New Houses and New Beginnings

Feels like it's been a long time coming, but L and I have finally moved into a house together. We discovered the most perfect not-so-little three bedroom in Westchester, CA, a tiny residential community where kids ride their bikes all the time, and you have expect a neighbor to bring you a freshly baked apple pie. There aren't many communities in LA like that.

We instantly made the house our own, despite the fact that it's only previous resident was a 90 year old woman we've named "Dorothy", who owned the house since 1948. I presume that she raised her family there, and we are now renting the house through a management company. Everything is original and impeccably maintained, and amazingly solid. They really knew how to make things in the 1940s. We are putting our touches on it, from shelves on the walls to searching for a new dining room pendant lamp, but we instantly felt at home.

One of the most satisfying things was seeing how much Z loved it. He's an urban city dweller, and has spent his scant lifetime in condos and apartments. I hadn't yet had the opportunity to give him grass and green, and now I do. We went to Home Depot, bought a board and some nice climbing rope and built a homemade swing in the backyard. He helped sand the board and keep the rope straight while Dad was working. When it was all put together, the smile on his face was utterly captivating.

The smile on L's face when she comes in each day is equally captivating, and she's adored making use of our rather over-sized kitchen, which even fits her beloved leather couch. We had our second Thanksgiving together, and are making a home. A home that we hope to be in for a long, long time.

It's where we are meant to be.

Dream Journal - Suburban Houses of Mirrors

For the last 6 months or so, I have been having a ridiculous amount of dreams. Almost nightly I will have 3 or 4 separate dreams which, like most people, fritter away and disappear the moments after I wake up. Sometimes I piece together my oblique, highly detailed narratives for my girlfriend though, who marvels at the bizarre crap that comes out of my subconscious. My dreams are heavily populated by characters, locales, and incident, though little of it has any direct connection with my daily life.

Like last night, for instance.

I was at the edge of the street down the block from my house in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin (I grew up in a suburb of Milwaukee). A row of non-descript suburban houses that you'll find anywhere. Not unlike below.

I know exactly what block this is, and it looks exactly the same, and completely different. Because instead of the usual 10 feet between houses, they are all packed close together. What's more striking is that every house is pristine white. The sideboards, the roofs, everything. It's a giant line of medicinal blahness, and you wonder why on earth anyone on this block would agree to turn their street into an IRS hallway.

Until I move down it. Quickly. Maybe in a car, maybe a bike. Suddenly I'm hit by an explosion of light passing each house, a kaliedescope of colors. It turns out that all of the front doors are set into a recessed, exterior foyer about 10-15 feet back from the front of the house itself. Each door on the block is a different color - red, blue, purple, yellow, etc. And coming out from each door is a V-shaped structure leading to the house's edge, splaying outward, and the V's are entirely lined with glass. Which causes a house of mirrors effect with the front door, reflecting and radiating the light in all different directions. An absolute explosion of color that completely changes your perception of this drab, white, antiseptic street.

It's kind of a crazy carnival of colors, and not what one would consider "classy". However, it's so genuine and full of life that it can't help but be inspiring. It's just oozing life and energy, like a Tim Burton movie where you don't understand how these people live, but you respect their utter dedication to the process.

But why this particular suburban block, that I have no actual affinity or connection to? I haven't thought of it in years, and nothing notable ever happened to me on that stretch of pavement. Maybe my subconscious is just suffused with the Arcade Fire's remarkable album, "The Suburbs". Each day or week I seem to be alternatingly obsessed with a new track. Currently, I adore the near-closing track, "The Sprawl 1 Flatland lyrics, which reminds me of a Spielberg version of the suburbs, circa "E.T.". Visions of kids on their bikes late at night:

Cops showing their lights
On the reflectors of our bikes
Said, do you kids know what time it is?
Well sir, it's the first time I've felt like something is mine
Like I have something to give

The idea of finally having ownership of something... your life itself, as a kid is something that you typically think of as a college psychology. However, those lyrics perfectly capture what it feels like the first time you get out of your house, staying out past your bedtime. Doing nothing, but it's still the most important thing in the world to you, at that moment.

We will see what moments my next dreams bring.

Lucky to Be a Failed Screenwriter

I sit with my glass of wine (the charmingly labeled bottle, Pinot Evil), my 5 year old sleeping in the next room. Watching the documentary TALES FROM THE SCRIPT, I consider how unbelievably lucky I am to be a failed screenwriter.

