Words are too small

It's been 8 months since I started writing down the experiences of the past year. Though there are sporadic readers from places as far flung and random as Utah, China or even Africa, this was never meant to be something that anyone other than myself was meant to read. A place to put down some of my most intimate, darkest thoughts as a way of both purging and understanding them. It's been immensely valuable too, both as means of coping, but also as a sort of marker. A gravestone of sorts, marking the before and after moments of my life. 

My life doesn't seem remotely the same as it was a year ago. There are throughlines, of course. My son, the company I work for, certain friendships, etc. Yet, I am not the same that I was a year ago. It's possible that fundamentally people don't change. However, maybe what changes are the fundamental aspects of our nature that we elevate or suppress based on our experiences, our interactions, or fears, our hopes. Maybe it's all deep down inside us, but we selectively choose what comes out, and what doesn't. And then, at a certain point, we seem to lose control over those choices; our bodies, our minds, our experiences start to make the decisions for us, and this becomes who we "are". But there are other sides of us still hidden there deep in the weeds.

I feel those parts of myself emerging again, that I may have suppressed along the way. Hope, belief, optimism, beauty, connectedness, peace. These are things that I always saw as fundamental parts of me, but somewhere along the way got pushed aside. I'm not blaming anyone for that, and ultimately, I'm responsible for letting that happen. I let the stress of life overtake those things that I was, and wanted to be. 

And now I find myself shown things in myself that I may have never even known were there, or if they were, they were long forgotten. But those are things that feel so utterly natural, or right, or... perfect, that it makes you realize that we all have Mozart in us, even if we're battling his and Salieri's demons along the way. 

And those things are emerging - and being brought out - in the most beautiful ways, that I don't feel like I've changed or that I'm a different person. I am becoming the person I originally saw myself as, and feeling myself connected in a way that I never saw coming, and may have never thought possible. I feel that certain words, like peace, or calm, make sense to me in a way they never did before. Peace is a really, truly beautiful word.

These are ramblings that likely make little sense. Sometimes words are too small to capture the feeling. 

A Gift of Grace Wrapped in Barbed Wire

Today is Saint Patrick's Day. March 17th. A festive holiday that exists for no other reason than to get blisteringly drunk. Gotta love a holiday like that. I'm part-Irish too, so I can respect the urge. For me, however, St. Patty's day has always had another connotation. 

It's the day my mother died. 

29 years ago today, my mentally ill, intensely nurturing, highly intellectual, especially troubled mother died of an apparently inadvertent drug overdose. Might have been intentional, perhaps not. It depends on your perspective, mostly. I was 6 1/2. 

Men in dark suits collected me from my second grade class. Took me to my neighbor's house, where I waited in the basement for reasons unknown to me. Also unknown to me was the fact that my father was on a business trip, getting the news just before a plane flight (god, how complicated that must have been in the long-before cell phone days?), and they actually had a plane reverse taxi back to the gate so he could return home. 

One of my mother's brothers, who I don't remember at all, told my older brother and I the news (my dad never forgave this uncle for robbing him of this right and responsibility). As I waited in the basement for my father, for what seemed like (and probably) was hours, I remember telling a little baby - or maybe it was a doll - what had just happened to my mother. I probably didn't understand it, but explaining these events to someone even littler than me gave me a certain empowerment that was otherwise completely missing. 

Later that night, father and sons were back home. I'll never forget how trashed the house was. Garbages overturned, house nearly dark, the bed askew. She was found by a neighbor in the bedroom, perhaps on the floor. I had slept at the neighbor's the night before, because my mom didn't "feel well". I remember her crouched on the floor, naked I think, with bruises on her. Where did they come from, I wondered. This is my last visual memory of my mother. Self-inflicted, I am now sure. For years, I presumed that our trashed house was caused by the police investigation. But what if it was her? Did she rocket through the house in a manic rage, throwing over furniture and garbage cans? Did she die in pain? I'll never know, but I can't imagine it was any worse than the pain her life had become, trapped in her past, her delirium and her mental illness.

