. (Oh wait. She went to the store and bought me Orange Cream sherbet! Apparently, ice cream is good for this too! What doesn’t the magic of ice cream cure?) At around 9pm, Dr. Braun called to see how I was doing. I was grateful that because I wanted to thank him for the great job he and his people did. They really put my mind at ease and made the whole thing go smoothly.
So, there you have it. Well, at least, there I don’t any more.
(This blog is dedicated to those folk still nervous about their wisdom teeth. Get a good oral surgeon and you’re set.) (This means you, Jenn!)
Typically, I arrived with Vicky all jokes and quips. This just got worse as the procedure neared. Some people shake when they’re terrified. Some people cry. I crack wise.
They took me into a little waiting area with a recliner and a video monitor where they showed me a tape from 1987. It was a “scare you out of your mind” kind of tape. “You may develop a serious infection after the procedure.” “Your jaw may need to be broken.” GREAT! I mentioned this to the doctor afterwards, trying to explain that the old tape didn’t really ease the patient into the procedure – but he got a bit defensive. A new tape (I’m hoping it would be on DVD by now) would cost him $1,100 and he had to play it for full disclosure! Only later did I work out the four or five bullets he could have on a 3x5 card to deliver the same information in a more personalized, sympathized manner. I miss marketing so much I’m doing it at the dentist!
Actually, he’s an oral surgeon. Dr. Paul Braun in Orange. Great guy. The receptionist told me, “He’s just like a doctor.” I replied, “Point of fact, he really is a doctor. Right? He’s not just kidding?”
They were backed up, so I was asked to remain on the recliner and try to relax. Try to relax? How would I do that? Well, the receptionist (Phyllis) dimmed the lights and brought me a blankie. That was nice. So, I waited. When my time came, I was brought into the procedure room, where I was met by two young ladies named Erin. After they told me their names, I promised to try not to get them wrong. I lied down on a comfy looking bed and the Erins got me prepped. A nitrous oxide mask was strapped onto my nose and EEG tape was put on my chest. The girls and I were joking around so much that I wasn’t getting the nitrous oxide – you have to really breath it, you know?
When Dr. Braun came in, he set up my IV and I huffed nitrous while he give me my general anesthetic.
“Oh yeah,” I said, feeling something happen. “That’s it.”
As they prepped, one of the Erins asked, “You feeling it?”
My body slipped down into itself, that feeling you get when sleep is pushed upon you. I replied, “You bet. G’night folks.”
“What did he say?” Dr. Braun asked.
“I think he said, G’night folks.”
I tried to laugh. “That’s right. G’night folks.” And that was it for me.
Next thing I knew, I heard the doc say, “Okay, Ken, you can wake up now. We’re done.”
And I did wake up. I wasn’t groggy. I wasn’t medicated. But best of all, I wasn’t in any pain at all. That’s the important part. As we were walking out, I asked one of the Erins (who can tell them apart?) what happened to the tooth. She said they provide them dental schools to help their education. That’s nice. Still… I wanted to see it. “Can I see it?” I asked. “Sure,” she said, and went and got it. Holding it in gauze, it was a mother of a tooth. It came out in one piece, perfect, and huge. No wonder my mouth was hurting. I had a rhino molar in my mouth!
I went home, started taking my vicodin, and eased back with Vic to watch some TV. (Oh wait. She went to the store and bought me Orange Cream sherbet! Apparently, ice cream is good for this too! What doesn’t the magic of ice cream cure?) At around 9pm, Dr. Braun called to see how I was doing. I was grateful that because I wanted to thank him for the great job he and his people did. They really put my mind at ease and made the whole thing go smoothly.
So, there you have it. Well, at least, there I don’t any more.
(This blog is dedicated to those folk still nervous about their wisdom teeth. Get a good oral surgeon and you’re set.) (This means you, Jenn!)
Friday, June 05, 2009
Wise teeth and otherwise…
I’m going to be stepping back through the mists of time a bit for this one.
My only first-hand experience with wisdom teeth extraction comes from my ex-wife. She had all four of hers pulled – you know, the traditional way. She was about 20 or so, we may not have even been married yet, and I was there for her through the procedure and after. I remember doing everything I could for her – that’s just how I was.
And as today has approached, I’ve reflected on that day. I mean, her face was SO PUFFY and she was so miserable. It gives me some idea what to get all neurotic about. But more than that, I guess I’ve been thinking that old thought: I was there for her, she should be here for me. Because, you see, I was there for her, doing whatever I could to help her through, and I never got a return on that investment. You never do.
It took a while, fortunately before Vicky came along, for me to learn that you never get a return on some things because some things are not investments. That’s just the wrong way of looking at relationships. You give not in the hopes of a return but as a gift. You are giving yourself to the other person out of love, not fiscal opportunity.
Of course, one of the downsides of second marriages – at least, from my experience – is that you tend to lose the capacity to give like you did the first time around. There’s that “Been there, got burned by that” feeling. I always feel like I’m short-changing Vicky, and let’s not get started on the whole unemployment thing. If she was having her teeth pulled, would I be there for her? I don’t know. It’s hard to say.
Fortunately, I don’t have to. Vicky had hers removed during a very bumpy rollercoaster ride back in the 90’s – but we won’t get into that.
Now, you may have already figured out that I’m the one getting his tooth pulled – not teeth, just tooth – and you’d be right. (For some ungodly reason, they’re leaving three little toothular time bombs in my mouth.) She’s the one taking care of me. And here I am talking about how jaded I am towards giving! Vicky would probably be justified in making me walk home from the extraction!