It's gratifying to listen to successful, (sometimes) famous screenwriters, discuss their craft, and hear that they view the profession and the process in exactly the same way that I did. They managed to make it work. I, however, did not. "The price of getting into the film business... is figuring out your path... How are you going to get over that wall?". I guess I never had the wherewithal to build the right kind of ladder to get over the wall, though I scrambled and scrabbled to varying degrees of recognition and rejection. "Nobody wants your stuff", William Goldman says.

I never got over that wall, and I eventually had the good luck to get a copywriting job. The irony is that screenwriting is the economy of style - it's architecture and structure, rather than florid prose. It's not poetry. It's mechanics with style. I ended up writing online marketing ads that show up every day when you search for Google, which makes the notion of screenwriting as economy almost absurd. It's 70 characters, all in. No story. Little creativity.

But it turns out it was creative. Creative in the way that it causes you to work with people, learn new skills, and discover talents you didn't know you have. My career has since flourished, and while I do some writing in my job, here and there, I'm no longer a writer.

The energy that entertainment has is, of course, undeniable. I was getting gas today next to Sony studios, looking at the water tank, and remembering the naive enthusiasm I had the first time I walked on that lot for an internship... "Oh my god, I'm in Hollywood. This is where IT happens".

Or it's where it doesn't happen. And even if it does happen, it goes through so many twists and turns, and ups and downs, that it leaves you hollowed, not remembering where you began - or why you began - to begin with.

But, yeah, whatever, you fucking whiner. Go back to Iowa. That's the message of the guy who didn't get it done. The failure. The one who walked way.

Yeah. All very true. And I'm not crying in my soup, and I'm probably making more money now than if I actually did turn into a "working screenwriter" (unless you make that million dollar sale kind of thing, etc.). And I don't want anyone to whine for me, because I love not having that feeling like you're chasing it every day. Chasing down people to like you, to validate you, to invite you in the room. To make you feel like that phone call is the most important thing in your day, in your life.

And listening to old screenwriters in a documentary... successful, impressive writers, that story doesn't change. Granted, I'll have to worry about ageism (as in Hollywood), unemployment, companies failing, etc, etc, etc. But when I walked away, I realized that I didn't want to spend every day in my life begging for that one phone call each day that makes me feel like a validated human being. "You have to get a hit EVERY time you're up to bat".

I've validated that for myself just fine, thank you, and I don't regret it at all. In fact, I barely miss it. Barely.

I just wish I had a good movie idea to write...

Worth the Effort

You think should be easy, but they aren't. Even something as seemingly simple as a vacation can be exceptionally complicated. There's travel issues, like spending 180 minutes in a Days Inn in Dublin, Georgia, which was 179 minutes too long. There are family issues, such as an unneeded drama between siblings that drags in my wonderful girlfriend. There is the frequent social ineptness of family members, such as a mother who wants to talk about nothing but my ex to my girlfriend - not exactly a way to engender a feeling of togetherness or connectedness. Suddenly what is supposed to be relaxing becomes fraught with drama and emotion. Not exactly the way you envisioned things going.

But somehow life is always like that.

Life is hard. Challenges are waiting for you every day when you wake up, and they're still lurking under the bed when you drift off to sleep. But that doesn't mean life is like a box of chocolates. Rather, it's like this:

A mango.

One of the most time-consuming pieces of fruit to eat. The peeling process is a pain in the ass, and it usually takes at least a minute, if not two, to successfully strip it of its rubbery shell. When you do, it's often overly juicy, which makes it hard to hold onto during those final swipes of your peeler. I have had more than one mango squirt out of my grasp into the garbage can below. Nothing that a little water can't solve.

Then you have to cut the mango. It never cuts very easily. When you see the Mexican fruit vendors do it, you start to suspect they might be using lightsabers rather than knives - it's never been that easy for me. You usually get a decent amount of fruit from two sides, but then you hone in on the others, and the whole thing kind of collapses around you, juice dribbling off the cutting board, yielding few treasures. You start to wonder why you bother. A banana's sitting over there, and by now it would've been eaten.

Then the mango's cut, but you're a pulpy, juicy mess, and you still need to get it all into a bowl. Do you wash your hands before grabbing a bowl, knowing that you'll get the bowl sticky? Or do you take the time to wash your hands and then fill up the bowl with that orange-yellow goodness? You choose the latter, but then you're inevitably going to get messy again, swiping the fruit into the bowl with the knife that's covered in goo. Then, if you want the mango to be really perfect, you need to put the whole thing into the fridge for awhile - chilled is better than room temperature.