I saw a lot of emotion in my house growing up. Mostly anger. As a child, you are protective of your mother, and I naturally always thought my dad was in the wrong. He would be locked out of the house, pounding on the door, my mother screaming through the wood. Surely, he must have hurt her badly, right? Right? I recall my mother telling me one night that she was forcing him to sleep in his car because he was evil. It wasn't until at least 15 years later that I realized he was trying to manage the situation, to keep her stable, and to keep my brother and I safe. She once pulled a belt around her neck, threatening to hang herself. In her mania she had also threatened our lives. After I was born, she wrote on the wall that she wanted to kill me. How terrifying it must have been for him, fearing for his sons. Especially with all the traveling he did.

That night was the first time I ever remember seeing my father cry. I know he loved her, but I'm sure he was also crying because he failed to save her. He birthed great, wracking sobs while perched on the edge of the couch, with Dave and I not knowing what to do. I think we hugged him. Or he hugged us. While I don't necessarily remember my father as a cuddly kind of dad, he was a caring, supportive father, and so it's more likely that he pulled us into his embrace. We cried together.

But in the years after her death, those tears were relatively infrequent, and I felt a kind of numbness over what happened. For years, I privately chastised myself for my lack of deep, intense grief over my mother's death. Did this make me a bad person? Cold? Unfeeling? I am relatively quick to emotion in most other cases, and really a romantic at heart despite it all, so this would be inaccurate on the whole.

But when it comes to my mother, it wasn't until last spring that I found out why I developed this way. After her death, my father remarried, I got additional siblings, and though our house was one of the constant movement that only four kids only 5 years apart can create, there was under it all a sense of stability and calm. The chaos of my mother was replaced by the firm, competent hand of my stepmother, who wasn't cuddly either, but was what kids often think a mom is supposed to be: devoted, diligent,a great cook, the taskmaster and judge. Stern but always available, and no matter how frayed she became, she never did things like lock dad out of the house or threaten to hang herself. 

No matter how you look at it, that was better.

I didn't understand it then, and only now do, but I latched onto that stability and wanted to do everything possible to maintain it. I became the good student, the "good" kid. This was relatively easy as a middle child with a complete fuck-up stepbrother, an eldest "golden child" that stepmother put a giant target on (probably because Dave so easily achieved everything my stepbrother couldn't, or didn't want to), and a little sister who was everything that little sisters are supposed to be - self-absorbed, a bit spoiled, charming by half, and a little hellion underneath. 

It was easy to float under the radar. I had a series of private rebellions throughout high school, but I was apparently clever enough to keep most under wraps, and during those earlier years, I was the self-contained, independent, self-reliant, untroubled kid who didn't ask for much and didn't expect much. Just having a sense of calm and security was probably enough for me, that I didn't want to bother anyone with my own adolescent insecurities and fears. My parents were always there for me when I needed them, but I don't recall ever needing them. Or admitting that I actually did. 

I learned to control my own world, because if someone else controlled it, it may spin out of control. Deep down, I learned to fear uncertainty and constant change. This became ingrained in me, and something I'm learning to - and desperately want to - roll back, layer by layer, piece by piece. To find a middle ground that's more flexible, more emotionally sustainable. I wish I knew that about myself years ago. 

I never held my mother's sickness against her. I don't say this to sound holier-than-thou, but rather, I always wanted to appreciate what she did give to me in our short time together - intelligence, creativity, an affinity for storytelling. And her death definitely helped build that self-reliance and independent streak that I don't think I would've found otherwise (her dying made me not want to rely on my stepmother if at all possible, because there was probably a subconscious fear that getting attached could mean losing another parent). 

But that said, I also need to own up to the fact that my mother's chaos also caused one of the least favorite parts of myself. My apprehension over change played a not insignificant role in the collapse of my marriage, because deep down, I just need to know that things are going to be okay. Mothers tell you that. And then I didn't have a mother. And for the brief time I did have a biological mother, I had one for whom nothing was ever okay. Having a wife for whom things were so rarely okay probably instigated reactions and emotions that I couldn't have possibly understood in the moment.

Rosemary gave me many gifts, but that's one I wish I could've politely declined. But no parent wants to pass their damages and issues to their children, and there's no way she could've known. In fact, part of me believes that she may have felt she needed to die in order to free Dave and I from her chaos. Which was, in its own way, a gift. A gift of grace wrapped in barbed wire. 

So St. Patty's day is a day of green beer to go with your eggs and ham. What the hell is it supposed to celebrate, anyway? Hell if I know. I have never felt any urge to blow the doors off this holiday. I'll leave that to other people. At the same time, I rarely feel morose on this anniversary, and most years have little reaction to it other than a private mental note ("Oh, yes, that happened today, didn't it?"). Though this year may be a little different. 

