Cute animals need a good talking to

Yes, my blog has become as navel-gazing and myopic as the worst of them. But for those who stumble across my blog, and if you dug into it, you'd know that my real intention isn't to garner readers, but to simply house a personal diary.

And, going into the holidays, I'm feeling as misanthropic and depressed as I have ever found myself. But enough of that bullshit.

Sometimes you just need to laugh, especially at this time of year, and this person's blog might be the consistently funniest shit I've seen in ages. Go here to see why penguins are evil, cuteness is to be suspected at all costs, and laugh your ass off.

Everybody Loves a Happy Ending

In my previous life, I worked as a reader for Hollywood production companies. This supported me while I tried to achieve my big screenwriting break, which never came, despite how close I often seemed to come.

But as a reader, I was rather in demand, one of the few people in town who, not only made a living at it, but could do it through only two companies in my later years. That was pretty impressive from a freelance perspective. It afforded me the ability to get married, get a mortgage, have a child. Pretty decent for a freelance life, though I'm thrilled not to do it anymore.

Anyway, in all those years of critiquing scripts and books, doing notes on projects, and being a low-level critic, there was one project that I loved more than all the rest: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I did countless notes on early drafts of the script, written by Robin Swicord (Little Women). But it spent ages in development hell, starting and stopping, with millions spent on the most expensive writers in Hollywood, even though Swicord's script was the most beautiful thing I've ever read. It seemed destined never to be made.

When David Fincher eventually attached himself, it was mystifying. Eric Roth (Forrest Gump) as the new writer made sense, but in conjunction with Fincher... huh? But now Brad Pitt was involved, and... it was getting made!

So after 10 years, I saw the film. I won't say much about it, though I did love it. It lived up to the expectations, and left me often in tears. The production was sumptuous and beautiful, and it created a love story that's difficult to pull off in film. Truly, a great love story is not easy, and Fincher of all people pulled it off without too much sentimentality, which Roth is easily guilty of.

But what is more interesting tonight is how the themes of time passing, irreversible, really meshes with my life. I stood on the Paramount lot, surrounded by gorgeous Christmas lights and a fifty foot Christmas tree - the epitome of Hollywood glamour - and was easily reminded of the days I used to have in this industry, which I let go of. Whether out of failure, or exhaustion, or frustration, or the sheer lack of enjoyment... all of those are factors. But, movies are in my DNA, and they are part of me, but these experiences are now few and far between. The only reason I was there is because I still work for Kennedy/Marshall on the side, just because I need the cash with my ex's employment problems. I literally need the money. It's not because I'm important or somehow valued... I'm just on the standard list. Granted, K/M is one of the best companies in Hollywood with a reputation for quality, so it's a great list to be on once a year, but still, it was easy to see just how outside it all I am.

And, for the most part, I'm happy with that. Hollywood's a shitty place, no question. But at the same time, there are those moments, where you see that time can't be reversed, that you have opportunities that pass or are taken advantage of, and then they are gone. That's what Benjamin Button is about, and it couldn't have been more evident if there was a neon sign pointing to it.

Incidentally, there was an absolutely stunning redhead at the premiere. Beige boots, straight hair, probably 5'5. I was captivated by her. If I had balls - which I clearly don't - I would've gone up to her and told her that she was beautiful, and that I'd love to take her for a drink. I even thought of it, though she spent the entire night with a couple of guys. Not exactly an opportunity to approach someone. But at the end of the night, she walked off alone, not with the guys. I could've chased her down, regardless of the fact that she was probably too young for me. But I wish I had the courage for that kind of thing.

Just like the movie said, there are opportunities that arrive, and you take them or you don't. This one I didn't.

But after 10 years, I'm glad that someone took the opportunity to make that movie.

Heights and Fears

No, not the name of a Keane album, which I believe was "Hopes and Fears".

Today my department had a team building event at a ropes challenge course, where you do trust exercises, leadership building, teamwork and the confrontation of fears. I expected it to be fun, but I didn't expect it to be meaningful. It was both, but the latter was perhaps more notable than the former.

It started with a game in a circle where we had to reach for bandanas dropped outside the circle, but we couldn't touch the ground between the circle and the object. You needed to figure out how to leverage body weight across great distances to retrieve the bandanas, which led to team-building dynamics and a real sense of accomplishment. This was followed by a severe rock-wall climb, perhaps the first of my life, and holy shit, that's an upper-body workout. When they tell you not to rely on your arms... believe them. They can't last as long as your legs.

Next was a climb to a horizontal telephone pole 40 feet high, with two teammates coming from opposite directions and needing to cross each other to get to the other side. It requires creativity and trust, and my teammate and I cleverly decided to go over and under rather than around, and did it without falling (anyone who fell was kept 100% safe by belay ropes at all times).

This was followed by the biggest leap of faith, literally. Climbing to a 50 foot platform, only 2 feet long, 6 inches wide, the pole wobbling insanely beneath you. Then you had to leap to a ring that was 6 feet away. Not a long distance, but at 50 feet, it takes tremendous courage. It was a remarkable experience, though I'm a bit disappointed that others went to the "Manmaker" - the same thing, except no platform, just the top of a telephone pole - but I had thought we were getting a chance to do both. I wanted to do each, so felt like I didn't fully push myself to the end. But the day's highlight was a woman who reports to me, a sweet, wonderful 30 year-old Asian girl with a terrible fear of heights, who went to the top, and managed to jump off. She missed the ring, but that wasn't the point at all. With tears pouring down her face, she stood on the edge of that platform for 5 minutes, getting the courage, and then... doing it. She felt like a failure, but she was the hero of the day - and everyone saw it. It took the most for her to accomplish what she did, and she was a total rockstar.

Interestingly, the moderator asked us all to assign to that challenge an idea that they wanted to work towards - something they want to improve in their lives. So the quiet introverts on our team said they wanted to "be more outgoing and direct", etc. At first, I asked if we could keep our mission private, but then revealed what it was for me: to adapt and learn to be okay with being alone.

It's getting harder, rather than easier. The months of insane busy-ness in my free nights have faded away, and life has returned to its regular routine, but as a solo rather than a partner. It's lonely, without question, and learning to be okay with that is a constant challenge.

Amazingly, at the top of that pole, the wood shaking, my legs shaking, wondering if I could do it, that thought actually was a crystallizing moment. Powerfully leaping for that ring, into the void, hoping for the best.

My hands latched onto the ring, holding tight.

Families and Filmographies

For film students of the '90s, Martin Scorsese was, for obvious and well-established reasons, our god of cinema. Our “greatest living (or working) director”. To say that now, in 2008, sounds like a hollow cliche. But back in college, films like Goodfellas, Taxi Driver, even Cape Fear... we could never get enough of them. Of course, Scorsese begat Tarantino, which begat '90s crime cinema, etc, etc, etc. And after some rather transparent bids for critical affection, now Scorsese wins Oscars for movies he probably shouldn't have, while largely generally operating as a shadow of his former self. Hey, we all get old. 

But quietly, slowly, someone's taken away that mantle of our "greatest working director": 

P.T. Anderson. 

This is a personal declaration, and I don't expect others to agree, but with apologies to Marty, Spielberg, or anyone else who would aspire to the title (Lynch, Coen, Mann, Soderbergh, Wong Kar-Wai, don't know who else...), it's not even close. Not only are Anderson's films full of life and vitality in a way that's reminiscent of Scorsese at his peak (an intensity that feels forced and contrived in Marty’s recent films), but Anderson peels back layers of human frailty, pain and repressed emotion in ways that Scorsese never dared. In so many of Scorcese’s films, inner life barely exists, whereas for Anderson, it churns its way to the surface, despite all efforts to withhold. 