But, fortunately, that’s not how things work. Vicky has said she gets tired of hearing me say “I love you” without saying why (even if, you know, tough luck). So here’s a reason why. Vicky’s capacity for giving inspires me to give more. There are a lot of things Vicky isn’t but one thing she definitely is is the engine that keeps us going. I don’t even know if she realizes it; that’s just part of her nature. And I am fortunate that it’s so.
After all, I’m gonna be a real pain in the ass after this tooth is pulled.
My only first-hand experience with wisdom teeth extraction comes from my ex-wife. She had all four of hers pulled – you know, the traditional way. She was about 20 or so, we may not have even been married yet, and I was there for her through the procedure and after. I remember doing everything I could for her – that’s just how I was.
And as today has approached, I’ve reflected on that day. I mean, her face was SO PUFFY and she was so miserable. It gives me some idea what to get all neurotic about. But more than that, I guess I’ve been thinking that old thought: I was there for her, she should be here for me. Because, you see, I was there for her, doing whatever I could to help her through, and I never got a return on that investment. You never do.
It took a while, fortunately before Vicky came along, for me to learn that you never get a return on some things because some things are not investments. That’s just the wrong way of looking at relationships. You give not in the hopes of a return but as a gift. You are giving yourself to the other person out of love, not fiscal opportunity.
Of course, one of the downsides of second marriages – at least, from my experience – is that you tend to lose the capacity to give like you did the first time around. There’s that “Been there, got burned by that” feeling. I always feel like I’m short-changing Vicky, and let’s not get started on the whole unemployment thing. If she was having her teeth pulled, would I be there for her? I don’t know. It’s hard to say.
Fortunately, I don’t have to. Vicky had hers removed during a very bumpy rollercoaster ride back in the 90’s – but we won’t get into that.
Now, you may have already figured out that I’m the one getting his tooth pulled – not teeth, just tooth – and you’d be right. (For some ungodly reason, they’re leaving three little toothular time bombs in my mouth.) She’s the one taking care of me. And here I am talking about how jaded I am towards giving! Vicky would probably be justified in making me walk home from the extraction!
But, fortunately, that’s not how things work. Vicky has said she gets tired of hearing me say “I love you” without saying why (even if, you know, tough luck). So here’s a reason why. Vicky’s capacity for giving inspires me to give more. There are a lot of things Vicky isn’t but one thing she definitely is is the engine that keeps us going. I don’t even know if she realizes it; that’s just part of her nature. And I am fortunate that it’s so.
After all, I’m gonna be a real pain in the ass after this tooth is pulled.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Sweet 16…
It’s odd when I say it. I have written 16 novels. I mean, that’s crazy in a way, right?
Today I finished rewrites on my latest book, Last Ditch, a book about a serial killer meeting his future in-laws, only to find they’re more fucked up than he. It’s a suspense-thriller but it’s not just about killing and fucking. I’ve been impressed by how complex the characters are and how much this book gets under my skin.
Now, the process moves on to proofreading… more specifically, me finding someone (cough – Vicky – cough) to proofread it. Then, I’ll send it around and see if people like it before I consider submitting it for representation and/or publication.
Next on my plate, I’ve got three plays in mind. One of them is so “You don’t want to do that” that I actually only have two. One is called Murder, Zombies, the Devil and Stuff and it’s about… well, like the title says. The other is a “dramedy” that I’m calling Sometimes we find our way. I don’t know which will come first, so I’ll probably work on both at the same time. Hell, it’s not like I’ve got too much else going on.
Today I finished rewrites on my latest book, Last Ditch, a book about a serial killer meeting his future in-laws, only to find they’re more fucked up than he. It’s a suspense-thriller but it’s not just about killing and fucking. I’ve been impressed by how complex the characters are and how much this book gets under my skin.
Now, the process moves on to proofreading… more specifically, me finding someone (cough – Vicky – cough) to proofread it. Then, I’ll send it around and see if people like it before I consider submitting it for representation and/or publication.
Next on my plate, I’ve got three plays in mind. One of them is so “You don’t want to do that” that I actually only have two. One is called Murder, Zombies, the Devil and Stuff and it’s about… well, like the title says. The other is a “dramedy” that I’m calling Sometimes we find our way. I don’t know which will come first, so I’ll probably work on both at the same time. Hell, it’s not like I’ve got too much else going on.
Monday, June 01, 2009
In this context, better than Double D’s…
It was “Backwards Semester”. For the past few semesters, I’ve been taking two classes each time: one philosophy class and one to fulfill my general education requirements. Usually what happens is I tolerate the GenEd class and look forward to the Philosophy class… not this time.
Perhaps it was because my Kinesiology course fit so well to where I am in my life. After all, after quitting smoking I was getting more active, cycling, taking slightly better care of myself. What better time to take a course to help solidify my attitude towards living a healthy lifestyle? And it did. It got me thinking more positively about lifting weights, watching what I eat, maintaining a positive attitude, the whole shmeer!
Actually, it wasn’t quite that. When Sharri walked into her course on 19th century philosophy, she said, “If you’re used to getting A’s, you’ll get a B. If you’re used to getting B’s, you’ll get a C. If you’re used to getting C’s, you do not belong in this class.” I thought she meant we had a lot of material to cover and a lot of material to ingest. I wasn’t entirely right. She also meant that she reserved the right to quiz us on stuff we didn’t study and to expect answers to questions she didn’t ask – and to be able to ask questions on her tests that weren’t even a part of the class!! Every test became an exercise in “What could she possible ask us about?”, the world’s toughest trivial pursuit game.