So 29 years later, wherever my mother is, I hope she has the peace she deserves. And if she's still hovering around, unsettled because of whatever damage she may have done to her sons, I would like her to know that, on the whole, we turned out pretty much fine.

Tired

There's tired that's just tiring, and there's a kind of tired that's invigorating and worth every second.

This is the latter.

Patton's smarter than me

"In fact, the only thing that can truly destroy a comedian – or any artist – is paying attention to benchmarks like “20” and “30” and “40”, or any new set of tens. Turning away from your age, and from the loss of life, is the deepest sort of fear and childishness. There’s nothing creepier than the new generation of twenty-somethings who act like giggly twelve year-olds. And there’s nothing sadder than someone over forty still acting like they’re home from college freshman year, trying to shock their parents over Thanksgiving dinner by declaring they’re an atheist."

-- Patton Oswalt

Patton Oswalt is my favorite comedian because he's the funniest guy who stands on a stage with a microphone. Hands down. But he's also one of my favorite personas because he's just... smart. Well-read, observant, tuned in and just. fucking. smart. 

Fuck you, Dane Cook, Carlos Mencia and all the other  mundane, generic scam artists who pass themselves off as comedians. You're neither funny, nor smart. 

See, there's just one story and everyone's the star...

See there's just one story
And everyone's the star
And it goes like this...

No one will ever love you
For everything you are 

And so you build up layers of deception
And you leave out things to alter the perceptions
Of the ones you love
Who would never love you back
If they knew all about you
Every solitary fact

-- Song for Caden, "Synecdoche, New York"

You think that people have it figured out. Everyone except for you. You're the only one who feels so horribly confused or lost. 

Except that's not remotely true. In fact, the more you get to know people - even the people you know really well - it becomes more clear that they are just as lost, confused and conflicted as you. I have some friends who are very dear to me, and I swear, spending time with them never ceases to put some of my own issues into perspective. These are people who are confident, secure, successful, incredibly smart. Generous, kind, wonderful people, who I adore. And, yet, they're total messes in so many ways. 

I'm not sure if that should make me MORE or LESS sad. There's a certain comfort in knowing that other people are just as fucked up as you are, each in their own, terribly unique, ways. But then there's also the question - why can't we all get our shit together?

No Parking: Special Event

I got a friend whose goal in life

Was to one day go down on Madonna
That's all he wanted, That was all

To one day go down on Madonna

And when my friend was thirty-four 

He got his wish in Rome one night
He got to go down on Madonna
In Rome one night in some hotel
And ever since he's been depressed
'Cause life is shit from here on in
And all our friends just shake their heads
And say too soon, too soon, too soon
He went down on Madonna too soon
Too young, too young, too soon, too soon

There are some events that are once in a lifetime deals. The above lyrics from Dan Bern's "Tiger Woods" is a playful tweaking of such an event, used to cast a light on how transitory, temporary great experiences can be. Who doesn't know the feeling of peaking too early? I had one of those last week, and no, it didn't involve going down on Madonna. I'm not sure WHO would really yearn for that anymore, but in Dan Bern's defense, the song's a good 15 years old. 

My once-in-a-lifetime event was getting to go to the Academy Awards, which was somehow more enjoyable an experience by virtue of no longer being part of Hollywood. If I would've done this 5 years ago, I would've held a private sadness at the thought that it wasn't ever going to be me in those front 20 rows. Rather, I was just a schmuck paying $10 for a beer while watching Sean Penn power by on his way to a umpteenth cigarette break. But since I stepped out of that world, I've been able to let go of so many of those obsessions and ambitions, and in all honesty, not feel bad about it beyond sometimes the aching thought of the years that I missed out on. So it was just fun to put on the wide-eyed fan cap and enjoy the big, broad absurdity of it all.

And it is patently absurd, although when you're actually there (past the spotlight glare of the red carpet with the shouting photographers, screaming fans and oceans of red), it's a strangely intimate affair. It's not a giant theater, and even though millions of people are watching the show, when you're in the room you're struck by the overwhelming sense of a high school theater production. Just with a really, really big prop budget. Granted, it's all very well orchestrated, but there's definitely a humanness to the preceedings when you're on the other side of the picture tube. 

