Hangover… over…

It’s nice to finally feel like myself again… you know, to no longer be hung-over. It’s especially nice given that I did it to myself on Saturday and today’s Wednesday. (Crap…)

The time has come to take stock, to reassess, to be honest about things and… yeeesh.

First up, I did not need to smoke on Saturday. That’s four days ago and I can still taste it. (And, yes, I’ve brushed my teeth many times.) It left this disgusting, awful… I can’t describe it. It’s a feeling like I should just as well be dead, basically. I’m glad I stopped and wish I’d never picked up those two – yes, just two – cigarettes. Yick.

The other thing that comes to mind is how infernally fat I am. I say “infernally” because it burns me up! With all the cycling and jogging and walking and whatever else, I should not be fat. Fortunately, I have a physical coming up (when I told Sean this, he asked, “Rubber glove physical?”) and I can talk to my doctor about it. It’s not that I’m active… so I’m thinking it might be because I’m a pig. That might have something to do with it; I’m not entirely sure.

Next, if I haven’t said it already, I am so lucky to have Vicky. Let me tell you, she took such great care of me – and I’m not the kind of guy who likes to be in that position. Oh, I like to be pampered, just like any guy, but I hate completely falling apart. I’m not a fan of that. Vicky was so wonderful, though, and just stepped up in a way I know I didn’t deserve. Lucky = Ken.

I’ve also come to realize that the last two years for all of their awfulness have been incredibly beneficial to me as a writer. I have grown demonstrably, significantly… and lots, too. If it wasn’t for the past couple of years and the incredible support Vicky has given me, I would never have had the opportunities to grow that I’ve had, and I am so very grateful.

And so, I come out of this hangover with a sense of relief, yes, but urgency as well. I want to kick the tires and get back in gear with my health and my life. A detour in debauchery was enough. I don’t need any more of that.

Not to mention, the impression Vicky does of me vomiting violently is enough to last her years…

Today we lay to rest…

The drinking career of Ken “the liver” La Salle. It was a good run, exceeding 25 years of serious drinking. Heck, the drinking career may show up for an appearance now and then, but it will never see the kind of drinking it once enjoyed…

So… here’s what happened.

Vicky and I were on our way to Justin’s 40th birthday party Saturday night and I was… just not feeling it. Have you ever been there? On your way to a party and you realize you’re just not up to it like you thought you were? So, we got there and I thought, “Maybe I’ll have a beer and that will loosen me up.”

Before I take another step, I want to mention something I didn’t realize until much later. I’ve been out of work for nearly two years. I’ve been on dozens of interviews that just haven’t worked out. I’ve worked several shitty temp jobs but the worst one is the one I’m doing right now, because I’m having a hell of a time getting them to pay me. That’s right; I might not see my money. On top of that, I can’t get anything going with my writing career – even the book deal is in limbo at this point. I just don’t know where I am.

Put this all together and, in hindsight, I realize that drinking might not have been the smartest thing to do.

And, I was hanging with Paula. Paula, for those who don’t know, is one of those people who are so much fun to hang out with until you realize she’s talked you into donating both of your kidneys to a neighborhood kid with a rusty knife and a strange hobby. We refer to what happens with Paula at a party “the Paula Vortex”. Those who get sucked into the Paula Vortex generally don’t get out undamaged.

So… two beers, a bottle of wine, and many glasses of Jack Daniels… and cigar and two cigarettes (that I know of) later… it occurred to me that I might have done some damage to myself.

And then the puking began.

At the party.

On the street.

In Vicky’s car as she drove me home. (The words "I don't know what I would do without Vicky" do not scratch the surface...)

Never in my life have I experienced this level of blind, stinking drunk – nor will I ever again. I'm 45. It's time.

Besides, I’m still hung over today.

So, we lay to rest the drinking career of one Ken “is that my foot I’m barfing” La Salle. We wish it well and hope for fuck’s sake that we never see it again…

Why I’m up this morning…

I woke up this morning with an overwhelming certainty in my head. Now, I’ve done this before and every time I’ve been wrong. Rather than get out of bed and follow that feeling of certainty, I felt it would be prudent to weigh the certainty with a bit of caution.

I couldn’t have dreamt this all up out of whole cloth, I thought. Certainly, some of what I was so certain about had to be true.

Rather than beat around the bush of certainty, I guess I should just tell you what I was so certain about. I woke up in my house, with my stuff moved into the spare room upstairs – as it has been for months now – and realized that with my brother, Keith, staying with us that was pretty darned rude. After all, where would he sleep?

In my half-asleep brain, I rationalized that I probably hadn’t moved everything into the spare room overnight. Still, I reasoned, it was rude to make him sleep on the sofa downstairs, the only other place he could sleep. So, I got up. I got dressed. I went downstairs to apologize for…

This is when I realized that not only was Keith not on the sofa, Keith had never stayed with us. Not only had I dreamt it all up out of whole cloth, I had dreamt up the rationalization and had sleepwalked (yet again) because of it.

There’s nothing more disturbing that knowing that you can function at your rational best and still be completely irrational. After all, what is sleepwalking if not irrational?

I just thought I’d share this story for anyone out there who thinks sleepwalking is somehow goofy or made up. No, it’s real and it’s seriously disturbing. It’s enough to keep you up at night.

You normally have to wait until Christmas before you hear this kind of crap…

“I got you three Christmas gifts,” Vicky told me on the phone the other day. I hadn’t bought her any. This was because I’m still out of work and out of money. Stupid money!

This is what I was thinking about when I woke up this morning: stupid money. And then, I turned to Vic and began considering all those years when I had stupid money but didn’t have Vicky. There were those years when I was chasing after my ex. There were those years when I had the occasional date but, pretty much, no one special. Then, Vicky came along.

We often joke about how rotten her luck was to marry a guy who has been perpetually out of work. My luck has been about as rotten as you can imagine; it seems that as soon as I get a job, the company goes under!

I spend some time looking over at my bride this morning as she slept and considered how lucky I am – and what a dope I am for not being able to buy her anything she wants. That’s just how I am. If I had stupid money, there’s nothing I wouldn’t get Vicky.

But I guess her best gift to me is how understanding she’s been through all of this, that somehow she considers herself the lucky one.

… which makes that four gifts.

Shit. I gotta score some cash and get her something nice!

The sole purpose is just to save a bad, old joke...

What has two legs and bleeds profusely?








Half a cat

Moncure…

I don’t think I’ve really mentioned Moncure on this or any of my other blogs. Without rehashing a lot of ancient history, Moncure was an adult male at a time when so few adult males had a positive influence in my life, my teen years. He was the person who became my goal as an adult, my template for what an adult man should be.

Then, I grew up.

Life turned out a whole lot messier than anyone had ever so much as suggested and now I’m 45, unemployed, overweight, and without a whole lot of accomplishments beneath my belt.

So, when I found Moncure on Facebook about a year or so ago, I thought (in that neurotic way I do), “What have I done with my life? How is my life significant enough to be worthy of speaking to him again?” I thought that I had to achieve great things to fit that mold of what an adult man should be… and I hadn’t.

Then, Myth of the Cubicle was produced in Hollywood. My first book is being published next year. (WORMFOOD ISLAND, coming in summer 2011 from Northern Frights Publishing!) Somehow, it didn’t feel like enough.

I woke up at 2:30 this morning from the most vivid dream. Another one of my novels, No More Blue Roses, had been published and turned into a movie. Vicky and I were attending the premiere at a small art house cinema in LA, we were getting out of the car, when who got out of the car parked in front of ours but Moncure and his wife.

I said to Vic, “Hold on. This could be significant.”