I got a B in both classes. Double B’s. And I’m happy I got them. Granted, as Sharri explained, I was used to getting A’s in philosophy classes. As for my Kinesiology class, well, I’m a little disappointed in myself – not much but a little. It was a great class. The instructor, Tom, was thoroughly engaging; he made it fun. But with all the crap going on – and having to study for a philosophy class that was about as predictable as the instructor – I guess a B ain’t too bad.
I’ll take it.
Now, back to writing. At least, until fall… I hope…
Perhaps it was because my Kinesiology course fit so well to where I am in my life. After all, after quitting smoking I was getting more active, cycling, taking slightly better care of myself. What better time to take a course to help solidify my attitude towards living a healthy lifestyle? And it did. It got me thinking more positively about lifting weights, watching what I eat, maintaining a positive attitude, the whole shmeer!
Actually, it wasn’t quite that. When Sharri walked into her course on 19th century philosophy, she said, “If you’re used to getting A’s, you’ll get a B. If you’re used to getting B’s, you’ll get a C. If you’re used to getting C’s, you do not belong in this class.” I thought she meant we had a lot of material to cover and a lot of material to ingest. I wasn’t entirely right. She also meant that she reserved the right to quiz us on stuff we didn’t study and to expect answers to questions she didn’t ask – and to be able to ask questions on her tests that weren’t even a part of the class!! Every test became an exercise in “What could she possible ask us about?”, the world’s toughest trivial pursuit game.
I got a B in both classes. Double B’s. And I’m happy I got them. Granted, as Sharri explained, I was used to getting A’s in philosophy classes. As for my Kinesiology class, well, I’m a little disappointed in myself – not much but a little. It was a great class. The instructor, Tom, was thoroughly engaging; he made it fun. But with all the crap going on – and having to study for a philosophy class that was about as predictable as the instructor – I guess a B ain’t too bad.
I’ll take it.
Now, back to writing. At least, until fall… I hope…
Friday, May 29, 2009
The Return of Mother's Cookies...
Well, I guess it was bound to happen. After Mother's Cookies went belly up last year - and after I devoured several metric tons of animal cookies, believing I'd never eat them again - Kellogg bought them up and put them back on the shelves! Those bastards!!
Oh well. I guess it's just time I become resolved to being fat...
(Side note: You should have seen Vicky zoom in on them at the store. For those who have seen the trailer for UP, it was like that dog: SQUIRREL!)
Oh well. I guess it's just time I become resolved to being fat...
(Side note: You should have seen Vicky zoom in on them at the store. For those who have seen the trailer for UP, it was like that dog: SQUIRREL!)
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
The wisdom of the tooth…
This all started because of ice cream. Damn you, ice cream! Damn you to hellllll….
… oh well.
You see, I was getting a twinge in my tooth when I ate ice cream and that had begun to worry me.
… So, I ignored it.
But that didn’t stop the twinge of pain in my tooth. Funny how things work.
Finally, I made the mistake of telling Vicky. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Marriage 2.0, it is “Never tell your spouse what’s on your mind. It’ll only get you into trouble.” No kidding. Things like “Hey, look at that blonde with the big tits. She’s hot.” or “I’m thinking of shaving my head” or “My tooth hurts” – it just never ends well.
So, I told Vicky and right away she over-reacted. “You should see a dentist.”
Crazy talk!
And every time I complained about the pain, Vicky would started talking nuts: “Go to the dentist.” Seriously, the girl needs help.
But I did finally go to the dentist. I was there yesterday. The cleaning went very quickly – I was happy. The x-rays showed nothing more than a cracked, old filling that needed replacing – I was happy. And then, she was poking around the back of my mouth when her metal poker stabbed right through my jaw!!!
Ouch!!
I motioned to her to stop and she said, “Really? That was your wisdom tooth,” as if to say, “Silly boy, wisdom teeth don’t cause pain – not to those stupid enough to still have them at 43 years of age – you know… like you… moron..” And then, as if that was enough, she moved her hands back towards my mouth! No! You don’t get it! I’m in pain here!!
You see, I was one of those “lucky people” whose wisdom teeth grew in straight. Great. Fucking party. Now, at 43, it looks like I’ll need one – maybe two – removed. I’ve got to wait a week for it, too – cause, you know, with something like this you want ANTICIPATION!
But I think there’s a play in there somewhere, just the same…
… oh well.
You see, I was getting a twinge in my tooth when I ate ice cream and that had begun to worry me.
… So, I ignored it.
But that didn’t stop the twinge of pain in my tooth. Funny how things work.
Finally, I made the mistake of telling Vicky. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Marriage 2.0, it is “Never tell your spouse what’s on your mind. It’ll only get you into trouble.” No kidding. Things like “Hey, look at that blonde with the big tits. She’s hot.” or “I’m thinking of shaving my head” or “My tooth hurts” – it just never ends well.
So, I told Vicky and right away she over-reacted. “You should see a dentist.”
Crazy talk!
And every time I complained about the pain, Vicky would started talking nuts: “Go to the dentist.” Seriously, the girl needs help.
But I did finally go to the dentist. I was there yesterday. The cleaning went very quickly – I was happy. The x-rays showed nothing more than a cracked, old filling that needed replacing – I was happy. And then, she was poking around the back of my mouth when her metal poker stabbed right through my jaw!!!
Ouch!!