There's a certain excitement, of course, to watching the show in the room itself. Our seats were solid though not spectacular. It was on the first level, so I could listen in on Richard Jenkins chatting with an old friend (he's more like an average joe than an actor, to be sure), but we were definitely in the back. Which gave a perfect perspective to walk out the doors as Seal and Heidi Klum walk in. Why were they there, incidentally? I wonder if he's in the academy from a nomination or something... 

The most enjoyable sequences were hanging out in the lobby bar, eavesdropping on conversations, watching Robin Wright Penn head in opposite directions of her soon-to-be-feted husband, seeing Viola Davis hanging out with friends to commiserate over her loss, and introducing myself to Peter Gabriel. I tried to rein in the adoring fan bit, and didn't want to lead with, "Dude, I love "Sledgehammer!". So I commented that his music just seems to get better with each year, and that I'd spent much of the last year listening obessively to "Father/Son". Which is true. He was polite, gracious, and eager to get back to talking to his girlfriend. But it felt good to introduce myself to at least one major name. A surreal moment was watching Brangelina stroll up to the bar, the crowd parting like the red sea, and then everyone in eyesight just not-so-subtly shifting to stare at them. Brad and Angelina acting like nothing was odd about any of this. Well, props to them.

Miley Cyrus. I don't understand why she's famous, but she's a relatively pretty girl in person. I suppose she'll mature and end up fairly attractive like the other Disney stars before her (et. al Britney, Hillary Duff, etc.). Women in general at the Oscars are fairly scary, with an overabundance of make-up, surgery, Botox and dresses that scarily blur the line between evening down and slut-whore. At least the famous people can pull off tacky without looking like skanks. Not so much with lots of the other women there.

The Governor's Ball was a delight, with free-flowing champagne and wine, and a spot near the door to watch the celebrities stroll past the paparazzi. Anne Hathaway trips on the stairs as someone steps on her train, and I gently move for her elbow (she didn't really need the help). She gives me one of those bemused looks of, "Ooh, that was almost a bad one". An amusing moment. She is pretty stunning in person. 

Others, not so much. Remember Bridget Fonda? Well, not many people do, and it might because she looks like total ass (married to Danny Elfman, who was nominated). Kevin Kline bumps me heading into the ball. I love that guy, and damn, he's actually really tall. Phoebe Cates still looks great, and was wearing red, by the way, which is a color that boys of a certain age will perpetually associate with her. Anthony Hopkins, dragging along a woman my age; you fucking cliche goofball. And what's with the fucking earring? What, you think you're Harrison Ford or something? Christopher Walken, not looking so good. The chick from "Slumdog", gorgeous in person, and still not making me believe her character.

We shared a table with Michael Shannon, who was nominated for Best Supporting Actor. A nice enough guy, though he definitely had the full on, "I'm an actor" thing going on. His theater actor wife was very nice, and more concerned about getting back to their 8 month old baby than sticking around the party, which is a humanizing experience. Shannon was sweet to bring both his mother and step-mother, who was a nice lady from Chicago, though perhaps overly irritated by her son being beat by an iconic performance by a beloved dead-guy. Uh, I hate to break it to you, Ma'am, but for four men, it was an "honor to be nominated" kind of night. The food was decadent though unspectacular, but P. (my patron for the night) and I had our eyes on the clock, because the Oscars were only part 1 of an epic night.

It's well-known by those who know me that I'm a little bit of a Prince freak. A white boy from Wisconsin who danced in his basement to "When Doves Cry" when he was 8, has been through the ups and downs of fandom with our most mercurial of musical superstars. But seeing him live - especially when up close - is as close to musical nirvana as anyone will ever get. Trust me on that. And Prince announced a post-Oscar aftershow, just blocks from the awards. Damned if I was going to miss that. 

Moreover, I had introduced my friend V. to Prince's live music on our trip to Twentynine Palms. He's since been obsessed with seeing him live, and he was so determined to pull it off, that he stood on the curb for 6 hours to get us tickets. One of the sweetest things I've ever seen out of a friend, even though V. never seems to believe he's as good of a friend as he really is. Another friend got cold feet at the last minute, not willing to stand on line, but V. stood for half a day on a dirty Hollywood street with a bunch of strangers to see a musician that he had barely given any thought of prior to a month ago. P and I roll up at about 11:30, concerned about the ealier text messages that there are no tickets being sold - it's just a door charge - but the friendly Prince fans let us into line (we were only 10 people back), even though they'd been there all day. 