Anderson is superficially admired for his complex, interwoven narratives, and vast, Altman-like canvases. But over the span of two weeks, I’ve rewatched his five picture filmography, and while his work is undeniably riddled with consistent themes and motifs, one stands out above all others in both is grandiosity and simplicity: family. This is his true subject matter, and it runs like an underground river through all of his work.

Fascinatingly, Anderson's own personal life - his family - is largely an enigma, to the point where Esquire magazine was inspired to write an expose on his upbringing, revealing Anderson's close childhood proximity to the Hollywood machine (his father was a famed voice-over artist), which resulted in an early obsession with filmmaking and a rather naked ambition, that for unexplained reasons, Anderson now wants to obscure. Sadly, Anderson won't acknowledge - nor even speak to - his best friends from childhood, many of whom were also the progeny of celebrities and Hollywood types. But what's most interesting about this are the hints of his personal life that seep into his creative work. Clearly, he doesn't want to self-consciously expose himself like a Charlie Kaufman, but many of those autobiographical elements are certainly there, though perhaps more in thematics than narrative.

What's fascinating about this theme of family, and also terribly sad, is the arc of it across his five films. His first (Hard Eight) and last (There Will Be Blood) films have, on the surface, the least to do with family of any of his films, but in some ways they are the most instructive, and represent an almost titanic shift in world view that will be interesting to see how Anderson transitions next as an artist (and probably for those who know him, as a person).

HARD EIGHT

Let's start with Hard Eight, the least "familial" of his filmography. It opens with John C. Reilly meeting Philip Baker Hall against the backdrop of the younger man's inability to pay for his mother's burial. As with so many of Anderson's scenarios, even when family isn't onscreen, they are just beyond the edges of the frame. Hall becomes a mentor to this troubled, somewhat dimwitted lug, but though Reilly fails to internalize the lessons that Hall tries to impart, true devotion arises nonetheless. We learn, shockingly, that Hall murdered Reilly's father years earlier, which is why he befriended him in the first place. Hall has his own children, but they are also stage left, likely resentful and broken. But real affection develops between these two men, as Hall takes over the role of the dutiful father, and probably serves it better than Reilly's blood relation. The climax of the film is gripping in its emotional simplicity: an older man tells a younger man on the phone that he loves him like his own son. The younger man cries. The older man tries to hold it together. Devotion. Emotional need and fulfillment. Love.

Sure, the movie's narrative actually ends with bullets and blood, but that's not the point. Superficially, it's a movie about gambling, the low-rent casinos populating California and Nevada, and petty misbehaviors, but ultimately, it's about family. About finding a family when your real family has been lost, or taken away.

BOOGIE NIGHTS

Now let's take Boogie Nights. Again, it doesn't appear to be about family at all. It's about the '70s and big cocks. But coming off the last comment, family is exactly what it's about. Dirk Diggler (Mark Wahlberg) is viewed as a worthless do-nothing by his overbearing mother, and flees home. He discovers a new home, filled with troubled dreamers, who just so happen to be porn actors. Burt Reynolds is the paternal familia of the clan, and Julianne Moore is, quite literally, referred to as "Momma" by the damaged young porn actors who want to find someone to emotionally protect them.  The fact that they fuck together on camera is merely window dressing. All of these sad souls live on the proverbial knife edge of success and complete destruction, with only the prospect of another seedy, sweaty porn shoot to give them hope for another day. In this world to be a porn star is to have self-worth, which Anderson makes visually clear by capturing Diggler in the literal halo of a spotlight at a porn movie award ceremonies. A cheesy karate kick even infuses it with a parodic aura of super-hero strength. Validation = self worth. 

But we still need family. The film keeps coming back to that point. None of these characters have it (Julianne Moore is even prevented by the legal system from having it, due to her career choice), and so they create a substitute family in Reynolds' house. On the one hand, it's a grim, sad movie (despite its propulsive visual energy) because of the subject matter itself, but there's a quiet, dignified hope in the notion that troubled people can find each other and create enclaves of support. Interestingly, it may be Don Cheadle who is given the only true redemption in the film though, which Anderson stages by allowing the character to leave the porn industry and get married, preparing for fatherhood. In marriage and pregnancy is family, and thus, success and purity - at least in the context of this film. Cheadle’s final scene even features him in a bright white suit, which needs to be splattered with blood – a kind of reverse baptism. For the others, they'll keep stringing it along, and in Anderson's view, that's better than nothing. And so that's something. Sad, but somehow beautiful.

So chalk up two films with a rather positive view of the potential of self-selected families. It's somehow inspiring.

MAGNOLIA

Then comes Magnolia. Anderson's most ambitious film, and against the grandiosity of Blood, that's saying something. It's my favorite of his films, but I'll comment the least about it. Perhaps because it's the most obvious in relation to this overarching theme. Needless to say, people love and hate it for its many, interlocking storylines that sometimes relate, and sometimes don't. Chance, circumstance and fate are the themes the narrator explicitly refers to. But what is underneath all of these characters: the awareness that family has demonstrably let them all down.

This is a noticeable shift from Boogie Nights, where Diggler's break from family can be chalked up to impulsive immaturity and the natural need to break away. All teenagers hate their parents, right? But in Magnolia, families (and, specifically, fathers), do truly devastating things to their children, from which few recover. Let's list them, quickly: Philip Baker Hall sexually molested daughter Melora Waters, leaving her incapable of a competent, stable relationship with men. Jason Robards abandoned his wife, dying of cancer, thereby forever alienating his son, Tom Cruise, who reacts by trying to somehow outdo the hatred, the philandering, the misogyny in a misplaced effort to gain that same father's love. Failing that, he seeks to destroy the father on his deathbed, only to be left destroyed himself (ironically, Cruise's final moments onscreen hint at the potential return of familial self-selection). Stanley Spector, the young game show whiz kid, is pushed and prodded to perform and excel by his unsympathetic father, which mirrors William H. Macy's own backstory, whose game show success left him unable to connect with anyone (male or female), devoid of any self-esteem or self-understanding. Macy is a flash-forward of Spector's life in 35 years. Yes, in Magnolia, dads are true shitballs, which makes you curious as to Anderson's reticence to speak about his own family. 

PUNCH-DRUNK LOVE

Punch-Drunk Love is Anderson's slightest, and most tender, film. It's a romantic comedy that to some appears almost absent of comedy, as well as any conventional view of romance. Saying that, it's deeply funny, and intensely romantic - you just have to be in the right frame of mind. Much like Melora Waters and John C. Reilly in Magnolia it's all about emotionally blocked people, who just want to find a way to connect with someone. Anderson even stages Adam Sandler as Barry Egan (in a revelatory performance) and Emily Watson (Lena) in nearly identical ways as Waters/Reilly from Magnolia on a first date. Almost as if all first dates are universal in their insecurities, the need for validation, and an unavoidable desire to bullshit to make ourselves feel better. 

But what does this have to do with family? The reason the film is called Punch-Drunk Love is that it is, above all, about rage. About how damaged people want to tear everything down, but as a way of actually trying to find something soft and cuddly. Sandler's character arc is about channeling that rage, to transform those repressed emotions into something that will burst out of him with a "strength you can't even begin to imagine", like a caterpillar that's become a butterfly. Prior to finding love, his rage was destructive. But with love, it becomes transcendent. It's a beautiful image, but what's relevant here is where his rage comes from: his five, ball-busting, harpie sisters. Anderson gives Sandler these 5 sisters who routinely call him names you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy, diminishing him in their eyes and his own. To call them castrating would be kind.

Perhaps not coincidentally, Anderson has 4 sisters of his own.