Somebody mentioned to Moncure as we shook hands that I was the author of the book the movie was based on and Moncure mumbled through, “The patterns of history weave in lines that are difficult to comprehend but nonetheless meaningful.”

And I said “Hi,” using his first name and gave a big, cheesy grin.

He smiled as well. “Ken La Salle, you miserable son of a bitch.”

The four of us hurried to the premiere but it had already started. The theater was filled with a girls’ volleyball team and an overflow of rowdy kids; we could only see the movie through the doors. It had been filmed in black and white and spoken in French – not dubbed, a French filmmaker had made it in French… and in the 1940s, for some reason.

It was all very confusing.

I got out of bed and thought, “Ken, your mind is trying to tell you something. Just go to Facebook and send him an email.” And I did.

I’m too old for “should have beens” and if I keep trying to measure up to me every expectation, my life will be filled with nothing but “not good enough.” I’m glad I finally found the courage to give myself a break.

Friends… this is what happens…

  

Vicky put a comment on Facebook the other day about how much my friends suck.

 

They do.

 

She wasn’t talking about Facebook friends, either – there’s a contradiction up there with “military intelligence”! No, she meant the real, live ones.

 

This past year has been a bitch when it comes to friends, I’ve lost nearly all of them.

 

And, you know what? I don’t care.

 

Before I go on, here’s what happened…

 

• One Tim decided he didn’t like me anymore or something. I’ll never know because he cut off contact without so much as a “piss off”. 
• Another Tim turned his back on me while insisting he was my best friend all the while. Finally, I got sick of it and knocked him off my list. 
• Rich can’t be bothered with me.
• Rob hasn’t had the time of day for me in years. 
• The only friend I have left is Sean, and he’s married to a psychotic FOB who can’t let him off the leash for a second.

How’s that for a list. Vicky thinks it’s crazy. I think it pisses her off. But, as I said, I don’t care.

 

Well, I mean, I do care. Of course, I care. It’s sad and I acknowledge that but I suppose what I’m saying is I don’t let it bother me. I don’t let it get to me.

 

Why? Well, let’s start with all my other sources of stress: a) out of work for nearly two years, b) struggling to get anyone to pay me as a writer, and c) first book coming out next year, first book coming out next year, first book coming out next year! (WORMFOOD ISLAND from Northern Frights Publishing – pick your copy up Summer of 2011!) That last one has been totally stressed. I have no stress left for other people… I’m sorry.

 

But there’s another side and this is why I’m writing… that and I feel that Vicky’s going to explode if I don’t come out publicly about it. Listen, I’m 45 years old. I know that as you get older people grow apart. It happens. Everyone has their own lives. I’m sad about losing the people in my life but I can’t let it eat me up – those who know me saw what happened during my divorce. (Those who don’t can read My Side!)

 

So, Tim decided he didn’t like me anymore. Oh well. That just happens. The other Tim turned his back on me. Yep. People do that. People move away. People get busy. It’s just how life works out. And, yes, people marry psycho spouses who can’t let them off the leash – the other Tim did, too.

 

It’s okay. I don’t with any ill upon them… well, not much, at least. They have their journey and I have mine. I’m not friendless. I have Vicky and Jeff to hang out with, Eric to bounce writing ideas off of, and Sean still shows up every now and then. Sometimes, things aren’t exactly how you’d like them to be. That’s okay. There’s always next year.

 

… until you die, of course.

 

Sick week…

I got sick this week.

Okay, it’s not really much to write about but the thing is… I’m going to anyway.

This began Halloween night as we were giving out gifts. Now, I hadn’t slept an entire night’s sleep in around two weeks so I figured I was due for “The Great Crash” at any time. The Great Crash is what happens when you don’t sleep for a while… You crash. Your body says “To hell with you” and just shuts down. Sometimes, it comes as a relief. Other times… well…

It began with the shakes and my body got wobbly. We started running out of candy and Vicky was going to go out and get more but – well – she was enjoying giving the candy to the kids so much. I didn’t want to ruin that for her. So, I went. I dashed to the store, picked up some candy, came back… and there were no more trick-or-treaters that night… the little bastards…

Anyway, I started to feel like hell and I knew I was crashing. So, I went to bed.

That was Sunday. Now, it’s Wednesday and I’m just beginning to feel a little better. Vicky, meanwhile, has been certain that I have more than sleep withdrawal, or whatever; she thinks I have some full-blown disease. She got me juice and she’s looked after me. (I’m pretty sure she would have picked me up some ice cream, but I didn’t want to push it.) She’s wonderful for taking such good care of me but I’ll be fine. This is just part of being me.

Oh… one other thing!

Election day was yesterday.

Now, before I start mentioning how this was the year of the idiot, I think I’d rather mention something about Vicky. You see, I’ve recently become far too cynical to enjoy elections. I use to. I use to be a political animal and always watch the returns and analysis every year. Vicky, on the other hand, just did her duty and went on with her life, wondering why I watched politics like a sport.

Well, something has changed this year. As I mention, I’ve become too cynical. I watch the American people vote against their best interest (such as poor people supporting candidates who spout off against the “death tax”… morons…) and, as you can see, I get pissed. But not Vicky. Last night, she became the political animal. “Turn on the news,” she said as she came in from work. “We gotta watch the results.”

Times like this I couldn’t love her more.

The most important thing…

“You may need to do a signing where I work,” Vicky said. (Actually, she said the name of where she worked but we’ll let her keep her privacy this once.)

Sometimes I have a tough time deciding which blog to post to. I mean, there’s the writing blog and the personal life blog (and don’t think I haven’t been tempted to bring back MY SIDE as a political blog). In the case of this entry, I’m writing about both my writing and my personal life – Vicky in particular. And Vicky always trumps everything, so…

When Vicky and I first started dating, I told her all about my artistic background, my writing and my acting. She told me about her ex, the musician, and how well that worked out… no, it didn’t. She said, “Just don’t ever expect me to be a fan. I love you for you, not for what you can do.”

But if there’s one thing a guy needs – especially a writer guy – especially THIS GUY – if there’s one thing I need is a woman who loved what I do as well as who I am. So, I was very disappointed by all this… but I hoped…

So, the years passed and I wrote book after book and play after play and Vicky read them or saw them on stage (the plays, not the books) and slowly she came around as a fan. Not only is she a fan but she’s become a very important part of what I do. She proofreads my work, which I need very much! She’s my biggest booster. She’s become my partner in ways nobody else has ever been. And I’m grateful for that.

So, when Vicky said, “You may need to do a signing where I work,” it was because she has so many people she works with looking forward to reading Wormfood Island that they don’t just want the book; they want a signed copy of the book! Of course, I told her I’d be happy to do a signing anywhere she’d like. Heck, I’ll be travelling up and down the west coast!

But it means so much to me that she’s become an ardent fan, someone who loves my work and is looking forward to what’s next as much as I am. That’s what sharing my life means to me.

Job for now…

I’m just as surprised as anyone to hear me announce that I got a job… so let’s not overdue it. I got a temp job, a contract job. Wooooo… uh, I guess…

I’m not complaining, nor will I. I’m working part-time as a tech-writer, redesigning manuals and quick start guides. It’s not a mental marathon but it is a semi-steady paycheck and I’ll take it.

I really should have more to say at this point…

… so, let me see… In keeping with the theme of the new job, I should also mention I got my free copies of Recovering The Self today (see the side-bar to order yours TODAY!). One copy goes to me and the other to my mom (order your copy of Recovering the Self TODAY!). I’m probably going to bring hers over this weekend (but you can order your copy of Recovering the Self TODAY!).

(… too much?)