In pure Prince fashion (meaning, heavily disorganized and running late), we don't go inside until 12:30, and stand just at the left hand corner of the stage. Perfect. And in even more typical Prince fashion, he doesn't stroll onto stage until 1:15, and then proceeds to... tear it up. It was cover night in Prince's house, and we were treated to three Stones tunes, a blistering version of "Come Together" that would make Paul McCartney blink real hard, and a fun version of the Cars "Let's Go". I mean, the Cars??? Prince only played 5 of his own songs, and definitely seemed more into playing the Time's "Jungle Love" and "The Bird", which had the entire audience bouncing up and down, doing a 25 year old dance. Amazing. I think he's just kind of bored with his own catalogue, and as much as that pisses off the old-school, obsessive fans, I say it's all good. C'mon, wouldn't you get tired of your own music after 32 years too? Cut the man some slack, and he puts on the most amazing, captivating live show around.

V. couldn't get enough from P's exit, throwing his guitar on the ground and yelling, "Don't mess with me! I got too many hits!". It's a well-worn line for Prince fans, almost a nervous tic of his of sorts, but to V., he had clearly just seen the coolest guy on earth stroll off stage right, even though he left us without the second encore. But it was past 4 in the morning, and an amazing day needed to come to an end, even if none of us wanted it to. 

And when my friend was thirty-four 

He got his wish in Rome one night
He got to go down on Madonna
In Rome one night in some hotel
And ever since he's been depressed
'Cause life is shit from here on in

Here's hoping the song is wrong.

One of the lucky ones

February, 2009. 

Will this be the month that we'll look back on and realize that, "wow... yeah. America really hit the crapper THAT month?". Or was it October of '08? December? Hard to say. 

But there's no question that things are getting much worse before they get better, despite Obama's best intentions and earnest efforts. My ex still can't find work, and is at the end of her proverbial rope. We put our condo on the market, and amazingly, got an offer in 6 days. There are some people out there with money, but not many. Now fingers crossed that the deal holds. No guarantees in this world.

Further, it feels like a day doesn't go by where I don't hear about someone I personally know getting laid off. Two weeks ago it was good friends, married, a baby due in May. Both got laid off on the same day. Yesterday, it was the boyfriend of my closest co-worker.

And today it was my co-workers. A lot of them. We're an amazingly profitable company ($60+m in '08) with 300 employees, but even we can't weather the storm. 50 workers were fired, downsized, eliminated, let go, shown the door, today. Whatever euphamism you want to throw out there. It doesn't change the fact that 50 people were marched into rooms, told "it's the economy, stupid" and shown the door. 50 more people sucking up California unemployment in a state that's nearly bankrupt. 50 less people to accomplish the "mission critical" job that we've been tasked to do in a major re-invention year for our business. 

I've been on my new team for 3 weeks. For the second time in 3 months (since we downsized 10% only 2 months ago, when I was in an awkward "transition" period), I danced through the raindrops. In pretty eerie fashion though. I am one of two "product managers" in my department. I've been a product manager all of 3 weeks. My counterpart's been with the company 9 years, but she happens to work out of Connectticut in a sweetheart deal she was able to get a few years ago; we've managed to operate with a lot of conference calls and email. And she's a sweetheart, and competent, and likely an asset to the company (though I didn't work with her long enough to really know). But... guess who got fired?

It wasn't me. 

Maybe it's being cynical to just presume that geography was the deciding factor. I am well-liked at the company, so it could've been a real view of potential, value or something like that. That'd be nice to think, and I actually thanked my department head for keeping me on the team, and he seemed to really appreciate that, and also said that he thought highly of me. So on a very grim day, that was a nice emotional boost for me, and probably somewhat cathartic for him. 

It's all headlines until it's you. Until it's the person in the cube next to you. The husband who can't find work. The ex-wife who can't get an interview. The father who's forced into early retirement. The sister who can't get a job out of college because there are no jobs to be had. 

It's going to get worse before it gets better. A lot worse.

Where have you gone, Crash?