Sandler is left to feel unloved by his own family, and unworthy of their attention, so he ends up sobbing in front of his disinterested, awkward brother-in-law, who would rather be anywhere than even talking to this sad sack in a blue (get the obvious pun, “blue”?) suit. Though the movie is about the relationship with Watson, about pudding, and the curious appearance of an organ in the street, the specter of family hangs over, and underpins, everything about the character. Sandler finds love, he channels his rage into passion, and finds a modicum of happiness. Yet, it's impossible not to notice that, in doing so, family has been entirely excised. Which makes it all the more impossible not to see that, without family letting Sandler down to begin with, there would be no character, no movie.

Though I may be wrong, I believe that Anderson began his relationship with Fiona Apple around this period. It's as if the director, perhaps wounded by his own family, had found redemption. Again, by finding it outside of family. In many ways, this has been the only true happiness his characters are allowed from “family”: when they discover them outside their own flesh and blood. I bet Thanksgivings at the Anderson household are a laugh riot.

THERE WILL BE BLOOD

Which brings us to There Will Be Blood. Yes, the film is about greed, ambition and religion, certainly. But yet again, Anderson returns to the theme of constructed, chosen families. The families we self-select, rather than what is given by fate. Daniel Plainview takes in the infant of a dead oil worker, recognizing him as his own son. There appears to be real affection for this boy, but in truth, Plainview merely uses H.W. Plainview as a prop to appear as a righteous, upstanding family man to get in good with the local rubes, who want relatable "family" oil men raping their land, as opposed to single entrepreneurs  (how very Republican Party of them...). When the boy is physically damaged, instead of nurturing and protecting him, Plainview sends the boy away. This clearly devastates the man, but we don't know if it's for the boy, or the fact that Plainview recognizes in himself someone unworthy of the responsibility and value of family. It's not that Plainview doesn't have feelings, but he's a rare Anderson character that actually manages to swallow them - until they utterly pervert and destroy him from the inside.

Later, the film turns to a new family relationship, which Plainview is at first suspicious of, and then abjectly threatened by. And in this case, his suspicions are actually well-founded and correct: family is not family, blood is not blood (although there will be blood). Yet, though this intrusion is essentially benign, Plainview must cut it out with a violence that is sobering. Now for Anderson, self-selected families are no longer found, embraced and treasured. They are suspected, cast out, vilified.  Meanwhile, the biological family represented in the Sunday clan is just as fractured and dysfunctional: more sexual abuse, religious fundamentalism, and a "smart brother" who knew to get out while the getting is good.

It's a fascinating turn for Anderson when seen in context of his other films, all of which (except for Magnolia) are quietly, subtly obsessed with this notion of supplemental, chosen families, rather than biological connections. But instead of the genuine earnestness of Hard Eight, the shaggy-dog playfulness of Boogie Nights,  and the romantic wish-fulfillment of Punch-Drunk Love, you have a man who throws away his adopted child the moment that the son makes any choice contrary to the father. "Family" exists only as long as it is financially beneficial. When it is no longer to Plainview's advantage, he screams at his son's departing back, "You're just a bastard from a basket!". The only redemptive grace for H.W. is that he is deaf (due to Plainview's own drilling success) and can't hear these cruel, hateful words from a father who is not a father. 

It's no small accident that when Paul Sunday screams and begs for his life in the climactic bowling scene, he wails, "We're family!". Which, to anyone who knows Anderson's films well, is probably the worst thing in the world he could've said. Real families are meant to be steam-rolled, abandoned, chucked out the window. Or cut out of the will, as Plainview would have it. Or bludgeoned with a bowling pin. At the same time, Anderson is further diffusing and obscuring the notion of "family" at all. If Sunday would so claim to be Plainview's "family" - which is clearly absurd - the notion of "family" has no meaning at all. It certainly doesn't for Plainview. But does it for Anderson?

Anderson has clearly grown more guarded, if not downright cynical, when it comes to the idea of family. The director who seeks to escape his past may want to put his family history behind him. Even self-selected families are now suspect (hmm... wonder what Fiona thinks of all this...). His characters reach out for new family connections - in casinos, on porn shoots, in the warm embrace of an non-judgmental lover - but he ultimately brings us to a place where these constructs are just as easily torn to shreds, despite the years, the meaning, the deep need we all have for that comforting embrace. How we long for Claudia and the cop, Barry Egan and Lena, with their wounded need for love and understanding.

Daniel Plainview will never hold his son again, and in his own mind, never viewed him as a son at all. We know that Plainview is lost.  Anderson makes no bones about it. "I'm finished!", Plainview calls. One wonders where Anderson will emerge next.  As grim as his work can be, it is undeniably infused with energetic life, and pain and honesty. I, for one, will be there to greet him at the door to find out.

Low Points

Today is my ex-wife's birthday.  The economy has hit her life very hard, as she's been unable to find work for the last month.  She's amazingly talented, but she's in a niche field where it's easy to find oneself without work, and she's not well-established enough in her career to weather economic storms like this. So, in short, she's kind of fucked right now.

And it's taking a toll. Between starting a new life, not having a job, having a failed marriage, etc, she's at the lowest point that I've ever seen her at. Which is really saying something, because I've seen her at many, many low points over the last 12 years. Family problems, the death of her mother, the insecurity of your twenties, professional dissatisfaction, friendship frictions, miscarriages, a difficult pregnancy, horrible illness after the birth and near death, my own failures for her, etc, etc, etc. It hasn't been easy for her. 

But now is one of the first times that I've seen her spirt nearly broken. And I'm really, deeply worried for her. She's clinically depressed (even a layman can see it), and I think she's near having a breakdown. Sometimes I fear the worst. I reached out to a bunch of her friends and family today, asking them to reach out to her, because there's only so much I can do.

My friend E put it best a month ago, when I complained that the ex thought I wasn't sympathetic enough to the problems she was having: "She fired you from that job", he said. This has been echoed from a number of quarters. That doesn't change the fact that I feel responsible for her in some ways, and that I want the best for her, and that I'm worried about her constantly. CONSTANTLY. She doesn't believe this, and somehow thinks that I wish ill to befall her, but I truly want the best for her. Of course, that doesn't necessarily extend to her finding another guy (aren't we ALL petty and jealous that way?), but in every other way I want her to be happy, content and secure. 

I'm worried on all of those fronts these days.

Happy Birthday, A. It's not a good one, even though you deserve it to be.

We Have a New President

Strong winds across Los Angeles. Nov, 4 2008. 11 pm.

This momentous, historic moment will be chronicled in countless places that makes it needless for me to add my thin, tin voice. Yet, today I am very proud to be an American, and I'm proud of the American people in unifying behind a great need, and potentially a great leader. Obama's speech tonight was his shining moment, and it's a powerful moment that can still draw tears from a political cynic in the midst of a crowded tavern of that was undulating in waves between raucous cheering and stately, almost reverant silence. And in a sad way, this night was also John McCain's best moment. If he would've shown more of the grace he demonstrated in his concession speech during the campaign, it wouldn't have been a landslide. You had to know that he was thinking a great deal about his legacy tonight, and worked to repair it, as a constipated Palin squirmed beside him, ready to shove the old man off stage-left.

There's a hopeful feel tonight, but though I'm emerging slowly from the deep funk I was in for the past week, I can't help being saddened by the lack of someone to share such a special moment with. My ex and I exchanged texts and phone calls during the event, with our son adorably shouting "Pres-dent Barack Obama!" into the phone, but there's a hollowness there. Enjoying the moment with co-workers and casual friends was nice too, but... it didn't help when friends of friends arrived, necessitating small talk while waiting for Obama's speech. It was one of those moments that is meant to be shared with those close to you. I was far away from them, and one of my deep questions right now is... who are those people?