This coincides with some muchly-needed house cleaning I’ve been doing lately. Actually, it’s not house cleaning. It’s in-box cleaning. I am what you might call an email packrat. You might also call me a slob; isn’t that right, Vicky? (Don’t get her started!) I’ve been holding on to emails for nearly a decade and, liking round numbers, I thought 2010 would be a good year to clear them out.

So, I’m reading them as I clear them… divorce in 2000… near-suicide in 2002… I’m just finishing 2002 and thinking, “Geez, Ken… don’t ever do that again.” By “that”, I’m referring to the horrible depression I was in… and all the horribly depressed emails I sent out. I couldn’t believe how – let’s just say it – pathetic I sounded.

But, you know, I’m proof that things get better… for some people… others die – but nobody wants to hear about your crap in the meantime!!! Since those bad days, I’ve tried to refocus my life on the positive aspects: my lovely wife, the things my talent allows me to write, a good bicycle ride now and then. Sure, there are days when disappointment gets the best of me and then I realize how much worse things could be.

And then, I get a job. And then, I get published. It ain’t bad… for now, at least…

Little Victories…

Any time you get something published, it’s a little victory. In this case, though, there’s a bit more to the story.

Little Victories is about the work I’ve done in cobbling my life together in the past decade. For those who haven’t bought into the mass-delusion that there’s no such thing as regrets, I discuss how you actually learn to live with them.

Initially, I had not considered writing anything like this. I had sent my book on success, Climbing Maya, to Loving Healing Press. While they like the book, they’re not sure – so they asked me to write for their magazine, Recovering the Self, instead.

So, here’s the plan. Recovering the Self (volume 2, number 4), featuring Little Victories, is now on sale at Amazon as well as other Internet money-suckers. If you buy it, I thank you. I also ask for you to drop the publisher a note, either through the magazine or whatever website you purchase it from, telling them how much you liked my article and would like to see Climbing Maya in print.

I thank you.

Let have a holiday for gay teens who kill themselves!...

Today is Gay Teen Suicide Awareness Day.

I’m going to repeat that so the fuckedupedness can sink in.

Today is Gay Teen Suicide Awareness Day.

You have your Arbor Day. You have your Independence Day. And now, you have your Gay Teen Suicide Awareness Day.

Listen, I’m all for equal rights and I don’t think anyone should be offing themselves but this business of having a holiday and this business of wearing purple shirts is the biggest load of shit in an already shitty situation.

People should look after each other every day of the year. Bullying should not be tolerated by or towards any group – not that I honestly think it can be stopped. And no color clothing can stop anything. Pink can’t stop breast cancer. Purple can’t stop suicide. Periwinkle Blue cannot stop people from acting like idiots, which is why I’ve decided to throw away all of my periwinkle blue underpants.

… I’m just saying…

Birthday this weekend…

I was trying to think of what to call this when a great song by Steve Forbert, Autumn This Year, popped into my head… so blame him…

I turned 45 this year… only a couple of days ago. Vicky says I don’t look a day over 44 11/12s, but I feel the age, believe me. I feel it when I go jogging and my bad leg says, “Remember all those good times you had abusing the shit out of me?” There’s my mistake. I didn’t know legs held shit. I feel when I look in the mirror and realize it’s the brown hairs I can start counting… backwards…

But most of all, I felt my age this weekend as we spent it up in wine country around Paso Robles. We made a great excuse for not being amongst friends and family, taking off and staying in Cambria, one of our favorite little towns. We had a wonderful time – no so wonderful that I didn’t want to get home and start working on a new book but, still, a wonderful time.

As we often do with long drives (we drove to Cambria and back), Vicky and I had selected an audiobook to listen to and this time it was A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. I love the movie but had never read the book. Always one to outdo me, Vicky had read the book and also loved the movie. Still, we both wanted to listen to it and it was a treat the whole weekend.

But then came Saturday evening. We had spent the whole day winery-hopping amongst some amazing hillsides and some of the prettiest country you could ever wish to be in and Vicky was returning us to Cambria – I was far too drunk, I mean, relaxed to drive. We made a stop at Jack Creek Farms for some cider. I have to link it because we just love this place. It’s nothing, really, but that’s what makes it so wonderful.

Then, Vicky kept driving. She hadn’t really been drinking because she was the designated driver this time out. Hey, it was my birthday! But all that wine turned my mind to a darker place, a place that made me feel a lot older than my graying head or limping leg ever could.

I thought, “So… 45, huh?” I thought about some of the people I’ve lost and wondered where they were and why they couldn’t celebrate with me. Particularly, I thought about one reader up north… my ex… and I pondered for the millionth time how that went wrong – because it’s a celebration, why not fuck that up by being morose, right?

And Vicky drove on.

We came to a country rode we knew would wind well out of our way and give us some great scenery before taking us back to Cambria. I suggested Vicky take it and she did. We left this four-lane road for what could only very generously be called… well, a road. It took us through hillsides and meadows and beneath the bows of some great, old trees. It also took us by a lot of farms, ranches, what have you – and there were cows.

Now, Vicky loves cows… seasoned just right… but, no, she loves living cows. She gets excited when we see them and I always threaten to take her to a petting zoo. So, we’re driving next to all these cows and Vicky is going, oh, two miles an hour, saying, “Hello, cow!” And, when one looks at her, she giggles with glee.

And that totally fucked up my morose mood… the bitch.

It didn’t stop me from reflecting on the past, people in the past, and where they are in the present… but I had to admit to Vicky that she takes a lot of shit from me in the form of baggage. I came loaded with more issues than – well, we were in an antique store this weekend that had literally boxes of old Playboys but let’s not stretch the analogy, okay? – and, so, I had to thank Vicky for that.

And for being my best friend.

And for letting me get all saucy while she was the designated driver.

Another reason why I’m not a children’s book author…

I’m considering packaging all of these together as a book of post-post-post-nursery rhymes, with appropriately inappropriate artwork to go with it…


Three Magical Ice Cubes


Three magical ice cubes were rolling down the road one day


Two of the ice cubes were having lots of fun at play


The smartest of the ice cubes said, “Crap, we’re gonna melt!”


And then the sun killed them – killed them – seared their flesh with agonizing pain until ice cube blood and ice cube entrails (which looks very much like water to you and me) were splattered, evaporating on the ground…

Wormfood Island...

Coming Summer 2011

Another thought about what makes Vicky so great…

So, Vicky and I were out driving last night. We’d just seen the Long Beach Symphony play. Fantastic show. Vicky was craving Pinks, so we were on the freeway for a while. And I was telling her what I decided to write next.

My next project is going to be a return to some very personal writing for me. From my first book, I’ve developed this style where I will take truths and characters and feelings and reflections on my own life and put them in a reality of my own choosing. This often makes for some really good story telling and I enjoy it.

The problem with this kind of writing, though, is where I often find my best stories. These are usually drawn from the part of my life that has caused me so much pain, and the provider has universally been the memory of my ex-wife. If there’s one thing I hate telling Vicky, it’s that I’m going to do that. I fear that she thinks I’m pining for something I had, when in reality it’s another opportunity for me to turn this horrible loss into… well, into cash.

I fear that Vicky will think this means I don’t love her.

But what I realized last night (I’ve been up all night working on rewrites to a new play, in case you’re wondering) is just how much Vicky really gets it. In fact, this realization has kind of blown me away. I mean, for the longest time, I didn’t get it! Just thinking about writing anything in any way related to my ex sent me running for the hills. It took me time to understand that the thing I do well is to take my pain and use it. It’s what I call “using your loss without reliving your loss”.

The last thing I want to do is hurt Vicky. And it means so much to me to know that I won’t.