There is a difference between true actors and true movie stars. Sometimes they come together in the same package as in the case of Brando or DeNiro, but often they don't. Steve McQueen was a charismatic movie star, but would you look to him for depth, nuance or complexity? Not really. Harrison Ford had his moments as an actor ("Mosquito Coast", "Witness", "Working Girl"), but mostly he falls into the latter category. Though these days, I'm not sure he falls anywhere. 

Due to my age, I became a movie fan in the era of Kevin Costner. Watching him seduce Sean Young in the back of a limo in opened up delicious possibilities, while the earnest nobility of Elliot Ness made Connery's death that much more painful. But post-"Waterworld", Kevin Costner's become a punchline and a punching bag, much of which he's brought upon himself due to his rather naked sense of self-importance ("The Postman", which couldn't even be redeemed by a deliriously illogical cameo by Tom Petty), and woeful career choices ("3000 Miles to Graceland" could've easily been called "120 Minutes  of Pulp Fiction-lite Hell"). 

None of which changes the fact that from about 1987, starting with "No Way Out" through at least "The Bodyguard" in 1992, he pretty much owned Hollywood. Women loved him, and men wanted to be him. I was in the latter category, and unlike stars like Pitt and Cruise, he had a masculinty that men weren't threatened by. Similar to McQueen, he seemed like a "real man", a Miller Lite commercial without the cheesiness. When he brazenly, directly stated that, "I believe in the cock, the pussy... and long, deep wet kisses that last three days", he made women melt, and men take notes. 

No, Costner's not a great actor, and is often not even very good. Though he's had revelations, such as the quiet complexity of "A Perfect World", and Crash Davis is a master class of aging regret and masculine seduction. But he's always been a movie star first and actor second, which is part of why he's gotten second, third and fourth chances after a litany of box office failures. He made a lot of people a lot of money over the years, and "Dances With Wolves" bought him some respect and freedom, despite winning a truckload of Oscars above the more deserving "Goodfellas". Which, in its own way, was the start of the backlash - he was TOO big, and people knew that, and with the benefit of very short hindsight, it was clear that the noble and grand, though conventional storytellng of "Wolves" couldn't hold a candle to the artistry of Scorsese's pulsing, breathing crime epic. When "Waterworld" ushered in the modern era of mega-budgeted "failures", though it's conveniently forgotten (or, more accurately, ignored) that the man-with-gills ridiculousness actually made money.  Truly, the only thing we like more than building up and worshipping celebrities is tearing them to pieces. 

Which is what makes his complete, utter inability to find an interesting, quality movie so depressing. A few decent reviews got me to spend the evening with "Mr. Brooks", which is a miserable, almost comically cliche serial killer movie, populated with has-beens (Demi Moore) and pathetic never-will-bes (Dane Cook). All apologies to William Hurt, who gets a free pass for any of the shite he routinely appears in because, well, he's William Hurt. Costner feigns tortured soul complexity, but aside from one genuinely emotional scene, it's all a cheap fabrication to go along with the even cheaper plotting and overdone sets. 

Will no one of actual talent deign to work with this guy anymore? Costner's had moments over the years, from the underrated and fairly exceptional "Open Range", and he showed that used-up, booze-soaked charm again in "The Upside of Anger", but though he has movie-star charm to spare, no one seems willing or able to tap it. He hasn't acted with anyone relevant in the zeitgeist in years. Though he appeared against Jennifer Aniston, she was at low ebb, and Costner's doomed to star against B and C talents like Ashton Kutcher and Dane Cook rather than Matt Damon or even Shia LaBeaouf. The biggest name in his next movie is Samantha Mathis. When you ask, "Who?!", my answer is, "Exactly". 

I'm wondering if Kevin Costner has another great movie in him, or just a movie that will again connect with audiences. He and Prince (my musical god) have that trait in common: they owned the '80s, and though there's still potential for greatness, it feels destined to remain unrealized. Though Prince has genuine briliance and talent, Costner may have been more a construct of an era, a time that has passed him - and us - by.

So here's to Crash Davis. Would love to see him standing in the rain again, heading up to Annie Savoy's porch, ready to win her heart and to serve as our stand-ins for the lives we'll never lead, the women we'll never fuck, and the men we'll never quite be. 