I motioned to her to stop and she said, “Really? That was your wisdom tooth,” as if to say, “Silly boy, wisdom teeth don’t cause pain – not to those stupid enough to still have them at 43 years of age – you know… like you… moron..” And then, as if that was enough, she moved her hands back towards my mouth! No! You don’t get it! I’m in pain here!!
You see, I was one of those “lucky people” whose wisdom teeth grew in straight. Great. Fucking party. Now, at 43, it looks like I’ll need one – maybe two – removed. I’ve got to wait a week for it, too – cause, you know, with something like this you want ANTICIPATION!
But I think there’s a play in there somewhere, just the same…
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Spinning...
Vicky and I just came back from spin class. She's been thinking of asking me for a while now and, when she did, I took her up on her offer.
Now, despite what you might have heard, spin class does not make you totally gay.
I am not totally gay now that I'd taken spin class.
But for those of you who know my history, you might appreciate that I close enough to being gay that I could probably have a child with my ex-wife now...
Now, despite what you might have heard, spin class does not make you totally gay.
I am not totally gay now that I'd taken spin class.
But for those of you who know my history, you might appreciate that I close enough to being gay that I could probably have a child with my ex-wife now...
Friday, May 22, 2009
Telling someone off…
I finally told someone off today that I’ve been wanting to tell off for over twenty years. I told him he was a rude and insulting prick, and it felt really good. I mean, you’d think it wouldn’t actually feel so good but, sure enough, it felt really good. This is coming from a guy who hates conflict and does everything he can to avoid it. I mean, I’m normally a very level-headed, even-tempered guy who treats everyone with kindness and care – but some people are just rude, insulting pricks, you know? So, after more than twenty years, I finally told him. That’s right.
It still counts if I did it over the phone, right?
It still counts if I did it over the phone, right?
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Writing and Studying and Neither…
So, here I am. Another sleepless night. Suki was scratching, which is her way of saying, “Dude! My eyes are turning yellow!” Vicky didn’t really want me to get up because I think she knew that once up I’d stay up but up I went and out we walked and after Suki peed and we came back… I was up. Again.
But that’s okay. I’ve got a lot to do.
Finals are coming up. Per usual, my philosophy instructor has sprung a surprise on us and I have no idea what she wants in this final. So, my strategy is to just hit as much as I can and hope for the best. So, I’m reviewing all things Nietzsche and trying to drill them into my head, if only for the few hours I’m writing my final exam.
At least, that’s what I should be doing. Because even as I study, something else is going on. I suppose I should have seen it coming and I should be grateful it waited. But the writer inside is waking up again. Like some leviathan, it rises from the depths of my subconscious and won’t be ignored until I write something and maybe even something else. Placated, then, maybe it’ll return to the recesses… and shut the hell up…
Right now, it’s feeding me all kinds of lines for a couple of plays I want to write. I try to be philosophic about it. Although I’ve met little success of late, you never know what’ll happen next or even if a joke might make Vicky laugh, which is worthwhile in itself. Now, I should probably return to a couple of books I’ve been picking at but, honestly, Vicky hasn’t proofed Daughter of a One-Armed Man, yet. I wrote that a couple of years ago and can give her another book when she’s through, so it’s not as though I’m in need for any new material there. (Once she finishes Daughter, I’ll be ready to work on selling that – but it’s the next one, Last Ditch, that’s the real killer. I can’t wait for her to read that!) The bottom line, really, is that no matter what I should do, the writer inside of me wants to write these plays.
I already mentioned one, Sometimes We Find Our Way. I’m intrigued with this character of Jimmie Fatovich. Fatovich just sounds funny to me; I don’t know why. But I have this scene stuck in my head – these things just pop in on their own – where the woman he picks up at a bar tries to analyze him: “And Jimmie – you’re a grown man and you still call yourself Jimmie! You’ve been so dominated by your parents that you can’t escape this childish name, this schoolyard name, this boy’s name. Jimmie!” When, of course, he just likes the name. I’m beginning to see the play as a series of miscommunications, of people not really understanding what the other person is saying, which is something of a metaphor for our relationships. I mean, how do we know we understand another person? We just have to assume it and hope for the best.
The other play is this monumental reach into absurdity I can’t even begin to explain. It’s one of those “You have to see it” things. But it begins with a husband and wife:
Wife: Did you eat all the ice cream?
Husband: Yeah, I needed to check my tooth.
Wife: With the ice cream?
Husband: I think I have a cavity.
Wife: And you did that with –
Husband: My tooth’s been very sensitive so I had some ice cream to test it.
Wife: So, you ate the whole –
Husband: I wanted to be sure!
Mind you, those are probably not final lines. They’re just the ones revolving in my head. The play includes murder, zombies, and the devil… Like I said…
And, in there, I need to study for my final exams. One exam, in my Kinesiology course, is a take-home. LOVE THAT! But I can’t escape Nietzsche… try as I might…
Well, I guess I should head upstairs and try to sleep some more. We’ll see…
But that’s okay. I’ve got a lot to do.
Finals are coming up. Per usual, my philosophy instructor has sprung a surprise on us and I have no idea what she wants in this final. So, my strategy is to just hit as much as I can and hope for the best. So, I’m reviewing all things Nietzsche and trying to drill them into my head, if only for the few hours I’m writing my final exam.