There were texts exchanged with a few others, from my sister to my movie-partner in crime, V. But there's still that void.

It was a windy, cool night in Los Angeles. One of those spectacular nights where the palm trees are swaying, destined to litter the street with oversized palm fronds and leaves. I love those nights, with their ability to awe and inspire. And yet it's an empty enjoyment when you can't share that with someone.

I had a good therapy session today, where I was commended for actually diving into the murk of my sadness over the past week. Instead of following the path of my family - of burying pain, disappointment, anger, etc. - I was acknowledging it, and letting it wash over me, as a way of experiencing and acknowledging it. I didn't really think of it in that way (I hardly patted myself on the back for being so morose), but I think she's right - I'm evolving in a way that my family never has.

But we ended the session talking about the question of "what do I think of myself?". We treaded around loneliness, and I said that I've never had a problem being alone. I enjoy time on my own. And I think that's true. But it's also not true, and I've never really spent any time truly alone. It's much easier to enjoy your solitude, yourself, and your own ideas when it's just a temporary respite. When there's the security of a relationship on the other side of that solitude.

In all honesty, aside from a year-long stretch or so after college, I've mostly had that security and protection in my life. I don't really know how to exist without it, how to be content with myself. Maybe I am content with myself, but because there's this void in my life, I just don't know what contentedness looks like. I couldn't really answer the question of what I think about myself. What is my self-image. I feel like I'm generally very honest in therapy, and I was trying to be honest, but I also felt like I was just spewing stump speeches at that moment.

I don't know the answer to that question. Do I really like myself? I always thought I did. I want to believe that I do.

On a historic night like tonight, I want to believe... I want to believe. But I'm not sure I do.

Welcome to November

A couple of months ago, a friend asked me about my separation, "Are you lonely?". I somewhat laughed, because throughout the summer and fall, I obsessively scheduled myself on my every free night of the week (usually 3 or 4 nights a week). Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday something was going on to keep me occupied or distracted.

My answer: "I've been far too busy to be lonely. I think I've got it penciled in for November, though".

Well, now it's November.

And, yes, I'm lonely.

"When am I going to be a big brother?"

This morning while driving to work, I mentioned to Zach that my best friend's son, who is a year younger than Zach, is going to be a "big brother" soon. Our friends are going to have their second child.

Zach asked me when he was going to be a big brother.

I couldn't answer him, because tears started pouring out of my eyes. Zach pressed me for an answer. As I gained control, I tried to explain that mommies and daddies need to be together to have another baby, but that since Momma and I weren't together, it was probably going to be a long time before he is a big brother.

If ever. And by the time it happens, he may not want it anymore...

I'm just a little person.

And the full lyrics for those hunting for them:

I'm just a little person,
One person in a sea
Of many little people
Who are not aware of me.

I do my little job
And live my little life,
Eat my little meals,
Miss my little lid and wife

And somewhere, maybe someday,
Maybe somewhere far away,
I'll find a second little person
who will look at me and say,

"I know you
You're the one I've waited for.
Let's have some fun."

Life is precious every minute,
and more precious with you in it,
so let's have some fun

We'll take a road trip way out west. You're the one I like the best.
I'm glad I've found you,
Like being around you
You're the one I like the best.

Somewhere, maybe someday,
Maybe somewhere far away,
I'll meet a second little person
And we'll go out and play.

-- Little Person, "Synecdoche, New York"

I'm at one of my lowest points in the last couple of months. Much of it, though not all of it, has been brought on by Synecdoche, New York, which created in me an overwhelming sense of malaise and alienation. It's almost like I saw the exact movie at the exact wrong moment to create the exact maximum impact on my psyche.

There are many reasons, I suppose. Work is a big one. The closure of my vertical has left me adrift in our department, waiting to find out what the Next Big. Thing is. In the meantime I'm doing mundane, tedious work that I graduated from nearly two years ago. I'm suddenly not important, central, creative or, frankly, very useful. It's a miserable feeling.

Second, the movie brought on a new round of discombobulation over my impending divorce. The protagonist (Philip Seymour Hoffman) of the movie never really recovers from the failure of his first marriage, which is dramatized in a way that he never fully knows what went wrong. That hit me so hard, and I could relate to it immensely, but then Hoffman spends much of the rest of the movie trying to find a way to connect with the child who was taken from him, poisoned against him in disgusting, horrible ways. It's a dark, horrific vision of parental alienation... Alec Baldwin shouldn't see this flick. He may end up making more angry phone calls...

I'm just a little person

One person in a sea

Of many little people

Who are not aware of me

I do my little job

And live my little life

Eat my little meals

Miss my little kid and wife

These are the lyrics to the heartbreaking closing credits song of Synecdoche, New York. These lines caused tears to pour down my face as the credits rolled. Everything about my failed marriage pouring out of me, channeled through those simple, simple lines. Which is followed by...

And somewhere maybe someday

Maybe somewhere far away

I'll find a second little person

Who will look at me and say...

I know you

You're the one I've waited for

Let's have some fun

And there's the third reason... my new friend is disappearing from me.

I don't know if it has anything to do with me. I can tell that she's reaching out to experience life in many forms. Sometimes includes me, but it seems that now it doesn't more often than not. Our last date was fantastic, with promises of more that week. She opened up in a lot of meaningful ways. We appear to be on the same wavelength. Then things started stalling out, and it suddenly feels like it turning into an one-way street, and I'm tired of being the chump going the wrong way.

And I absolutely know that I shouldn't be worked up about her at all, but yes, we're all reaching out for that bullshit that makes us forget just how alone and scared we all are, all fearful that it doesn't mean anything, that we can't get anything out of this world. Which is, after all, what Synecdoche, New York is about in many respects. It's a pretty nihilist film, though in a beautiful, tender-hearted way rather than caustic and bitter.

So it's been a perfect emotional storm this week. I'm rarely a depressive, morbid, sad person. But I feel like I've been one big ball of sadness since Sunday night when I watched that movie. I don't have any direction, I don't feel any hope...

Yes. I'm just a little person. One person in a sea of many people, who are not aware of me.

Part two of this story came almost three years later. Feel free to read it.

I am at a loss for words for...

Writing about a movie, or music, or even meaningless pop culture... it's in my nature to want to sound eloquent, intelligent, or at least like I have a clue what the fuck I'm talking about. 

But tonight I endured a movie that has left me an emotional wreck, and without any of the necessary words. Or the right words, or maybe not even the words that make a lick of sense. Which would be appropriate, given the movie that I watched tonight: 

Synecdoche, New York

Synec-what?! Who the hell has even heard of this movie. Well, it's the directorial debut of Charlie Kaufman, the screenwriter behind Being John Malkovich, Adaptation and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I have long had a hate him/love him relationship with Kaufman. "Malcovich" was an amusing trifle, a bit self-conscious and smug, while Adaptation was one of the most navel-gazing, self-indulgent movies ever that made me want to punch Meryl Streep. How often do you want to punch Meryl Streep? That said, I adored Eternal Sunshine. 

And in a lot of ways, this movie features similar themes of both those films I loved and hated, exploring the artistic process and the search for meaning within the context of one person's life. It's almost like Kaufman was teasing the edges of those themes in those latter two films, but Synecdoche, New York is so astonishingly raw, painful, achingly sad, and elegiac that it just might be one of the most important movies ever made. Hyperbole, yeah, but… god, I’m just at a total loss right now. I warned that I wouldn't sound coherent.