Goddamn, getting to eat a fucking mango is a giant pain in my ass.

While it's already a piss-poor analogy, life is similar to the the preparation of a mango - it's filled with all the preparation, all the mind-numbing details you don't want to deal with, challenges that you don't anticipate when you first start, and there's frequently a sense of delayed gratification.

But then you eat it. And holy shit, all of the effort that goes into it is forgotten. It's all worth it. Because that mango is filled with flavor, texture. It warms everything about you, and makes any meal that you're eating all the more enjoyable.

And when you share that mango with the person that you adore, who you love in ways you can't even describe, it's the difference between just eating the mango, and savoring it. The challenges that got through to reach that point still exist, and they're still there, but they seem negligible, and they don't detract from the pleasure of that mango. Because you're eating it together. You both understand what it means to have gotten to that point, and to be in that place. Even if some of the mango juice dribbles down your chin.

Sprains, Sickness and Death

Not the greatest of weeks, one has to say, looking back on it.

It started by a ridiculous ankle sprain playing soccer with my kid. He's not very experienced, and I still have to endlessly remind him not to try to step on the ball to stop it. You trap it with your foot. Yet, there we are, at the park, and what do I do? I step on the ball. So predictable you could set your watch to it, my ankle rolls, and voila, I'm groaning in pain on the ground. I could barely walk the next day, and thought it may have been broken. Amazingly, I made a remarkable turnaround the next day, and after some minor hobbling, have been ok.

Meanwhile, L has suffered from a horrible cold all week, and was sick much of the week. While she's kept a stiff upper lip, it's definitely hurt our typical rhythm, and we haven't been quite as in sync as we usually are. The general, low-grade but pervasive stress has taken a toll on the week.

Then yesterday, my uncle died. He was beloved to me when I was a little kid, but we had fallen out of touch, and I hadn't been in contact with him for some time. My dad's younger brother, and the closest of his siblings. He was also a gargantuan wall of flesh who you couldn't even remotely accuse of taking care of himself. So when he has a heart attack while driving to play golf with my dad, at the age of 54, you can't be surprised. The truck crashes into a tree, but he was likely already dead. Leaving behind 3 girls between the ages of 18 and 25. Heartbreaking. My dad adored his flawed, but eminently likable brother, and it leaves my grandfather without a caretaker. I don't know what they're going to do about that.

I fly to Dayton, OH for the funeral tomorrow morning, and I will miss L terribly. I was so looking forward to us getting back in our groove this weekend, but alas, it will have to wait. Instead, I must go comfort family members, both dear to me and those that I haven't communicated with in years. It's bound to be a surreal weekend, and I won't have my special someone beside me to go through it all.

Just because

Yes, it's been slow around here these days. Especially for my one follower.

I haven't had the time or energy to be writing about all my happy moments - of which there are many - because I am too busy having them. When not having said moments, I'm overwhelmed with work. It's been a time of transition in my professional world, all of which are good things - more responsibility and all of that - but it's been most of what I'm thinking about when I'm not with L.

So, I'm deeply, deeply sorry to be offending my meager audience out there - all those people who drop in from the Netherlands, Russia and Encino - but...

Yet, along those lines, it's worth considering whether or not my blog is played out. I never started it to be read, or to garner an audience; if I had, I would've chosen a subject more interesting - or at least scatalogical - than myself. I would've thought about things like "linkbait" and "top 5 posts" to garner all those backlinks and readers that blogs need to get. That was never an interest, and the people who dropped in were like niggling little thoughts in the back of my consciousness - you know they're there somewhere, but you're not quite fully aware of their presence. And the blog was started as a necessary therapeutic outlet more than anything else. The guy who has never kept a journal could only do so if he was typing. And isn't everyone doing everything in "the Cloud" these days anyway? We don't seem to think or speak if it's not "in the Cloud". So... there was that.

But I haven't really needed a therapeutic outlet as of late. I haven't been to see my therapist in at least 9 months, which I somehow feel guilty about, because I feel like the only reason to go see her is so she knows I'm in a good, happy place. This blog has always been my online therapist - listening, taking it in, and not judging me in any way. There's a woman who also doesn't judge me, and when I need the outlet, she is there for me.

Saves my fingers the effort, which can then be used for other things...