New Turns, New Roads

Benjamin Button said that life is defined by those moments of opportunity, and the question is how someone reacts to them. Do you take this path, or another? Or stay on the same path? Sometimes the paths you take create waves in the lives of others. My wife needed another path, and it sent my own life into a tailspin, and forever changed the tenor, texture and shape of our son's. How his will develop in the long run is another question. 

My professional life the last three years, having left Hollywood for the fast-paced, fast-rising world of the Internet has been a study in movement. Each year has brought on new challenges, and new opportunities. After a great 2008 (professionally, at least), my initiative was eliminated due to corporate priorities and restructuring, that left me driftless and confused. 

I need a new challenge, I need fresh ideas and that learning curve that's going to take me to the next level. At the same time, I'm reticent to change, and am generally fearful of strong shifts in my life. That's part of why I didn't leave the company when I had a chance a year ago (which turned out to be a remarkably smart move, given the economy and other factors). 

Yesterday I was offered a job on another team within our company. Flattering to be thought of. Great new skills to be learned, central to the company's mission, and developing talents that must be considered core to the overall structure of Internet content sites. Pretty key. Yet, again, it's change. The comfortable stability of my team, of my knowledge base, the reassurance of strong management. Those will be lost in the short term, at least, in favor of the unknown.

The unknown frequently scares me, but I need to learn to embrace it with more open, excited arms. 

Twentynine Palms, CA

Bet you haven't heard of that town, have you?

Let me tell you a bit about it. It has not one, but TWO, military buzz cut barbers. Four tattoo parlors on the main drag. Military bar 5 miles away. Bar and grill called "Stumps", where when the bartender asks if Stacy is ready to sing karaoke, gets the response, "FUCK YEAH!!!". 

My friend V and I rented a house in the middle of this absolute nowhere. I wasn't involved in the process, and when I learned how much we were paying (on the drive out), I have to admit that I stopped for a moment and said to myself, "what the fuck are we doing?". The house is distantly in the middle of nowhere from town, and given the town I just described... this is the middle of nowhere. 2 miles on a dirt road, with no houses in earshot, save for another rental owned by the same person across the road. We were a bit perplexed about the fences around the property (robbers? late night danger?) but when you see coyotes wandering around, you start to get the logic.

Why'd we come here? I'm not sure why V did, although he has a thirst for new experiences, and the great thing about him is that while he likes the high life and pretention, he can seem pretty comfortable just about anywhere. For me, I had the opportunity to spend New Years with old friends (who I have spent most of the past 12 years ringing in the New Year with) at the house of one of the two creators of South Park, but while that sounds conceptually "fun", I just couldn't be bothered. It sounded like a trial, spending my night with a collection of people I don't know, and those that I do... I don't really know anymore. That couldn't have been more clear than on the drive out, sending a text to N. to wish him a Happy New Year, and getting a perky response back that "Hey, we're going to XXX... If you're not doing anything, you should join us!". This is a guy I spent endless years celebrating with, and I explicitly told him I wouldn't be around, but his response was that cheerful, "hey, I think I know you, dude. Here's where I am... feel free to stop by" kind of answer. Just not interested. 

Instead, I spent a laid back NYE under the stars, followed by days in the Joshua Tree desert. Finding the remains of a broken down shack owned by a California state representative, which was creepy, fascinating and utterly compelling in every way. Me and V found registers from the US Office of Representatives, Plaques from the US Senate, and a burned out bed. Absolutely riveting. There's a movie there. 

We've also watched a bunch of great movies (V was enamored with Citzen Kane, which he's never seen, though The Exorcist and Talk Radio went over a bit more questioningly) and today spent the day climbing the gigantic rocks of Joshua Tree, where one wrong slip could've left us with either a broken leg or worse. It was grandiose and gorgeous, along with a tremendous physical challenge. Spent much of the time wondering if we were going to be able to get off the mountain, and genuinely questioning if there was a path of out of there that wouldn't kill us. There's a message there, I'm sure.

V passed out early though, as I am ironically the only one doing any drinking. I'm getting drunk and sitting under the stars, next to a gigantic fire beside the hot tub. While I'm not a desert guy at all, this has been austere and absolutely captivating. I wish it wasn't ending, maybe because that means returning to my life and figuring out what it all means. The endless disappointments and frustrations, the fear of being alone forever, of getting out of a failed marriage. 

I wish I could stay longer.