At least, that’s what I should be doing. Because even as I study, something else is going on. I suppose I should have seen it coming and I should be grateful it waited. But the writer inside is waking up again. Like some leviathan, it rises from the depths of my subconscious and won’t be ignored until I write something and maybe even something else. Placated, then, maybe it’ll return to the recesses… and shut the hell up…
Right now, it’s feeding me all kinds of lines for a couple of plays I want to write. I try to be philosophic about it. Although I’ve met little success of late, you never know what’ll happen next or even if a joke might make Vicky laugh, which is worthwhile in itself. Now, I should probably return to a couple of books I’ve been picking at but, honestly, Vicky hasn’t proofed Daughter of a One-Armed Man, yet. I wrote that a couple of years ago and can give her another book when she’s through, so it’s not as though I’m in need for any new material there. (Once she finishes Daughter, I’ll be ready to work on selling that – but it’s the next one, Last Ditch, that’s the real killer. I can’t wait for her to read that!) The bottom line, really, is that no matter what I should do, the writer inside of me wants to write these plays.
I already mentioned one, Sometimes We Find Our Way. I’m intrigued with this character of Jimmie Fatovich. Fatovich just sounds funny to me; I don’t know why. But I have this scene stuck in my head – these things just pop in on their own – where the woman he picks up at a bar tries to analyze him: “And Jimmie – you’re a grown man and you still call yourself Jimmie! You’ve been so dominated by your parents that you can’t escape this childish name, this schoolyard name, this boy’s name. Jimmie!” When, of course, he just likes the name. I’m beginning to see the play as a series of miscommunications, of people not really understanding what the other person is saying, which is something of a metaphor for our relationships. I mean, how do we know we understand another person? We just have to assume it and hope for the best.
The other play is this monumental reach into absurdity I can’t even begin to explain. It’s one of those “You have to see it” things. But it begins with a husband and wife:
Wife: Did you eat all the ice cream?
Husband: Yeah, I needed to check my tooth.
Wife: With the ice cream?
Husband: I think I have a cavity.
Wife: And you did that with –
Husband: My tooth’s been very sensitive so I had some ice cream to test it.
Wife: So, you ate the whole –
Husband: I wanted to be sure!
Mind you, those are probably not final lines. They’re just the ones revolving in my head. The play includes murder, zombies, and the devil… Like I said…
And, in there, I need to study for my final exams. One exam, in my Kinesiology course, is a take-home. LOVE THAT! But I can’t escape Nietzsche… try as I might…
Well, I guess I should head upstairs and try to sleep some more. We’ll see…
Thursday, May 14, 2009
This is how these things work…
Today is the last day of instruction for this semester, meaning that next week I have finals.
Ugh.
The crazy thing about how my mind works, though, is that whenever I really need to focus on something – like, say, finals – I get an idea in my head about something I want to write. Mind you, I haven’t been having the best luck this year… or for a few years… I returned to writing plays because I had more luck with plays that novels. But, damn, so much for that idea.
This time, the idea is a play called Sometimes We Find Our Way, a comedy/drama about a mother and son who have just lost their husband/father. The son had moved back in with his parents to help take care of the dying old man and now feels stuck having to take care of his mother as well. One night, he brings a woman home who intercedes in the pending familial collapse by bringing it on much sooner…
Of course, I can’t write that. I have to study. As a result, it’s all I can think about… of course…
Ugh.
The crazy thing about how my mind works, though, is that whenever I really need to focus on something – like, say, finals – I get an idea in my head about something I want to write. Mind you, I haven’t been having the best luck this year… or for a few years… I returned to writing plays because I had more luck with plays that novels. But, damn, so much for that idea.
This time, the idea is a play called Sometimes We Find Our Way, a comedy/drama about a mother and son who have just lost their husband/father. The son had moved back in with his parents to help take care of the dying old man and now feels stuck having to take care of his mother as well. One night, he brings a woman home who intercedes in the pending familial collapse by bringing it on much sooner…
Of course, I can’t write that. I have to study. As a result, it’s all I can think about… of course…
Monday, May 11, 2009
Been searching…
So, I guess I should catch you up on the job search, huh?
It’s terrible. Absolute hell. Here’s a fact: 4 interviews in 4 months. It’s not just slow out there; it’s the Sahara.
Why is that? Well, there’s a few things going on that contribute to this aside from my lack of a Bachelor’s degree (5 courses remaining after this semester). First, employers seem to want the absolute most for their money. They want marketing writers with years of graphic arts experience or marketing managers with contracting licenses. In other words, conflicting skill sets. I’m sure they understand that most writers who are also graphic artists won’t be that good at either, but I’m also sure the pool they have to draw from is so full they can afford to be choosey. That’s another thing: money. I’ve seen marketing management jobs that pay $12/hour and writing jobs that pay $10. How do they expect people to eat on that or pay their school loans (since they also require bachelors or masters degrees).
The fact is, it’s a buyer’s market and it may be one I need to get out of. The fact is, I may need to find a job outside of marketing if I want to find a job at all. This is infuriating, considering all I went through to compile a marketing resume but it may be the sad truth.
I’ve got two more months of unemployment insurance. Time is running out.
It’s terrible. Absolute hell. Here’s a fact: 4 interviews in 4 months. It’s not just slow out there; it’s the Sahara.
Why is that? Well, there’s a few things going on that contribute to this aside from my lack of a Bachelor’s degree (5 courses remaining after this semester). First, employers seem to want the absolute most for their money. They want marketing writers with years of graphic arts experience or marketing managers with contracting licenses. In other words, conflicting skill sets. I’m sure they understand that most writers who are also graphic artists won’t be that good at either, but I’m also sure the pool they have to draw from is so full they can afford to be choosey. That’s another thing: money. I’ve seen marketing management jobs that pay $12/hour and writing jobs that pay $10. How do they expect people to eat on that or pay their school loans (since they also require bachelors or masters degrees).
