Mickey bought Spidey?
... oh, this ain't good...
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.
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