Where I’m at right now…

This is something I don’t talk about as much as I used to and, honestly, don’t think about as much as I should. Being unemployed, I guess I assume I should have plenty of time to do that but as it turns out I’m working harder than I did at my last “real job”. (It didn’t help that nobody knew what they were doing there…)

So, where am I right now?

I just got another unemployment benefits extension. That comes with mixed feelings. At once, I’m relieved and disgusted. I’m happy to be able to provide a little money (while Vicky does most of the providing) but I wish it didn’t have to be this way.

I actually had a great interview yesterday – but I’ve had so many of those in the past couple of years, I know it could mean nothing.

More than that, though, there’s a part of me that thinks, “This gives me ____ number of weeks in which to keep working at selling my writing.” My life has really become about my writing. I don’t play video games or watch movies or TV. Most days, I spend the majority of my time working on my writing. And I’m not complaining about that; it’s really kind of a dream… but I hate getting unemployment checks to support it.

I ran into a friend at the store the other day (Paula) who, I guess, just assumed I’d collected a fat advance on my royalties. Sadly, that’s not how it works. I’ve got to get some books sold before I start seeing those royalties.

So, I keep working and working at selling other things. And, now that my PC is working, I’m ramping up towards starting another new project – dog only knows what.

Of course, none of this would even be possible if not for Vicky. Heck, she’s even going to start proofreading my new book, Sleepwalker, for me so I can start working on selling that, too! We’re an industry over here! But, more than that, I know she’s got my back and that she’s my biggest fan and that feels good. It helps me breathe a bit.

Where am I? I guess, in a way, I’m a place I’ve always wanted to be. I’ve got a book coming out next year. I’m doing work I love.

… I just need the money… always the tricky part.

On the money and the wasting of the money…

I’m no stranger to wasting money. (There’s an understatement. Remind me to tell you about my old comic book collection someday.) But the wasting of the money that I’ve been wasting… no… hold on… but the money of the wasting that I’ve been money… no…

… I’ve been wasting a ton of money lately and it’s driving me crazy!

Here’s a good example: the PC I’m writing on right now. Because my PC got a virus, I had to buy a bunch of new software. Actually, that’s not true. You see, I tried to save a buck on Windows and Office and I ended up being without the proper disks to reinstall the software if I ever needed to. (You’ll find that the biggest wastes come from trying too hard to save a buck.) So, I was without Windows when my PC got a virus and, thus, screwed. And I didn’t have Office so I couldn’t reinstall that, either.

Thankfully, my dearest, darling, goodest friend in the world – JENN – helped me get Windows 7 and Office 2010. (You bet, I’m sucking up! I haven’t sent her the check, yet!) When it finally came in, I realized that the money I’m spending on that could have all been saved had I not tried so hard to save a buck in the first place… dammit…

But not every waste comes from trying to save, sometimes sheer stupidity steps in to help me out.

Case in point: my gym membership. I was out on the SART (Santa Ana River Trail) this evening for my evening jog (which I did because it was too damn cold and wet to cycle), and I realized that between the cycling on the trial and the jogging on the trail I haven’t seen the gym in nearly a year! Nearly a year!

And this is what a great scam gyms are. They have us convinced… okay, they have me convinced that I need to keep paying even if I don’t go because I’ll never get such a great deal on membership again! Think about it. I’m paying money every month… for something I never use… because I may never get such a good deal ever – IT’S JUST CRAZY!!

Mind you, I’ll have to talk to Vicky about this when she gets home. She’s the financial brain in the family… she’s also the one who keeps telling me not to cancel my gym membership…

Computers and the not working of… them…

My computer is still broke.

That’s pretty much my whole life right now. I can look for work on Vicky’s Mac, which is very helpful, but when it comes to doing any research for writing or working on submitting my writing or just plain checking out my favorite sites… um, no.

It got worse yesterday, too. It didn’t need to but it did. Suddenly, I couldn’t print, either. GREAT!

Vicky’s been positively enjoying it. It’s either the “watching me squirm” part or the “rubbing in how superior her Mac is” part… I’m not sure.

This has opened up an enormous amount of time – because I haven’t heard anything on any jobs no matter how many I’ve applied for… dammit. I find myself watching a whole lot of TV… and hating it. I take naps… and hate it. I would go out and get some exercise but the temps have been in the thousands of late so that is right out.

So, when Vicky comes home tonight and asks how I ate the rest of the ice cream… well, now you know…

The journey…

Today is the fifth anniversary of the day Vicky and I got married.

Happy Anniversary, Vic.

Every year, I try to express how I’m feeling at the time about my marriage. Every year is different. This year, I think about the strain I’m putting on things by not being employed and all I can think is… shit…

And then, I think about the journey.

In five years, Vicky and I have been through a lot and I’m happy to say we’ve gone through it all together. We always have each other’s back and we’re always looking out for each other. I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have Vicky with me on this journey.

And when I start thinking about the journey, I realize how my lack of employment is only a small part of it. After all, this year I saw my first play produced in Hollywood. I’m having an article published next month. My first book is being published next year. Vicky's been a huge part of this. Thanks to Vicky’s encouragement and support, I’m constantly producing more books and plays and things get a little better all the time.

No, they’re not great. Unemployment sucks. But it’s all part of the journey.

I feel very fortunate to have a wife who supports me at times like this, when things pretty much suck. And who’s to say that in the coming years things won’t get better as a result?

It’s only been five years. The next five could hold any number of things. They might be great and they might suck; it’s probably going to be a mix of both. That’s just life. Either way, I’m glad I’ll have Vicky there by my side.

Happy Anniversary, Vic. I love you.

Digging out…

PCs never just stop working. It seems they tend to die slow deaths that have you wondering, wondering, wondering, until… it’s kind of like cancer…

My PC, for instance, had a pretty bad worm about a month ago. Though I caught it, it never seemed to work the same after that. The web browser would take flights of fancy by itself. It would direct you to pages you never intended to go to – not interesting ones, either! Eventually, it got to be rather difficult to surf the web without the browser crashing. First, it was Internet Explorer. Then, it was Firefox. Then, it took out Windows Explorer with it!

Finally, just this week, I called in a friend of mine who knows a thing or two about PC more than I do and we put our heads together. Fortunately, there’s no virus, worm, Trojan condom, or anything like that. So, that’s good. Sadly, the worm I had did so much damage that it pretty much wiped out my ability to surf the web.

“It’s simple,” he said. “Just run the XP Repair on your Windows disk and that should fix it.”

But things ain’t simple around here. You see, Vicky and I both bought our PCs from (the now very defunct) PC Club. When we bought them, I asked if we would get our Windows software and we were assured we would. When Vicky’s PC went earlier this year, we found out that what they gave us was disk one of a multi-disk Windows install. That’s right. Disk One!

So, using my Windows disk is not even an option.

It’s not as if we can run out and buy a copy of Windows 7, being unemployed and all. But I need the Internet to do most of the work I do, including looking for work. Time to get creative.

We know someone who can get us a huge discount on Windows 7… but not until next week. That’s fine. We can wait. In the meantime, I’ve split my work between my PC and Vicky’s MAC. I just walk back and forth, from one computer to another, from one room to another… For instance, I wrote this on my PC and am posting it on Vicky's MAC! (I need my ergo keyboard for writing...) Oh, it’s a weird way to live.

But, hopefully, in about a week or so, things will be back to functioning and not quite so strange. Strangeness is just a part of life when you’re digging out.

Morality is Unethical…

(This is by no means my final word on this topic but I was inspired to get a little of it off my chest today...)

In a time when political candidates, usually on the wingnut right, continually advocate “legislating morality” it seems bizarre to me that any ethical person would abide such lunacy.