The fact is, it’s a buyer’s market and it may be one I need to get out of. The fact is, I may need to find a job outside of marketing if I want to find a job at all. This is infuriating, considering all I went through to compile a marketing resume but it may be the sad truth.
I’ve got two more months of unemployment insurance. Time is running out.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
On tomatoes and the growing of things…
I know. I know. I’ve been horrible about writing. I’m going to try to start making up for that. Honest.
Let’s start with the tomatoes. As you may know, I planted kind of a garden a few months back: three tomato plants, some herbs, and a jalapeno… something. This is a bit of an update.
Jalapeno… I think it’s a bush… could be a tree… Either way, it’s in FAR too small a planter to be any good and may get choked to death (as its roots coil around and around on themselves) before I get a bigger planter to transplant it to. It’s doing well, otherwise…
Herbs… Well, the basil got eaten alive by some bug or something within a week of planting it and the rosemary (which is known as a tough herb to grow anyway) disappeared beneath the tomatoes. I should have known better than to expect them to get sun under tomato bushes.
About them tomatoes… they were doing great. Just great! That is, until the painters came in to paint the exterior of our building and STOMPED ON THEM. One bush got knocked akimbo. The other one, they pretty much broke in two. Vicky was kind enough to try and stake one of them back up but it’s not looking very good to say the least. I’m doubling my feeding schedule, trying to kick-start their growth but I just don’t know.
Not the best news, huh… Sorry. Well, it’s my first year back to gardening and sometimes you just gotta take your lumps, right?
Finals are coming in two weeks but I am going to try to get to at least a bi-weekly schedule shortly thereafter. A job would be nice, too. (Oh right, I should tell you how that’s coming…)
Let’s start with the tomatoes. As you may know, I planted kind of a garden a few months back: three tomato plants, some herbs, and a jalapeno… something. This is a bit of an update.
Jalapeno… I think it’s a bush… could be a tree… Either way, it’s in FAR too small a planter to be any good and may get choked to death (as its roots coil around and around on themselves) before I get a bigger planter to transplant it to. It’s doing well, otherwise…
Herbs… Well, the basil got eaten alive by some bug or something within a week of planting it and the rosemary (which is known as a tough herb to grow anyway) disappeared beneath the tomatoes. I should have known better than to expect them to get sun under tomato bushes.
About them tomatoes… they were doing great. Just great! That is, until the painters came in to paint the exterior of our building and STOMPED ON THEM. One bush got knocked akimbo. The other one, they pretty much broke in two. Vicky was kind enough to try and stake one of them back up but it’s not looking very good to say the least. I’m doubling my feeding schedule, trying to kick-start their growth but I just don’t know.
Not the best news, huh… Sorry. Well, it’s my first year back to gardening and sometimes you just gotta take your lumps, right?
Finals are coming in two weeks but I am going to try to get to at least a bi-weekly schedule shortly thereafter. A job would be nice, too. (Oh right, I should tell you how that’s coming…)
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
FCU: Fact Checkers Unit...
It just does my heart good to know that Bill Murray drinks martinis while watching M*A*S*H...
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
An update on that whole "unemployment" thing...
It sucks.
What? You wanted more?
For the past few weeks, I've been interviewing and communicating with a company about a position as Marketing Manager. I knew it was a longshot. After all, I still don't have my degree. Sure enough, today I got word that they went with someone else. And it hit me pretty hard. Actually, much harder than I expected. I was one of the final four candidates and I knew I had a good rapport with the person who would have been my boss. Now, I've got to stop crying and pull myself back together to go to school and suffer through a pre-test review on Hegel. Cause I'm really into that...
I think it hits so hard because I was so close. Also, it's just another reminder that I am jobless, useless, and unwanted. It's a blow economically, of course, but it's also a blow to the ego. I want to be useful. I want to be doing something with my life.
So, the whole "unemployment" thing isn't work out very well. I've just got to keep plugging away...
What? You wanted more?
For the past few weeks, I've been interviewing and communicating with a company about a position as Marketing Manager. I knew it was a longshot. After all, I still don't have my degree. Sure enough, today I got word that they went with someone else. And it hit me pretty hard. Actually, much harder than I expected. I was one of the final four candidates and I knew I had a good rapport with the person who would have been my boss. Now, I've got to stop crying and pull myself back together to go to school and suffer through a pre-test review on Hegel. Cause I'm really into that...
I think it hits so hard because I was so close. Also, it's just another reminder that I am jobless, useless, and unwanted. It's a blow economically, of course, but it's also a blow to the ego. I want to be useful. I want to be doing something with my life.
So, the whole "unemployment" thing isn't work out very well. I've just got to keep plugging away...
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Despite my recent lack of entries...
Can you believe I got a C on a test?
Can you believe I got a C on a test for not writing enough?
Can you believe I got a C on a test for not writing enough in a philosophy course?
Sum'bitch....
Can you believe I got a C on a test for not writing enough?
Can you believe I got a C on a test for not writing enough in a philosophy course?
Sum'bitch....
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Friday, April 03, 2009
The Groucho Marx Syndrome…
So, yesterday, I had my second interview for a Marketing Manager job. I’m not really qualified to work as a Marketing Manager. After all, I don’t have my Bachelor’s degree. I’ve never worked on TV commercials or event planning or nationwide media, which are things they’re looking for. But I made it past a screening and an initial interview to make it to round two… while hundreds of other applicants were winnowed away and the woman doing the hiring was left with just four.
What a mistake that was.