It was so gut-wrenching to watch, and so utterly illogical and random and all over the place and dream-like and non-narrative, that it was just an absolute mess, and that’s part of the point. It’s intentionally messy, and ugly and obtuse. It is self-obsessed, and universal-looking with gigantic open arms all at the same time. Years pass, and people describe them as weeks. Characters develop physical ailments, which then disappear. Some characters age, becoming old, while others don’t. So much of it makes no logical sense – and for people not willing to go along on the journey, it will be truly infuriating to the point of walking out – but the entire thing is about digging deep into our individual pain, which is really a universal pain, and trying to find truth, and meaning, and connection. And not finding it. And yet somehow finding it too. 

It’s so dreamlike that it’s not a tear-jerker as it unfolds, but I found tears pouring down my face during the final credits. After it all ended. Because I wasn’t crying for the movie, but I was crying for what the movie said about me, about everyone else, about life. It made me want to crawl under a bed and sob for the next two weeks.

There is craft, there is art, and then there’s something that’s almost beyond art. I kind of feel like I saw that tonight. Something that gets beyond image, and sound, and texture, and story, and meaning, and gets to a place that people can’t easily get to. And I bet that 7 out of 10 people who see that movie will hate it (maybe even 8 of 10)… but something really remarkable and depressing and transcendent took place on that screen… and I hated it, and loved it, and it’s something that’ll stay with me for a long time to come.

Sometimes...

There are times you just wish you could cry. 

You feel like everything is trending against you. You feel it right beneath the surface, begging to come out. It doesn't quite come to the surface, though you know it needs to. You know you want it to, that by letting out that pain, it will somehow make it more bearable.

That's how I feel tonight. Absolutely alone, and the tide is pulling out to sea, rather than lapping against the shore.

And I can't seem to cry.

Companies have Salieri Moments Too

The work I've been doing all year has been exploratory in hopes of finding new, diversified revenue streams for my company (we're a prominent player online). We have a vision of something that hasn't quite been done exactly in this way online, a business plan, a product vision, product specs, the whole deal. A great deal of thought, and effort went into this. And my presentation bowled over the CEO, who was firmly behind it.

The comes strategic planning for 2009, involving the entire executive team. Each person with their own agenda, and a collective vision that we need to radically shift our company's agenda for the next year. That's all well and good, but the problem is that it means decreasing the overall size of our business and revenue. Which means that a new revenue stream is ALL the more important.

Collectively, the group took an alternate view: they need all their best people on crucial, mission-centric tasks. That means no new business verticals. That means no product that I've developed, envisioned and championed. That means... that really sucks.

From a rational perspective, I get it. We are sharpening our focus and anything that consumes resources outside the core objectives can be both a distraction and a headache. Yet, the investment was minimal. My time, time of a few others, a couple tech assists, and a modest outlay of money. Not a gigantic deal, truthfully. But they didn't see it that way.

The upside is this, however. There's a certain amount of flattery that the company wants "good" people on important projects, and apparently, one of the main considerations was, "Hey, we can have this guy - who really stepped up to the plate - building us something new, or we could have him playing a role on something that we view as short-term critical". So it's nice to be felt of that way, but at the same time, it's like being kicked in the gut. A couple of times. A year's worth of work pissed down the tubes before we even saw any return. 

Ironically, our corporate shift is due to a desire to put long-term company stability ahead of short-term revenues in the pecking order. Yet, the irony is that, again, we fall prey to short-term thinking rather than long-term vision. 

A Salieri moment. For all of us.

The Most Depressing Place in the World

Von's Grocery Store, Centinela Blvd. Los Angeles. Tuesday, 6:40 pm. 

Maybe it's the fact that they are renovating. The floors are two different colors, the salad bar empty, the seafood counter vacant. Much of this clearly comes from the fact that they didn't have a salad bar previously, and frankly, I don't think it's a place you ever wanted to get seafood from in the first place. It's long been a lower-middle class area of town (I spent a charming year living just down the block), but I suppose every grocery chain feels inordinate pressure to compete with the Whole Foods of the world.

Stopping in for toothpaste and wine. Maybe an electric toothbrush for Zach... Hmm, does he want Wall-E or Spongebob? God, I hate Spongebob...

Realize I'm kind of hungry. Leftover pasta in the fridge at home doesn't sound very appealing. Cooking an actual meal even less so, given my work ambitions for the night, not to mention my general lack of creativity when the fridge door is open... Maybe just grab something to go. But the Vons isn't exactly a "grab and go" kind of grocery store, especially at a time when the floors are comprised of two different colors. 

Stand in the soup aisle, ponder the healthy brands. Nearly shoulder to shoulder with two sixty year old men who just have that appearance of being... my god... single. And old. Old and single.

Flashback to all those times I've stood in the checkout line, that matronly woman behind me, buying her Dinners-For-One. A single cup of yogurt. A pre-packaged salad. Probably a bottle of Kahlua. And I think to myself... so sad. So sad not to have anyone. So sad to be alone, all day and every night. God, what a lucky guy I am... what a lucky, lucky guy... 

Back in the soup aisle, Old & Single snorts a loogey into the back of his throat. Jesus, no wonder he's single. What's with the 5 pounds of broccoli? Well, at least it's healthy. More than I can say for myself tonight... or many nights as of late. My god, there are a lot of soups. Progresso, Campbells, Chunky, Healthy Classics... There are just too many, and nothing, all at the same time. I really can't handle this.

Wander to the wine section. Nearly done being remodeled, but I kind of miss the tall shelves. Now they end at eye-level, and the value options all seem to be missing. Don't tell me this Von's on Centinela and Washington dreams of being upscale. Hey, Mr. Vons Manager - have you seen your clientele lately? Mr. Broccoli Soup back on Aisle 9? Aint' gonna happen. 

But here I am. With my toothpaste, wine, Wall-E toothbrush, and some bananas and eggs. Not old, but single. Where did I find that high horse of mine? Shuffle off to the checkout counter. Getting really hungry now. 

But I can't bear the thought of a buying a Dinner-For-One. I don't think I've ever done that in my life, and I can't imagine starting now. This has been depressing enough.

For me, at this moment, Von's on Centinela, in Los Angeles, at 6:40 on a Tuesday, is the most depressing place in the world.

Reality as Imagination

Zach is coping with the loss of family stability in his life, in so many ways, even though he's doing a marvelous job of retaining his happiness, openness and personality. 

While taking a walk tonight, Zach turns and says, "I won't want Momma to died". I immediately stop, go down on one knee and ask Zach if he needs a hug. "Zach, Momma's not going to die. Why are you afraid she's going to die?". "I just don't want her to die". I give him a big hug, reassuring him that she's not going to die. 

Ironically, later that night, Zach wanted to look at pictures of Momma as a little girl. We're paging through a photo album, and then come across photos of her own mother, who passed away around 9 years ago. Far too young to die, of a freak blood condition that was left untreated by a hospital, leading to her very unnecessary death. Zach hasn't really heard much about her up until this point, but of course, I had to address the fact that she had... died. Thereby invalidating exactly what I had been telling him an hour earlier, saying that Mommas don't die. Because sometimes they do. My own mother died when I was 6 1/2. 

Driving home, Zach then said that he wanted Momma to be a little girl. "I want Momma to be a little girl, and I'll be a little boy, and you'll take care of us". I asked him if he wanted this so we could all be together. "Yeah... actually, I want you to be a little boy and me to be a little boy, and Momma will take care of both of us". Clearly, Zach was trying to work out a way in his own head for all of us to be together. If it can't happen in real life, he would prefer to imagine an alternate version of life where we are a family again.

He also said that he loves me even when I’m a potato that’s being cooked. So take that for what it's worth.