Morality is a school of behavior, a behavioral structure, taught by a religious belief. You won’t hear morality discussed outside of a religious framework. There’s Christian Morality, Muslim Morality, and on and on. This, it is not universal and sets anyone who believes differently as “immoral”. It teaches to a specific group, not for the common good.

So, why would you want anyone legislating something that isn’t in the common good?

One example is abortion. Religious groups teach it’s immoral without ever considering the individuals involved. An ethical view would consider everyone. This goes on to prayer in school and holy wars and restricting the rights of those who belief differently, all supposedly moral.

Tea partiers right now talk about “cap and trade” (that being legislation to help prevent global warming) as being immoral. Somehow, they have cooped their religious beliefs to benefit their corporate interests. So, morality becomes corrupted. Why? Because you don’t need reason to be moral any more than you need reason to be religious. Any batshit crazy person can advocate anything because they have morality on their side.

Don’t fall for it.

Scanners…

If you think I’m going to write about that 1981 Cronenberg spectacular about telepathic/telekenetic/tele-something freaks… I am.

Vicky and I watched about half of Scanners last night. I say half because I had started watching it about 15 minutes in and Vicky was nice enough to watch the rest with me. I hadn’t seen it since renting it on video (tape!) back in the mid-80’s.

And I loved it! It was absolutely horrible – but it was a wonderful kind of absolutely horrible. Just how bad it was can be summed up in what Vicky elegantly dubbed “eye acting”. Because the film has it in spades! Eye acting! They couldn’t come up with special effects to show how mental powers worked so they had to rely on the actors to… you know… eye act.

… You need to go watch it now to understand what I’m talking about.

It’s really an awful film and I think it would be tons of fun with a room full of people… or stoned… or both…

You’re welcome.

Better left unsaid…

This one goes out to the men reading this blog because I want to know if I’m the only person who has seen this guy.

What guy?

The “inappropriate in a public bathroom” guy, that’s who!

Vicky and I were at Costco yesterday and, thanks to normal bodily functions (hey, when you’re in your forties you learn to be thankful, okay?) I had to make a detour into the public bathroom. There was a line in the men’s room – there’s something you never want to have to wait through, a line in the men’s room. Men’s rooms are built to stink, it seems, and when there’s a line the stink just gets worse.

That could be the most disgusting thing about my story… but it’s not. Because “inappropriate in a public bathroom” guy was there! Now, I’ve seen this guy a few times in my life and, believe me, once is enough. First, picture this: four men standing against a wall waiting in line while against the opposite wall stands the row of urinals. “Inappropriate in a public bathroom” guy steps up to the urinal. You really don’t know who he is until he steps up; up until that point, he’s just another guy like you or me… if you’re a guy, I mean.

But then, he begins. It starts with the moaning. Now, I’ve had to pee so bad that I’ve felt like moaning before, sure, but NEVER in a public bathroom – ever. You just don’t. You especially don’t when there’s a line. Okay? But he did. And his moan wasn’t your garden variety, two-seconds of “I’m glad that’s out”… no, it kept on going… and going… louder and louder.

Your first instinct is to look away – but then you notice both of his hands are in his pants and they are moving faster and faster…

Fortunately, I got a stall before he was… um… finished…

There’s a lot that’s pretty fucked up about our world… this just makes me want to burn out my eyes…

Roadwork…

When I was young, I could run. Boy, could I run! I was just about the fastest kid I knew. In high school, I was on the track team and won quite a few races without even focusing on what I was doing. (Hey, I didn’t focus on much when I was young, believe me!) (Girls don't count.)

Of course, then I started smoking and drinking and getting fat. After far too many years of that, I made it a point to cut it the fuck out!

So, now I jog. I’m not fast. I’m not even close to fast. My stride is really impaired. But I do what I can.

This is what I do: I bargain with myself. I say, “If you run from here to the next power pole, you can walk to the one after that.” You see, I jog on the Santa Ana River – where I also cycle; it’s like my gym. The trail is bordered on one side by a long line of power lines, running up and down the trail.

And this is how I started. I’d jog one length and I’d walk one. Jog one. Walk one. Jog one. Walk one. That worked great. Then, I jogged two and walked one. Two – one – two – one. Then, three. Three – one – three – one… over and over.

This week, I started jogging five and walking one. It’s nice, knowing I can jog a pretty good distance – at least a quarter of a mile – without a break. I doubt I’ll ever run marathons but it’s good for me. And that’s all that matters.

My breakfast with Sean-dray…

The life of a playwright is tough…

Sorry, I couldn’t help quote the movie I alluded to in the subject line. Sue me.

Sean and I met for breakfast this morning. It’s our normal Keno’s slop. You know, cheap greasy food. But you don’t go there for the food so much as for the company. Sean’s probably my best friend these days and I’m lucky to have him.

We talked about the sale of the book – Wormfood Island coming from Northern Frights Publishing in Summer of 2011 – as well as how other things are progressing. You know, I really am in a situation where I have to knock one out of the park to get my life in order. I mean, the odds of me finding a job just keep slipping and slipping and slipping. Yet, as I continue to network and get things published – read Little Victories in the October edition of Recovering the Self, on sale soon – the odds of me getting published again go up… if only slightly.

Okay, no more plugs. I promise. (I have nothing else to plug, so you’re safe.)

So, I’m telling him all of this and I get overwhelmed by this sense of gratitude for all the people who have helped me get this far. When I say “this far”, this is not to imply I’ve gone all that far at all. Rather, I mean that whatever small success I’ve been able to achieve I owe to so many different people. (Of course, those who think it’s them… it probably isn’t.)

It might sound crazy to say I’m lucky but I really am. Maybe I’m not as lucky as I’d like. Maybe I’m not as lucky in the things I’d like to be lucky in – like getting a job, for instance. But in this dream I have for the life I want to live, in this journey called “Being a Writer”, I’ve been pretty lucky so far. And for people like Vicky and Sean and Eric and so many others, I am grateful.

Upstairs/Downstairs…

We each have our job in life… well, except for me. I’m unemployed. Anyway…

Lots of work news these days. Here’s just a bit.

Vicky began painting the downstairs of our condo this weekend, which is basically the living room and dining rooms. I should have seen it coming. Vicky hasn’t tackled a home-improvement project in some time – and Vicky LOVES home-improvement projects. So, when she asked me to go to Home Depot with her “just to look at paint”, I knew there was much more to it. Armed with this knowledge, I decided not to fight it. Vicky said she wanted to go with something neutral for downstairs. Neutral? The woman whose apartment had a purple room? The hell you say! I told her to go bold!

So, here’s what we’re going to do – in as far as you can get this without a picture to go by. Vicky’s painting the two main walls downstairs “Serene Peach”, which is fairly neutral but pretty. The stairwell going upstairs, she’ll paint “Green Tea”. The last wall, the bit closing off the rest from the kitchen and the first thing you see when you enter the house, she’ll paint “Harvest Plum”. It’s going to look pretty awesome. In typical Vicky fashion, she got all excited and ready to go… and now complains about every little imperfection. (Cause she’s a perfectionist that would give perfectionists the willies…)

Now, I know what you’re asking. You’re wondering why I’m not pitching in. I would, honestly, but I learned long ago not to butt into Vicky’s projects. Vicky’s such a perfectionist that if you don’t do everything exactly as she’d do it, it’s not good enough. Hell, when she doesn’t do it exactly as she’d do it, she complains! No, I’m better off leaving Vicky’s project to Vicky.

Meanwhile, I’m upstairs working on the new book, which I’d tell you all about but I should save that for the writing blog (Ken La Salle, folks!). I just banged out 1,500 words and am closing in on the end of this new book. I can’t wait!