Consider this. If I don’t get hired, I’ll always wonder what qualifications the other three had that I don’t have. I’ll think about how close I came. I’ll fantasize about what could have been… if only… While if I do get hired, I’ll also be wondering. I’ll be wondering what kind of incompetent clod would hire someone so under-qualified. How shitty is this company that they pick the least qualified of the bunch? What are they trying to pull over on me? What’s wrong with this picture?
You see? Either way, I’m screwed.
And it gets worse because I’ve also been approached about another Marketing Manager position – and I know there’s no shortage of qualified Marketing Managers out there. So, what the hell???
It’s like the old line from Groucho Marx, “I wouldn’t want to be a part of any club that would make me a member.”
What a mistake that was.
Consider this. If I don’t get hired, I’ll always wonder what qualifications the other three had that I don’t have. I’ll think about how close I came. I’ll fantasize about what could have been… if only… While if I do get hired, I’ll also be wondering. I’ll be wondering what kind of incompetent clod would hire someone so under-qualified. How shitty is this company that they pick the least qualified of the bunch? What are they trying to pull over on me? What’s wrong with this picture?
You see? Either way, I’m screwed.
And it gets worse because I’ve also been approached about another Marketing Manager position – and I know there’s no shortage of qualified Marketing Managers out there. So, what the hell???
It’s like the old line from Groucho Marx, “I wouldn’t want to be a part of any club that would make me a member.”
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Riding and Writing…
Have courage.
I know I haven’t been writing much but this is what I have for you today.
Yesterday, I went on a 40 mile ride down the Santa Ana River Trail and up the beach to the Huntington Beach Pier and back again. The pier and the beach were lovely but, on returning, I headed into what I can only call a “light Santa Ana Wind condition”. And it sucks to say “light” because it was blowing my ass nearly backwards! I struggled for every yard on the way home and considered pooping out and calling Vicky (“Honey, please pick me up!”) many times.
This morning, Vicky and I hit the trail but the winds were starting early and we finally did poop out, turned around and rode the winds home.
We didn’t let it stop us and we’ll be back again for another ride.
And so, I say, have courage.
I came very close to finding representation for my book, Climbing Maya, this week. Sadly, though the agent loved the book, she felt that there wasn’t enough action in this philosophy book for the average reader. Let me repeat that. She felt there wasn’t enough action in this philosophy book. And, you know what, she may be right. Maybe popular philosophy is a misnomer.
But I didn’t let that stop me. Even though Vicky is still proofing it – and I’m beginning to think that Vicky’s lack of enthusiasm may be telling – I sent her a letter about another book, Daughter of a One-Armed Man. I did it because this is important to me. I believe I’m telling valuable stories that should be shared. That I and my books are worthwhile.
Sometimes things suck and you get the wind in your face and you have to fight for every inch. But have courage. I’m not saying you’ll win every time. I know I haven’t. But maybe it’s not about winning so much as fighting the fight. You never know what might happen.
I know I haven’t been writing much but this is what I have for you today.
Yesterday, I went on a 40 mile ride down the Santa Ana River Trail and up the beach to the Huntington Beach Pier and back again. The pier and the beach were lovely but, on returning, I headed into what I can only call a “light Santa Ana Wind condition”. And it sucks to say “light” because it was blowing my ass nearly backwards! I struggled for every yard on the way home and considered pooping out and calling Vicky (“Honey, please pick me up!”) many times.
This morning, Vicky and I hit the trail but the winds were starting early and we finally did poop out, turned around and rode the winds home.
We didn’t let it stop us and we’ll be back again for another ride.
And so, I say, have courage.
I came very close to finding representation for my book, Climbing Maya, this week. Sadly, though the agent loved the book, she felt that there wasn’t enough action in this philosophy book for the average reader. Let me repeat that. She felt there wasn’t enough action in this philosophy book. And, you know what, she may be right. Maybe popular philosophy is a misnomer.
But I didn’t let that stop me. Even though Vicky is still proofing it – and I’m beginning to think that Vicky’s lack of enthusiasm may be telling – I sent her a letter about another book, Daughter of a One-Armed Man. I did it because this is important to me. I believe I’m telling valuable stories that should be shared. That I and my books are worthwhile.
Sometimes things suck and you get the wind in your face and you have to fight for every inch. But have courage. I’m not saying you’ll win every time. I know I haven’t. But maybe it’s not about winning so much as fighting the fight. You never know what might happen.
Monday, March 16, 2009
I beg your pardon...
I may not have promised a rose garden but I remember saying something about vegetables!
In fact, of my two New Year’s Resolutions (Hit the Farmer’s Market & Grow My Own), this was one that is actually helped out by being out of work.
And so it was that Vicky and I went down to Armstrong Garden Center (the nice one in Tustin) yesterday for a variety of yummy plant life. We didn’t spend a whole lot and walked out of there with plenty of tasty treats.
Today, I planted them. We’ve got four varieties of tomatoes: the Better Boy, the Wadda, the Early Girl, and the Ace. Some mature in just a couple of months, meaning we could have a bounty of red beauties through the summer! I also planted a creeping rosemary and some sweet basil – yum! For Vicky, I planted a Jalapeno bush… hot stuff!
This is, of course, assuming I don’t have a dirt-brown thumb. After all, it’s been a while since I last had a garden. Different life and a different city.
We’ll see.
In the meantime, I’ll see if I can get Vicky to post some pictures!
In fact, of my two New Year’s Resolutions (Hit the Farmer’s Market & Grow My Own), this was one that is actually helped out by being out of work.