The carpool lane sucks anyway

It's no secret that traffic in Los Angeles is miserable. There are many other cities that can claim this painful distinction - Chicago, Atlanta, NY, Houston. Maybe it was the '80s, but Los Angeles may have a special place in the cultural consciousness when it comes to the hell that is freeways and traffic congestion. Hence, the carpool lane.

I've always been a big fan of the carpool lane. You need two people to drive it, and in some places on the edges of the city, even three. It's almost a statement - if you want to move forward, make progress... you better find yourself a friend. One of the greatest episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm featured Larry David picking up a hooker just so he could use the carpool lane to get to Dodger stadium. Somehow beautifully, they come to respect and admire each other too. That's the big joke: the process of movement is so fraught with peril in this city, that you will reach for just about anyone if it means going just a little bit faster. 

I came to appreciate the carpool lane. Grow accustomed to it. Accepting it as my city-given right as a couple and as a father. I can't tell you how many times I drove Zach in the back seat, perversely wishing that I'd get pulled over by some dickhead cop who thought I was abusing the privledge by being alone, only to point out my bubbly little kid in the backseat and say, "I don't think so..."

But recently, I've found myself driving alone more often than not. A lot of those trips from Hollywood, or downtown, back to my place on the westside, cruising down the 110, headed for home. And I am, frankly, habituated to using the carpool lane. Which is not an easy habit to break. More than once I've found myself driving in the carpool lane, listening to tunes at high decibel, only to glance in the rear view mirror and realize that... hey, Zachy isn't in the backseat.

No. I'm alone - in the carpool lane built for two. And I didn't even realize it until it was too late, until you know it's just as big of a fine to cross those triple yellow lines as it is to have unjustifiabily entered that lane to begin with. You dont know what to do. Do you forge ahead, waiting for the next turn-out? Or do you whip across the lane right now, calling even more attention to yourself as that single guy all alone in the carpool lane. The one who wasn't supposed to be there.

But which is it? The one who wasn't supposed to be alone in the carpool lane? Or just the one who wasn't supposed to be alone in the carpool lane?

Which is it?

Broken Up in the Plastic Land

Dan Bern is a singer I fell in love with a number of years ago. A kind of folksy, smirking, ironic but earnest commentator on life, music, pop culture and relationships. He puts on one of the best live shows around, usually just him, a guitar and songs about Tiger Woods' great, big balls. But one song, in particular, provides the perfect commentary on life in the plasticized, shallow metropolis of Los Angeles, a city filled with thousands trying to scrape and claw their way to fame, success, notoriety, etc. For Bern, he even takes it a step further - chasing fame and fortune is a threadbare way to find love, to fill the hole we all feel, to feel like someone meaningful.

I was part of that, although I really don't believe that I did that out of some psychological or emotional need to fill. I just love movies. More than most things. Although in later years, I felt increasingly disconnected to Hollywood, the industry and the kinds of movies being made, which I think proves my point - I wasn't doing it out of an insatiable need to be part of things, to be validated, etc. I wanted to contribute and work in movies. Sure, I wanted to be successful too. I wanted that big break - who doesn't? But at a certain point, even any upside seemed outweighed by my gradual lack of affection for the industry itself.

But this song... wow, it's such a perfect encapsulation of that experience that defines so many twenty-somethings here in LA. I remember when I aloofly sneered at the line, "And I watched, as the best of my generation abandoned their dreams... and settled for making a little money". God, what pathetic people those were! 

Except that's now me. And, frankly, I don't regret it at all, though I'm trying to dip my toe back into writing, little by little. But even with maturity, and time, and transitions, this song just gets more and more true. Some is truth for me, lots of it is truth for others... it's a sad love/hate song indeed.

I saw the best of my generation playing pinball
Maked up and caked up and lookin' like some kind of china doll
With all of Adolf Hitler's moves down cold
As they stood up in front of a rock and roll band
And always moving upward and ever upward
To this gentle golden promised land
With the smartest of them all moonlighting as a word processor
And the strongest of them all checking ID's outside saloons
And the prettiest of them all taking off her clothes
In front of men whose eyes look like they were in some
Little hick town near Omaha watching the police chief
Run his car off the side of a bridge
I saw men with dreams like the ones I'd had
Beg quarters outside the 7-11
Till it got so they didn't affect me anymore
Then the mailboxes I'd passed 'cept that sometimes
I'd put something in the mailbox
I'd had the wind at my back
Now I felt it cold in my face
And for an awful long time now you were the only one who ever
Called me late at night and I really never noticed till after
You stopped calling and the emptiness, silence got so heavy

Broken up in the wasteland
Broken up in the promised land
Broken up in Disneyland
Broken up in the plastic land
Broken up in the wasteland

I saw dead Marilyn Monroe strung up on every street corner
In Hollywood like some two bit whore offering a discount rate
And I wondered how Joe Dimmagio felt
I saw dead James Dean's ghost wandering the sidewalk
Looking troubled and I wondered how his mama felt
I saw signs that said head shots done for cheap
Signs that said extras wanted top dollars paid
Signs for haircuts signs for manicures and
Signs for tanning salons and signs for wardrobe specialists
Signs for cosmetic surgery and signs for assertiveness training
And I stopped to read them all
And every single block looked like every single block
Looked like every single block looked like every single block
Looked like every single block but you kept driving
Cause everyone else kept driving and cause gridlock
Is evil and not knowing your way is evil
And those that had money looked good but weren't too happy
And those who didn't have money didn't look so good
And weren't too happy either and in a city of three million
two hundred and sixty nine thousand nine hundred eighty four
Everyone was lonely

Broken up in the wasteland
Broken up in the promised land
Broken up in Disneyland
Broken up in the plastic land
Broken up in the wasteland

And I watched as everyone I knew spent their lives
Trying to be watched on a stage or watched on a film
Or listened to on a record and they thought well maybe
That way I could get a little love out of this life
And I watched as the best of my generation abandoned their dreams
And settled for making a little money
And I watched TV and read the papers and listened to the radio
And made all the fancy scenes and said all the right words
And wore all the right clothes and knew the names of the hip people
But I still felt out of touch so I stopped watching TV
And reading the papers and listening to the radio
And making the fancy scenes and saying the right words
And wearing the right clothes and knowing the names of the hip people
And I felt more out of touch than ever but I didn't care anymore
And I felt you slipping away, and I felt myself slipping from you
And I wanted more than anything else for it to rain for one
Whole day like it used to but all there ever was was sun
Relentless sun hot beating sun and everyone wore their
Sunglasses and walked around like flies under a magnifying glass
With their eyes removed

Broken up in the wasteland
Broken up in the promised land
Broken up in Disneyland
Broken up in the plastic land
Broken up in the wasteland, broken up in the wasteland

The hardest part...

"The hardest part, is realizing you're in charge".

This is an exchange from the exceptional and necessary Mad Men, in which a divorced (and inevitably, ostracized through 1960s mores), single mother is counseling the protagonist's wife, who has thrown Don Draper out of the house. She doesn't know whether her marriage will survive or fail, in the long run. 

"That's the worst", the single mother responds to Betty Draper. Commenting on the uncertainty surrounding a troubled marriage. This line is so simple, and hard won experience has proven to me that it's absolutely perfect. My inner screenwriter deeply admires the deceptively simple feat.

Yes, it's always better on the other side, because at least you know. Uncertainty is replaced by knowledge and certainty. But it's a cold, cold comfort. You search for hope, and think there may be glimmers of it, but it's probably just a mirage. Or maybe this is all just an extension of my inability to cope with that uncertainty. 

"The hardest part, is realizing you're in charge", says the single mother to Betty Draper.