Meanwhile (part 2), I have a job interview lined up for tomorrow. It’s only a contract job, and part time at that, but I’ll take it if it means I can bring some money in, believe me! Not to mention, as I always say, good interviewing requires practice so the more interviews you go on the better off you’re going to be. Let’s hope I’m not completely full of shit.

Breaking News...

Hey folks,

Yes, it's time to direct you over to the new blog: Ken La Salle. There, you will find the official press release for my summer 2011 novel, Wormfood Island!

Ken La Salle… Novelist…

Yes, you heard that right. Would you like to learn more?

Go, check out my new blog – Ken La Salle – and find out about my first published novel!

It’s party-time, people!

Can you really ever go home?

Someone once said that you can never go home or at least someone said something like that. So, who am I to listen to that someone. This past Saturday Ken and I made the drive to my hometown, Lancaster. We had two reasons for that visit. First, visit my parents. Mom gave me some shoes, made us lunch...all in all a good visit. Second, the reason why I picked last weekend was to go to the Antelope Valley Fair and Alfalfa Festival. Yes folks, that's right, I grew up in a town that celebrates Alfalfa each and every year. You have to understand, I grew up going to this Fair so when I moved to the city (aka Orange County) and went to the Orange County Fair, well let's just say that I was thoroughly disappointed. There is nothing fair-like at the Orange County Fair, it's just a little to city for me.

So we were off to the AV Fair. It moved to a new location about 7 years ago, so it would be a new experience for both of us. As we walked in the gates, I looked around and took it in. The new location lacked the character of the old place, but I was determined to remain open to the experience. First stop, a Henna place where I got a really cool, if fake, dragon "tattoo." Then we were off to the barns. Being that is was the second to last day, most of the animals were gone, either sold or taken home. I did get to see some chickens, turkeys, goats, llamas, sheep, cows, and pigs.

Ken didn't enjoy the smell much, but to me it brought back some great memories of being a kid and walking through the animal pens with my dad.

Next, we were off to the beer booth. I didn't enjoy the beer booth much when I was still living in Lancaster, since I wasn't 21 for most of that time, but we took the opportunity on this day. We sat with my dad and a couple of his friends, drank our beers and watched the people walk by. Always a good time.

Now it was time for the Rural Olympics. We didn't stay for all of it, but the best event that we saw was the haystealing contest. Unfortunately, I was too much in awe of the event to remember to record it.

I must admit, while walking around the Fair that afternoon and evening I scanned the faces in the crowd to see if I recognized anyone. I did not recognize a single person. It has been about 20 years since I lived there, so it really shouldn't be any surprise but I kept hoping I would recognize someone. I gave up my hunt, got a bag of carmel kettle corn and we left the Fair behind. I am now filled with my quota of cowboy hats and small town fun for awhile and am safely back in Orange County.

You can go home, it may not be the same as you remember . . . but then neither are you.

Charley Chase…

This is just one of those things my brain goes goofy about.

Charley Chase is a star from the age of silent films. He even made quite a few talkies with Hal Roach’s studio. I recently caught a series of his films on TCM and especially appreciated his proto-Alan-Alda-esque style.

So, I decided to Google him.

Which is when I discovered that Charley Chase is also a porn star. A hot female porn star. A really hot female porn star. An especially hot female – well, you get the idea. Hers was the first link to pop up (no pun intended) when I Googled “Charley Chase”.

And this got me to thinking… Does Charley Chase the porn star know who Charley Chase the silent film star is? Is there any connection there? I mean, doesn’t she owe him something seeing as how she’s benefitting from his good name?

I’m just saying…

Getting the word out…

Hey folks!

So, it’s been about a month and you wouldn’t believe everything I’ve been through. To start with…

Hold on. I can’t tell you everything in one post. That would be cheating. How about this? How about I give it to you in a series of posts? I’m going to tell you all about the book and the article and the book and the cycling and the crap… mostly the crap… both here and in the new blog…

Huh? New Blog, you ask?

Yes, there’s a new blog. (See? Over in the links?) It’s called Ken La Salle – I know, very original. Basically, I have decided it’s time to set up a blog that deals with just my writing. So, if you’re interested in how things are going with my novels or plays or just what it’s like to pursue the life of a writer that’s the place to go.

In the meantime, you can also stay here to hear about lots of other stuff… and Vicky may post something, too… no, really… I’m not kidding… wait… come back…

The big 15…

The other day, Vicky made a comment about my constant cycling. “It’s just the way you are. If you do something you like, you want to do it a whole lot. Smoking. Drinking. Now, cycling.” She makes a good point. I have that addict mindset that wouldn’t understand moderation if you broke it down into five two-letter words…

That said, if you have to be addicted to something, it’s good to find something healthy. Mind you, I am using the word “addicted” and not “proficient”. There are still so many cyclists out there who just blow me away on a daily basis. I’m not talking about Lance Armstrong; I’m just talking about the guys on the Santa Ana River Trail. Even in my little corner of the world, I have a long way to go.

After riding my first century a few weeks back, I went out for my second. And it really was amazing. This time, I took fewer snack breaks and actually found myself hurting a lot less. I combined the century with a metric in the same week!

That century was on Friday. Yesterday, I was back on the road for a 75 mile ride. I wasn’t going to do another century but I wanted to get some distance in there, still. And this really has me surprised. In the years since I’ve taken up this sport, I’ve never been this aggressive. The first year, I got in some 40 milers but stuck with 10-15 mile rides normally. Two years ago, I brought my maximum ride up a metric, which is 100 kilometers (or 62 miles). I did it completely by accident, just overextending the hell out of myself. Again, my normal ride was closer to 25 miles. Last year, unemployed, I decided to really push it and set a goal for myself of two metrics. I did it, if barely, and increased my daily ride into the 30-40 mile range.

This year, I set a goal of three metrics. I also decided that to improve my distance I would ride longer distances on a daily basis. So, I set out riding 30 miles from the very beginning, when the “season” began in March. (The “season” is determined when it’s not too cold or wet for my whimpy ass.) I was able to put two metrics behind me before the beginning of July and, when the Tour de France began, I set out on my very first century.

It feels great to set goals and not only meet them but blow them out of the water. I have lost track of how many metrics I’ve done this year. As a result, I’m changing my cycling focus from single rides to weekly totals. For example, rather than planning on a single century, I set a weekly goal. This week, my goal is 200 miles. I’ve already put 75 miles in the bank.

The best thing about this 75 mile ride, though, was that it helped me decide on a different goal: speed. The distance of my rides doesn’t mean much if I’m just cruising along at 10-12 miles/hour. Recently, I’ve been testing my speed and have found that I can get pretty close to an average speed of 15 miles/hour. I’ve hit 14.8 and 14.9, but I never hit 15. As I was riding yesterday, I decided that rather than focusing on the distance I was riding, I would focus on keeping an average speed of 15 mph.

And I did it. I’ll tell you that the difference between 14.8 and 15 mph is a whole lot greater than you might think. It really killed me to maintain that speed.

And now, I’m craving another ride. I took today off to get some work done but have three back-to-back rides planned after that. Each ride will be about 45 miles in length and I’ll be going into some hills for a change. The key is to keep testing my limits and setting new goals, to keep this new addiction going…

Favorite thing heard today…

So, I’m at Del Taco when a teenage girl of indeterminate sex and height approached the counter…

“I want a cheese quesadilla.”

“Do you want cheddar or spicy jack?”

“No. I want cheese.”