And so it was that Vicky and I went down to Armstrong Garden Center (the nice one in Tustin) yesterday for a variety of yummy plant life. We didn’t spend a whole lot and walked out of there with plenty of tasty treats.
Today, I planted them. We’ve got four varieties of tomatoes: the Better Boy, the Wadda, the Early Girl, and the Ace. Some mature in just a couple of months, meaning we could have a bounty of red beauties through the summer! I also planted a creeping rosemary and some sweet basil – yum! For Vicky, I planted a Jalapeno bush… hot stuff!
This is, of course, assuming I don’t have a dirt-brown thumb. After all, it’s been a while since I last had a garden. Different life and a different city.
We’ll see.
In the meantime, I’ll see if I can get Vicky to post some pictures!
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Facebook and Facing Up…
Self-loathing, meet Ken.
Ken, meet self-loathing.
Oh, you don’t need to introduce us. We’re well acquainted…
So, I’m getting my emails this morning and there’s a friend request from Facebook. If you’re not on Facebook, you should be. If, however, you want to remain undisturbed by the nightmares of your past, you shouldn’t be… really…
So, this person says to me, “You were the coolest guy I knew in high school.”
The coolest guy? Was this person on drugs?
On top of that, I have no idea who he is – so I don’t know what kind of person would send such a thing, would say such a thing, because I’m not cool – I never was! I’m an abject failure who never lived up to all of the…
Whoops.
All of these thoughts poured out of my head, just sitting there in front of the email.
Hate yourself much, Ken?
Is it possible not to hate yourself but just to hate how you turned out? If so, that’s me. And I can’t look at this email without thinking, “Liar.” This guy’s adulation looks to me more like accusation, like mockery, like the worst insult you could possibly pay. It’s like he’s saying, “You thought you were so cool back then but look at you now. You’re nothing.” And he’d be right.
So, what am I going to do? Ignore this guy, just like I’ve ignored the other people from high school who have found me over the past twenty-or-so odd years… and hope he goes away…
I don’t know. They say you have to be really tough to take all the rejection a writer’s life brings you but I’ll tell you the truth. After twenty-five years of almost constant rejection, living on unemployment checks and my wife’s good will, nothing more than a phantom of the person people expected me to be, I just want to crawl into a hole…
Ken, meet self-loathing.
Oh, you don’t need to introduce us. We’re well acquainted…
So, I’m getting my emails this morning and there’s a friend request from Facebook. If you’re not on Facebook, you should be. If, however, you want to remain undisturbed by the nightmares of your past, you shouldn’t be… really…
So, this person says to me, “You were the coolest guy I knew in high school.”
The coolest guy? Was this person on drugs?
On top of that, I have no idea who he is – so I don’t know what kind of person would send such a thing, would say such a thing, because I’m not cool – I never was! I’m an abject failure who never lived up to all of the…
Whoops.
All of these thoughts poured out of my head, just sitting there in front of the email.
Hate yourself much, Ken?
Is it possible not to hate yourself but just to hate how you turned out? If so, that’s me. And I can’t look at this email without thinking, “Liar.” This guy’s adulation looks to me more like accusation, like mockery, like the worst insult you could possibly pay. It’s like he’s saying, “You thought you were so cool back then but look at you now. You’re nothing.” And he’d be right.
So, what am I going to do? Ignore this guy, just like I’ve ignored the other people from high school who have found me over the past twenty-or-so odd years… and hope he goes away…
I don’t know. They say you have to be really tough to take all the rejection a writer’s life brings you but I’ll tell you the truth. After twenty-five years of almost constant rejection, living on unemployment checks and my wife’s good will, nothing more than a phantom of the person people expected me to be, I just want to crawl into a hole…
Thursday, March 05, 2009
I was just in a collision… almost…
So, I’m on the 91 freeway. Stop and go traffic.
We stop. We go. We stop. We go.
It’s an old story.
This time, though, the woman behind me, driving what appears to be a Ford Explorer, has zipped into my lane at speed and someone forgot to tell her the “stop” part.
She slams on her brakes – I can hear them over Enigma playing on my car stereo – and she gets that rigored tight snarl stretched across her face, the one you get when you’re about to slam into some guy’s Honda Civic with your two-ton Explorer…
And I think about how I’m out of work and what little luck I’ve had with bringing any money into the house and how my unemployment insurance is about to run out and how I need to refile though I just lost my job about a month and a half ago… and how swell Vicky’s been and how horrible it’ll be to have to tell her that my car’s totaled…
And I can see the fear in this woman’s eyes as she’s about to plow into me…
And she doesn’t. She stops just in time.
Sometimes, the other shoe doesn’t drop… just yet, at least…
We stop. We go. We stop. We go.
It’s an old story.
This time, though, the woman behind me, driving what appears to be a Ford Explorer, has zipped into my lane at speed and someone forgot to tell her the “stop” part.
She slams on her brakes – I can hear them over Enigma playing on my car stereo – and she gets that rigored tight snarl stretched across her face, the one you get when you’re about to slam into some guy’s Honda Civic with your two-ton Explorer…
And I think about how I’m out of work and what little luck I’ve had with bringing any money into the house and how my unemployment insurance is about to run out and how I need to refile though I just lost my job about a month and a half ago… and how swell Vicky’s been and how horrible it’ll be to have to tell her that my car’s totaled…
And I can see the fear in this woman’s eyes as she’s about to plow into me…
And she doesn’t. She stops just in time.
Sometimes, the other shoe doesn’t drop… just yet, at least…
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