Yes, you realize you are in charge. You have to answer to nobody. You have the counsel of no one. It's deeply, truly scary to be making all those decisions, all those calls, on your own. Humbling. Making them within a partnership provided a comfort, even if there was friction, because you knew you were trying to figure it out together. Sure, you may have disagreed, you may have different perspectives, but there was a common goal. At least in theory. Now, no one has my agenda, except for me. And now I'm responsible for that agenda, as well as a little child, so open-hearted and helpless without me. He needs me to know the answers, and I don't always have them. Frankly, I feel like I'm missing them a lot of the time. 

Sometimes being in charge isn't such a great thing. In fact, it just might be the hardest thing of all.

Imagination Gone Awry

Zach was rather naughty today at pre-school. Apparently egged on by Joshua, Zach covered both of his entire forearms with green marker. He proudly announced he was a Transformer. Dad was not sufficiently impressed. I gave him the stern voice, but gently, and he soon came around, announcing that he was never, ever, ever going to do it again. Somehow I don't believe him.

At least it washed off though. I suppose there are many, many other things that could've been worse for him to do... and probably will in the future.

Moments to love and hate

Having taken in a good amount of wine, finally decompressing after midnight to a Chris Rock special (no, not exciting, but it's parenthood...) and hearing the door creak open. Zach shuffles down the hall in his Spiderman pajamas. He puts out his arms, saying, "I needed a hug because I miss my daddy and my momma."

It's so beautiful, and somehow so sad, at the same time. He curls up like a monkey in my arms, nestling into my shoulder. He feels so, so perfect there. Fits exceptionally well. But the nagging thought... why did he need this at this point? Was this a natural childhood moment...? Or is this a hole that remains unfilled, that he's reaching, he's calling, he's begging to be filled?

A hole that I can't fill. 

Patience is a...

Virtue that I've never developed. I don't know if this was something organic to me, or if it's something that I got from my parents. I suspect it's more the latter than the former, but it's my gigantic Achilles heel as a person. It was a problem in my marriage, I suppose, and it was certainly a problem during its decline: when you are an impatient person, how do you cope with the inability to fix things, the inability to demonstrably make things better? 

In the weeks since admitting that we were over, I was really making strides in this. Taking life as it comes, day after day. Then I encounter something that makes me happy for the first time in a year, and I lose all that again. My balance, my calmness. Even though it's for good reasons, I'm just as insecure, just as pathetic, just as self-doubting. Because, I suppose, that I've become so ingrained with the idea that I'm unlovable, or whatever, that I am quick to presume that's been the case. And there's not a lot of reason for me to think this, I admit. Signals trend in the right direction, for the most part, but I guess my self-esteem is still so low that I don't have a lot of faith in myself, or in anything.

Patience... is lost on me. 

Perspectives on Anger

I don't know when I'll fully be "over" my marriage. It will probably take years in many ways, though I think I'm doing a fairly good job coping these days.

I've been working to expell a lot of the anger that I have towards my ex. This is largely being done in therapy, something I was never all that psyched about doing, and have now ironically found real value in (yes, learning some lessons too late). We spent a session where I was prodded to let loose all those feelings that I'm aware of, but was forced to swallow during the attempts to build bridges and resuscitate a dead body of a relationship. Now releasing them, I sat there with tears pouring down my face, a litany of fury that seemed to last forever.

How angry over what she's done to Zach's future. How she never gave me a legitimate chance to fix things. How she never took her own, honest responsibility for the situation. For pretending that fixing the marriage was an option, whereas it clearly wasn't. For dragging out the pain to make herself feel better. For not standing up for herself until it was time for her to stand outside the marriage. For blaming me for her intrinsic dissatisfaction with life. For accusing me of being the source of her unhappiness, whereas I was her rock, her rescue. For thinking that our problems were that gigantic to begin with. For... giving up.

God, it felt good to say those aloud to someone, when they had been running around and around my grief-addled brain for months. This doesn't mean those feelings are gone, but having them out in the open was somehow so relieving. And there isn't anyone that I can really say these things to, because I have no interest in poisoning the air against my ex with people we both know. I'm not that kind of person; I am respectful to the people that I love.

The next week, we did something even more interesting. We discussed all the qualities I want in a partner, and then very objectively, laid out what my ex was, and what she was not. Both good and bad. Essentially creating a list that helps give a sense of where we just pulled apart.

Some things she was: exceptionally giving, incredibly smart and perceptive, emotionally evolved, thoughtful, selfless, funny, clever, beautiful. A great mother.

Some things she also was: financially irresponsible, discontented with her life, lacking self-esteem, incapable of forgiveness, always late, obsessive to a fault, and most importantly... unhappy. I don't think she was ever happy in her life, or in her marriage. Maybe she will be now. Clearly, I couldn't make her happy. But it wasn't my job to make her happy. If she can't do that herself after all these years, my weaknesses was not going to be the difference-maker.

This put into relief things a series of traits that I want in a mate: Self-confident. Professionally secure. Energetic. Upbeat. Optimistic. Able to tease and be teased. Attractive. Sexually confident. Open-minded. Smart. Thoughtful. Happy.

My ex was many of those things, but some of the big ones just wasn't part of her personality. This doesn't make her a bad person, or even flawed. It's just who she is. Obviously, I have (or lack) many qualities that she wanted in a mate. I hope that someday she will forgive me for lacking those. In learning to accept this, this helps to let go of the anger. Or at least give it some perspective.

Last of the Great Stars

Paul Newman died. He was 83.

And I am really, really bummed. He may be the last of the great stars of the late studio system, early New Hollywood era, as he was closer to the likes of Brando, Dean, even Jimmy Stewart than DeNiro, Pacino, Redford.

And when you say those names, it just makes you sad for what Hollywood has lost, and may never be replaced. There was a time when our stars were icons because they were great actors, but they were also just stars. They had something almost mythical about them, and they didn't have the feel of having been constructed or manipulated, to a certain degree (even though they were, of course). Who do we have now? Fading, embarrassing stars like Harrison Ford, sellouts like DeNiro and Pacino, good but not epic 40-somethings like Denzel Washington, Cruise, sometimes Crowe, maybe even Will Smith... and then pretty much no one after that.

Who is the modern day equivalent of Cool Hand Luke? Or Hud? Fast Eddie Felson? Nobody. DiCaprio and Damon probably summarize all of the under-40 male talent that really means anything, and that's just pathetic. And it makes you appreciate Newman all the more.

He was a manly without being macho, who women could adore, but who men didn't necessarily feel threatened by. You wished you could be Newman, and were jealous that you weren't. But there was something so unassuming and un-arrogant about his style that you couldn't hate him for it. And, jesus, yes, it's generic to say it, but those baby blue eyes. Holy shit. That's the definition of magnetism. I think he may have been the most attractive male star in Hollywood history. He may have gotten a long overdue Oscar for the wrong role, in "The Color of Money", but as a Scorsese fan, I'm an absolute sucker for that movie - it's alive with energy, sexy, dangerous, and Newman helps Cruise give one of his best performances. By that point, the Oscar didn't appear to mean much to him, saying "it's like chasing a beautiful woman for 80 years. She finaly relents and you say, 'I'm terribly sorry, I'm tired'".

Beyond his career, the man was all class. A social activist while never making a show of it. Still, he was the kind of person who stood up for what he believed in. After learning that he was on Richard Nixon's shit-list, he commented that "a person without character has no enemies". What a line - and it didn't take a screenwriter to come up with it for him.

The last star whose death affected me like this was Jimmy Stewart. Another one of the irreplaceable. Even though it's been clear that Newman wasn't going to appear in any more movies, and that his fading health took a toll, the projector bulb just got a little bit dimmer for the rest of us in darkened theaters.