Of course, there’s always Plan B…

Cycling is a tricky thing for me. As much as I like to do it, I always feel like an amateur. And when it comes to talking about it, I never feel as though I really know what I’m talking about. Typical for me, because I’m a guy, I am loath to ask anyone for advice about cycling: how to fix things, where to ride… heck, even “How do I ride this bike, anyway?” You’d never catch me asking that! I might end up looking foolish! (Because that comes pretty easy…)

Case in point, my hands. My darned hands. They always hurt when I ride. I always come home feeling like I’ve been riding ON my hands. What’s the deal, dammit?

Well, I tried reading up on the issue and discovered my seat might have been placed incorrectly. So, I adjusted my seat. I asked someone I know who rides who said it was my handlebars. So, I adjusted them. I heard you need to bend your arms and I did. I heard you should stretch so I have.

But my hands still hurt like a motherfucker!

Here’s the problem: When you ride, your weight gets distributed in a couple of different ways. It goes down into your seat and legs. It also rests forward on your handlebars and your hands. And this is what has caused me so much pain in the last few years. Basically, I’m a fat fuck who puts all his weight on his hands.

And I was pretty much doomed to that, too, because no advice I came across was helping. Then, a few weeks ago, I tried something that I found revolutionary. I tried using my stomach muscles to support some of my weight. IMAGINE! What happened? The weight moved off of my hands and, as an extra bonus, I found myself peddling better as well!

For the 40 seconds or so that this lasted, I was blown away! I had stumbled upon something amazing: posture! No wonder I hadn’t been able to find an answer. Nobody was going to say, “Well, you could try actually using that fat mid-section of yours.” Nobody.

With every ride, I tried it a bit more. The results were astonishing.

Today, I rode 51 miles up to Yorba Linda and down to Huntington Beach. I made it up to Yorba Linda and down to the beach, holding myself with my core muscles the whole way. I found I was using more than just my stomach muscles, but my laterals and my back and more besides. My hands were hanging in there like troopers. Things were great.

It was getting hot, though. Summer really has hit here in Southern California and I was guzzling water. By the way, you might not know this but a full bladder makes it very difficult to use any of your core muscles. Try it sometime. It just makes you want to pee. Dammit.

I headed back up the SART and was nearly at the 405 when two things happened simultaneously. First, my legs gave out due to the heat and bad planning. (I hadn’t brought something to eat.) Worse still, my core muscles sent a message to my arms that said, “You take this load from here. We’re done.” Right then, my core muscles went slack and all of my weight was put back on my hands.

I was about 12 miles from home and in pretty shitty shape.

Oh, I made it. And I’ll keep working those core muscles. It’s a lesson I wish I’d learned earlier and the more I do it the more stamina they’ll have. And I thought I’d toss this tip out there for anyone who is looking for a solution to the hand problem… or just a minute to laugh at a fat guy…

Self-helping… myself…

Consider it another case of “You just never know”.

About a year ago or so, I submitted my book on success (Climbing Maya) to a certain publisher. Rather than an outright rejection, I received another reply typical in this economy, “Can’t take on any new projects right now. Try me back in a year.” Never one to look a gift horse in any orifice, I tagged it and flagged it for one year later.

That came up a few weeks ago. So, I emailed the publisher again. This time, I received the same “Can’t take any new projects” note, asking me to try again in six months. I also received another email. The publisher doesn’t just publish books but magazines as well and one magazine they publish is a self-help magazine. To my very great surprise, the editor of this self-help magazine saw my submissions and was asking me to submit something for the magazine.

Really? Me? Self-help?

Hi. We haven’t met. My name is Ken.

But hey, I have long since learned never to pass up any opportunity. And, while I won’t reprint what I submitted here, I will let you know if/when it hits the newsstands. No, the whole reason for this blog entry is just your regularly scheduled reminder: Don’t give up.

Believe me, I know the feeling. I’ve been working on my writing for over a quarter of a century now and have seen more dreams pass out of sight than I can mention. But you never know where opportunity will knock… or when for that matter. Heck, I’m no self-help guru but that doesn’t mean I haven’t learned a thing or two about overcoming obstacles. You just never know.

I have recently developed a relationship with an agent back east. While we haven’t met, he’s read a couple of my books and calls himself a fan. Thing is, being a fan ain’t quite enough. But he’s reading another one, looking for a book he thinks he can sell. While it isn’t opportune – heck, why can’t people just love me, anyway? – it is an opportunity.

There. How’s that for self-help? Don’t pass up an opportunity just because it isn’t “opportune”.

I’m going to put that on my Facebook page right now! You just never know when a little luck is going to strike.

The First Century…

So, here I am, awake at nearly four in the morning on the day after my very first century ride.

Yes, you read that right – probably left to right – I completely my first 100 mile cycling trip. I woke up an hour or so ago in just a whole lot of pain and went to take some more advil. I figure my muscles are in shock right about now, screaming, “What have you done to us?!” Silly muscles…

The ride began at 5:15 yesterday morning. My alarm went off and my first thought was, “What are Vicky and I doing to – oh…” And as reality sank in, I knew the day had arrived. I tried to find a way to get off the hook but Vicky (who seems to like watching me put myself in these awkward positions) kept saying, “No, you can do this.” She has so much faith in me… God, I hate her…

Anyway, I got up – put on my gear – loaded my pack full of food for the trip – filled up my water bottles – checked my tires and chain – and completely forgot to take some advil before I left or take any on the trip. You see, taking some advil before leaving on a long ride helps my body cope with the incredible amounts of pain long rides create and taking a bottle meant I could keep the pain at manageable levels… and I forgot both of those things… stooopid…

My butt began hurting as soon as it landed on the seat as I pulled out of my driveway. I rode up my street to the Santa Ana River Trail (“SART” from here on), which is about when my wrists began hurting. You might not expect the wrist pain but, believe me, it is very much part of the process. I am only beginning to learn how to balance my weight with my core muscles and how to utilize my arm muscles to mediate my weight so it’s not all put on my wrists… but mostly I put most of my weight on my wrists. Yep. We’re talking about nearly 250 pounds… on my wrists… surprised they don’t just snap off like twigs, really…

I hit the SART at about 6am and began the ride by cycling up to Imperial Highway and the Yorba Linda border. This way, I could put over 10 miles of the ride behind me before heading to the shore, thus reducing the ride from 100 miles to 90 miles… which is bullshit because 90 miles is still fucking insane… but I digress…

It really is insane, though…

I hit the end of the SART and Huntington Beach by about 8am. A good start. There wasn’t much traffic, which meant I could cycle as fast as I wanted without having to worry about passing anybody. My speeds in this part of the ride were up around 20 MPH… yeah… I’d soon be missing that…

The beach was pretty vacant at 8am. Lots of joggers, people getting a jump on the day. The speed limit when you’re riding on the beach is 10MPH. I rode on the beach because I wanted to keep my speed down; I had to last for many hours, yet.

When the beach trail ended at Warner Avenue (Sunset Beach), I took my first break. I hadn’t checked my odometer yet and did so at this point. I had ridden 34 miles. The route for the ride not being a perfect loop, I knew I’d have to complete the first 54 before turning around. That meant, I still had 20 miles to go. My first thought was, “Shit…” I would also be leaving the safety of riding on the beach to riding along Pacific Coast Highway (or “PCH”) with all the traffic. My second thought was “Shit…” But my speed on PCH was still good. I was up to about 20 MPH all the way up to Seal Beach… when my chain fell off. Yep… right off my bike. But I’d gone too far to turn back – actually, I hadn’t but the pain had dulled my ability to make excuses, I guess. So, I got the chain back on – then, it popped off again – and I got the chain back on again and, though it stayed on, it made some ugly noises for the rest of the ride.