Iranian poetry is great for drinking

Tonight was my second date, and we listened to Persian music from multiple eras, across numerous geographic borders, at the Hollywood Bowl. We also drank a lot of wine, had great food, and spent the night making amusing asides to each other. And we learned a lot about each other.

Most notably, we learned that we really see the world in similar ways. The way we look at our children, at other parents, at our backgrounds, there are so many similarities that it's a little intimidating.  She's a single mother with a successful career, and a gigantic heart of love for the most important person in her life, who she has been dedicated to from the moment she found herself a mother at a very young age. She's also well-read, with a great sense of humor, and engaged in the world. 

And I do think she likes me, which feels pretty great as well. At the same time, it's difficult to tell if she likes me or the idea of me. The devoted father, the caretaker, etc. That worries me a bit, I'll admit. We all have emotional needs that we need to fill somehow, and I just hope that I'm not servicing the emotional need, rather than being a person that is compelling and intriguing to her. And the insecure part of me fears that this is what I'm doing for her. Because I find her compelling. We'll see what happens next...

Another Mozart Moment

This year I was tasked with starting a new business vertical for my company. As a result, I divested myself of many of my other job responsibilities as this project grew and grew and grew in scope. The first route we took was very one-dimensional, and mid-way through the summer, we realized that monetizing this vertical was not as simple as slapping up a simple website and driving traffic in and out of it (what you would call a pass-through site).

We reset out ambitions earlier this summer, and then I spent the summer envisioning, designing, and devising a plan for where to take this business. Now, I didn't do it all on my own, but I was the driving factor, the one getting things done, creating ideas, building the designs and plans, and generally being the engine to this little engine that could.  Our goal by the end of the quarter was a full-fledged marketing plan - the vision of where this is going, what it's going to be, and most importantly, why it's meaningful. 

Today was the big day to present our whole year's worth of work and seek his backing to make this a larger company agenda moving forward. At stake is, frankly, my job. The reason goes back to that first point I made - as this grew more complex, I divested myself of so many other key elements of my job. If this doesn't get the green light and the doors get shuttered... uh, hello...? I'm still here, right? On the upside, I'm well liked at my company, and people would likely find some way to make me "of use", as Dr. Larch would say. But this is my baby, my project, and what I get excited about at work, and where I'm making a difference and a stamp. So, it's not hyperbole to say today was a crucial professional moment. 

And, in short, I nailed it. The company CEO came in a skeptic, and came out a believer. He frequently stopped me to bring up his own ideas, and to express how he thinks we've hit on what makes it important and valuable. You could see the twinkle in his eyes. Now, this doesn't make it a slam dunk, because we have some challenging headwinds as a company, and we have parent company concerns to deal with. But we got his emotional backing, and his commitment to find a way to get this done. 

Later tonight, the CEO sent me a note that says, "And best of all your passion for the initiative left me inspired and ready to join your team myself.  It was a pleasant reminder of one of the fundamentally great reasons why I love working here – there are smart, passionate people out there who can inspire me every day.  So thanks for that."

No, Mr. CEO, thank YOU for that.

Definitely a Mozart moment.

When is it appropriate...?

When your marriage ends, when is the right time to start looking forward, rather than backwards?

In the early days, weeks and months, there's a constant state of self-examination, reproachment and self-hatred that comes out of the process. And you hate your (ex) partner too. On many days, it's debatable who you hate more - yourself or the other person. For myself, I spent the first couple of months hating myself, the next few months hating her, and now.... I'm just tired of hating.

I just want to be happy.

Certainly, this is easier said than done. Yes, my son makes me happy. I adore my time with him. At the same time, I know that something is missing from that time together. Yesterday he says to me, "Daddy, when momma comes over, I want to have a Family Hug". This is something we used to do together - a big circle, group hug. How do you tell your son that you're never going to have a trio group hug again? So I picked Zach up in a big, giant bear hug and said, "You're my family, Zach, and I love you". But it's hard when you don't have any balance with your child, someone else to help pick up the slack, to help keep the energy high and the enthusiasm flowing. Each of you are relegated to accomplishing this on your own. Granted, you only now have to do it half the time, but that doesn't make it much easier.

But I'm working on being happy, and I'm working on being balanced, flexible about what is coming my way every day, and being open-minded about the future. Yeah, it all scares me, and I'm generally terrified about things like dating, single parenthood, not having a support system, etc. But I'm managing that fear and trepidation better than in the past - even better than when I was married. I had a minor car accident last week, and it was even my fault, but I chose not to let it faze me. That's something that would've once left me in a tizzy for days.

So, I recently found myself on a date. A really nice one. Didn't go searching for it, and I don't know if I'm ready for that kind of a situation, but it happened, and I liked it. It made me feel good about myself for a bit. Looking forward to a second date.

Yet, somehow the ex managed to put a giant pin in that balloon. Unintentionally, I'm sure, but it still infuriates me, because I'm doing everything possible to be respectful of her feelings. I wouldn't want to know that she's dating, so I think it's thoughtful and considerate not to shove that in her face. "Hey, yeah I know it sucks being a single mother, struggling to pay the bills, having a crappy new apartment, etc, but guess what - I had a date with an awesome woman!". No, I'm not doing that at all.

It started amusingly, with the ex popping up on IM to ask me who so-and-so was on my Facebook page, writing on my "wall". "Why do you ask?", I respond. "Because I think she has a crush on you", the ex responds. Now, these are extremely innocuous little comments on my profile page, but the ex is nothing if not preturnaturally perceptive, to an almost scary extent. But I ignore the question and move onto other topics.

Later, however, she realizes that a Hollywood Bowl show I'm going to on Saturday (though does not know that I'm taking so-and-so) is a more "cultural" show of Iranian poetry, Yo-Yo Ma and Persian music. So this gets the ex's hair in a bundle because two years ago I didn't want to see some Spanish singer with her at UCLA. She bitches at me over a text message. I politely respond that going to the Bowl is not about her, and that I'm just having a social life. She responds to say that she doesn't understand that I'm now doing the things that "I made her feel shitty for wanting to do". Um, because I didn't go to a Mariza concert two years ago? And which I fully encouraged her to go. I didn't want to see that particular show, so sue me.

But somehow, inexplicably, these two events are now linked in her mind. Is she wondering who I am going with? Does she care? I don't know the answer to either question, but I would do her a disservice to think that it never occurred to her to wonder who I'm going with. So I politely respond via text (defending yourself over text message is plainly absurd, but it was also a way to keep the conversation contained) that, again, this is not about her. I state that this year she had done an exceptional job making me feel like I wasn't an interesting or good person. Just like she says I made her feel. But I am a good person, and neither one of us want to feel that way. Going to the Hollywood Bowl is not a referendum on our relationship, nor is it an assault on her. It's just an attempt to have a social life. It's not worth mentioning that it's also an attempt to have a wonderful second date. Yet, the ex is so perceptive and clever that I wouldn't doubt if she already knows this.

So, somehow she's managed to make me feel shitty and guilty about something I shouldn't possibly feel shitty or guilty about. I haven't done anything wrong!

But it brings up the question: when is it appropriate to put yourself out there again? Are the rules different when you are the dumper versus the dumpee? As the one who was left, don't I pretty much have free rein to do whatever the hell I want without question, judgment or repercussion? Especially when this whole year has been playing by the rules that she started?Now when I'm trying to find and have a slice of happiness, she's  trying to take control of that. Now, I don't at all think it's intentional on her part, but it's rather thoughtless regardless, and I resent being made to feel like I've done something wrong, when I've being what I would consider excessively thoughtful about the whole thing.

I will not let her co-opt this moment. I don't know what it's a moment of, other than of hope. We all need a little hope.