At the Long Beach border, I turned onto the San Gabriel River Trail (or “SGRT”). This would take me up to 54 miles and the turn-around point. The SGRT is narrow and busy and, worse still, VERY poorly maintained for the first few miles. So, my already battered taint got to feel lots and lots of beating from all the holes and bumps… lots of fun… Why did I do this again? For those of you who get that part but don’t understand why “narrow and busy” is bad, imagine a group of 50 cyclists going 25 MPH passing within two inches of your face…

The furthest ride I’d take previous to this had been to El Dorado Regional Park in Los Alamitos. But that had only been a 70 mile ride. Even with the 10 miles cut out at the beginning, this still sucked…

So, what do you do when you’re a really far way away from your goal and you’ve already gone as far as you’ve ever gone before? (And you’re so tired you forget to look at your odometer so you can’t say how much further you had to go at that point?) You fix your eyes forward and you pedal. That’s it. You pedal past Carson and Del Amo and South Street. You pedal past all the equestrian properties in Lakewood. You pedal past the 91. You pedal past Rosecrans. You pedal past the 105, while somehow thinking, “At least, I’m not pedaling past the 105. That’s crazy far!”

When my odometer hit 50 miles, I past beneath Imperial Highway. I figured that would be a good place to stop for a break. After all, I’d ridden from Imperial Highway by Yorba Linda to Imperial Highway by Downey. Fuck. So, I had a bite to eat and drank from my diminishing water supplies. (Actually, what they don’t tell you about riding a century is what I like to call “water management.” You spend most of your time looking for places to find water and, um, get rid of… um, water…) Then, I started again. After all, I had to ride 54 miles before I could turn around. So, I rode past Firestone and Florence. I rode past the fucking 5 freeway! I rode past Telegraph Road and – at 54 miles – rode beneath… oh, shit. The street had no sign. Turns out, it was Slauson Avenue and I was in or around Pico Rivera… a very far way from home.

I turned around and hit smack in the face by the terrible reality of weather. You see, one of the reasons I left so early in the morning was so I could avoid being hit by the on-shore breeze that kicked up more as the day went on. Well, now it was about 11am or so… and the breeze was kicking. I threw my bike down into a much lower gear – fixed my eyes forward – and rode 16 miles through a constant wind right in my face. But I got back to PCH, if you can believe it. For that alone, I was proud of myself. Oh, and one more thing, I had now ridden 69 miles. No joke – and just one mile below my longest ride to date.

Another rider took a break where I was eating my snack and I struck up a conversation. Now, this guy was the picture of health and certainly looked like a hardcore rider. I figured he was probably on a long-distance ride of his own. So, I asked, “How long you riding today?” “Just to here,” he replied. No kidding. Well, after we clarified things, I found out he was riding 17 miles that day and he had never even considered riding a century, though he was interested in hearing about mine. My point in telling you this is you never know about a person by looking. More importantly, though, never think you aren’t capable just because you don’t look the part. I do NOT look like someone capable of riding a century – but I was the one putting myself through it.

And put myself I did… or something… Back down the coast, I coasted. Once back at Sunset Beach, enough beachgoers had arrived to make riding at the beach the pleasure you know it can be. By this, of course, I mean lots of underaged chicks with hardly any clothes on. Yes, I’m a perv but I was a perv on a mission… no, I mean the ride… no, I mean the bike ride…

I got back to the SART at about 1pm with 82 miles on the bike. Now, here’s the thing. Home is 17 miles up the SART and I needed 18. I was going to come in about a mile short. Fuck it – I wanted to go home.

With the wind at my back, I pedaled a respectable (for my weight and out-of-shapity, at least) 14 MPH. Sure enough, I pulled into my neighborhood – What? I was tired. Those last 17 miles were hell. You hear back talk about “hitting a wall”? Well, I hit a wall every mile. It was agony. All I can tell you is that I learned your body can only be in so much pain at one time before it says, “You just don’t care, do you?” – Anyway, I pulled into my neighborhood a mile short but that didn’t seem to matter. Suddenly, that last mile, I felt invincible! All the pain melted away and I rode around a couple of blocks like a 14 year old and not a 44 year old! (And looking kinda like an ass, too, I imagine.) When I pulled up to my driveway, I had 99.87 miles. I was going to stop there and let “rounding” do the rest of my word for me but I could hear Vicky’s voice say, “Don’t you want to see that turn over to 100?” She later assured me that was not her but my own neurosis. Okay, so my neurosis sounds like Vicky. I did two laps in my driveway – it’s a long driveway – and turned the odometer to 100.01 miles.

Sweaty, stinky, and in a fuckload of pain… I had done it.

On routes and men not straight…

So, I was thinking about something just now and thought, “I should put that on a blog somewhere… wait… I have a blog…”

So, this will be a two-fer, which only seems appropriate given how long it’s been since I posted a one-fer.

First… I’ve been running into a lot of plays written by straight men in which a gay man must inseminate a woman desperate to have their child – with HILARIOUS consequences! I don’t know which disturbs me, the idea that these playwrights feel it so important to make gay men a part of straight life or that they can only write these plays as comedies. Gentlemen. Listen. I know this happens, which makes it far from cutting edge. Okay? Also, there are seriously ramifications to this… so let’s stop making jokes about things we know nothing about. Okay?

Second… Vicky has it in her head that I’m going to ride a century tomorrow. A century, for those unfamiliar with the term is a 100 mile ride. It would be my first… and I am terrified at the prospect. I’ve ridden 70 miles and a good friend of mine told me that the difference between 70 and 100 is mental… so…

Now, I cycle on the Santa Ana River Trail (or SART, as we call it). This is far from 100 miles long, so I have to get creative. This means, I’ll start out riding up the trail for a distance, then back down to the beach. Then, I’ll ride up the beach to the San Gabriel River Trail and up that for a long, long time… then, I’ll have to come home.

The thought of being in pain for six hours or so – and this is what I anticipate, pain for six hours or so – is not a pleasant one. But I feel like I need to try it. Anyway, the Tour de France begins on Saturday and what better way to usher that in?... I mean, aside from staying home and watching it like a sensible person…

Horray for Hollywood…

Okay, yes, it’s been a while. Would you believe me if I said I got tired of telling you I’m unemployed? Honestly, it just gets old.

So, prepare to go from “unemployed” to “Hollywood” in two seconds.

One.

Two.

Last night, Vicky and I took a few friends with us up to Hollywood to see the production of my play, Myth of the Cubicle. It was my first full production so – yes – I was nervous. Actually, I was practically epileptic. But Vicky drove, so we were safe.

Stepping up to the will-call counter, I gave my name to claim my comps. I was really worried they wouldn’t know who the hell I was or that they had misplaced my tickets or something god-awful. I’ve kinda come to expect the god-awful in my life. Vicky says I set the bar so low I dig a trench.

Not only did they have the tickets but the guy at the counter was also the director of my play and he was very happy to meet me. I was happy to meet him, too, but I was also curious why anyone would be happy to meet me.

In we went and took our seats. I had written a romantic (or, at least, I thought it was romantic) thank you to Vicky in the program – but the lights were out so we couldn’t read the program, thus defeating that entirely. But Vicky pulled out her phone and used that as a light source so she could read it. That woman is resourceful!

As for the play… what can I tell you without sounding like an egomaniac? It was fucking awesome. The actors were fantastic and the director really brought the show to life with lots of movement and bits I would never have considered. One of our friends said they didn’t really understand or have the maturity to understand the comedy of the piece – but I think they worked in their own comedy, which is what it’s all about. Bottom line: they made my work look great and I was elated.

After, I met the cast and was showered with admiration – THIS NEVER HAPPENS TO ME!... so I was surprised…

They’re talking about opening it in another theater in a month or two up in LA. It’s unreal and I’m very happy about it.

Sorry for being quiet for so long. I gotta work on that.