Freeway Signs and the Weather

"A kiss may not be the truth, but it is what we wish were true" - Steve Martin, L.A. Story

When I was in college, the Steve Martin film L.A. Story held real, deep resonance for me. It was filled with offbeat, absurd humor, but every few minutes, Martin would slow everything down to a crawl and inject the story with an almost mystical sentiment. It comes across as completely unnatural - even in the context of such fourth-wall breaking film - but it's so intensely felt, earnest and, hell... honest, that it wins you over. It's a movie where a sooth-saying traffic sign can tell Martin that the weather will change his life twice, and when it does, it's utterly predictable, but so comfortable, a warm thought of the way the world should operate. The way that we all believe it should. On the best of days, we believe that it's the way the world could.

My appreciation of the film spanned my college years, before I even moved to Los Angeles. And I honestly don't think I've watched it in the entire 13 years I've lived in this particular, unique cement jungle. Sure, some jokes stood up to memory, such as Martin driving his car 20 feet to a next door neighbor's house, but there are so many throwaway LA moments that a Midwestern kid would never have appreciated prior to living here, like Martin's frustration at his girlfriend pretentiously stalling for 20 minutes of before a luncheon, just so they wouldn't be on time... and then still being the first ones there. Perfect. Or Richard Grant commenting that he lives in the Valley, and even the valets snicker mercilously at him.

After so many years, I introduced the film to a friend tonight (we had intended to watch "The Shining" on Blu-Ray, another nostalgia moment, but the disc he brought was bad). He's French, and has lived in Los Angeles for 5 years, and even though the movie is quite dated in many ways, the humor is still dead-on, and the observations about LA life hasn't really changed all that much. He loved it.

It's still the romantic yearning of the piece that resonates with me, and now makes me sad in many ways. "Why do we never notice the moment when love begins, but know exactly the moment that love ends?", Martin asks at the final turning point. It's a poignant line, and for Martin in his mid-40s, a happily married superstar, it was an easy pedastal to play artistic muse from. But shortly after L.A. Story, Martin divorced his co-star, and developed something of a reputation for liking women on the younger end of the spectrum. The SanDeE* types, perhaps. I even have a friend who was propositioned, of sorts, by Martin, who fled when she learned she was married. A very, very amusing anecdote for another time...

Martin's a true romantic. An erudite sensualist, and it's those elements that I try to hold onto every time I see him painfully cashing in another dreadful paycheck (he should play golf with DeNiro and Pacino, all laughing their asses off on how they've worked the system). Yet here he is, now in his 60s, with more money than I'm sure he could know what to do with, but he's still the picture of one of his most beautiful lines: "A kiss may not be the truth, but it's what we wish were true". That's so beautiful and sad, and I can't help but be a little pissed and wonder that if he can't get it right, is this the future staring at the rest of us? When you find yourself alone in your thirties, or forties, or fifties... in Los Angeles (a very, very important detail), is this the more likely fate than not?

Steve Martin had a magical freeway sign to point his way, and even the weather and the heavens turned to be on his side, and even then he just barely made it work. And in that great line, there's the cautious sadness in it - what if that kiss isn't true, like you want to believe? I'd like to presume that Martin wrote that film as a result of his love and adoration for the lovely co-star. It sure reads that way. And then they divorced. So if a kiss really can be truth, it suggests something even more ominous: truth is transitory and fleeting. So even if you find truth, you may not be able to understand it or hold onto it for long.

But Martin keeps trying (hell, anyone seen "Shopgirl"?). Best of luck, Mr. Martin... and maybe freeway signs and the weather will have pity on the rest of us.

Working out his feelings

Children are much better communicators than adults, and are also far more thoughtful or reflective than we probably give them credit for. I spend a lot of time watching my son in the rear view mirror as we're driving, and you can see it in his eyes - that he's really chewing over something, trying to figure something out.

Little kids are also able to make strong, tangential, thematic connections between seemingly unrelated subjects. We were watching the movie "Enchanted" the other day, and there's a moment where a 10-year-old girl is saying to the princess, Giselle, that she never got to go shopping with her mother, who died. Now, my ex is not dead, but Zach gets very serious and somber for a moment, and looks at me and says, "I miss my mommy when she's not here". Smart kid.

There is the amusing side to this precocious insight, too. Apparently while being driven to pre-school today, she asks Zach, "how are you doing?". He answers, "I have to work out my feelings".

I pray that he'll always keep working out his feelings. That will save him a lot of heartbreak in the long run.

Smart kid, indeed.

Life's a Circle Caught Inside a Square

Funny how life can come full circle, isn't it?

Once upon a time, I was a screenwriter. Maybe not a great one, but a pretty good one, but one who struggled more than he succeeded. Ultimately, the balls bounced the wrong way, and I ended up taking myself out of bounds. I'm generally happy with that decision, to be honest, though I do miss it.

Going through the process of separation, you get nostalgic for a lot of things. Things from the recent past, things from times long forgotten. You're desperate to figure out who you are, so you reach at straws - if you can't figure out who you are anymore, maybe you can triangulate by figuring out who you were.

I got a pointless urge to re-read a script that I wrote over 10 years ago. In fact, it's the first one I ever wrote on my own (my first script was with a partner), which all but obligates it to being semi-autobiographical, navel-gazing, unselfconsciously pretentious, and mostly bad. And, sure enough, the script didn't disappoint. It's heart was completely in the right place, and nothing else was.

As a writer, I can say that it's very good to have gotten that out, created it and purged it... and only let one or two other people ever read it. Much better that way.

Needless to say, it was a typical coming of age story - young love, first romance, all that shit. Granted, the real life story behind it was... unique... in many ways and more. And I'm not just saying that - the framework for "first love" was atypical to a large degree. But the basic emotional thrust and arc, well... we've all seen this story a million times. But in revisiting it after 10 years, it was amazing to be momentarily thrust back to events that took place in slightly different form nearly 20 years ago. Jesus, I'm getting old.

In retrospect, however, what becomes interesting about the script (at this particular moment in time) is the structural device I chose. Can you possibly guess what it is? Of course you can: the flashback structure. Yes, using a flashback structure was horribly cliche, tiresome and silly, but again, what makes it notable now is how it cuts so unintentionally close to the bone.

In the script, the protagonist's wife leaves him, and this instigates a big flashback and memory of the one that got away. That first one that made Such. A. Deep. Impression.

Isn't every first romance that way?

No, the guy doesn't think at all about the wife who left him, but rather, the girl who first took his virginity. Rather horribly, I never even dramatized the wife at all - she was just a construct to make the guy think about how it was "so much better back when".

But how stupidly ironic is that? What was I doing here other than obsessing over a past that's long been cast to the winds of memory, all as a way of avoiding what's right in front of me. Finishing the script in record time (its quality didn't demand a careful reading of every line), the script ends with a group of friends toasting the protagonist on the day of his divorce, trying to buck up his motivation and self-esteem for what's coming around the corner.

I recently had a similar night, out with a divorced guy who was telling me about what I may find around the corner.

How strange to read those words from a 24 year old writer, who had absolutely no conception that he'd face a similar situation some 10 years down the line. A kid so immature and inexperienced that he couldn't possibly understand just how traumatic, devastating and complicated it all would become. A flashforward premonition without even realizing it. When it was all just a dramatic construct, a structural device, and not a very good one at that.

Somehow it all comes full circle, inside an inescapable square.

Young Love, Marriage and Mormonism

My son, Zach, married this morning. To two women.

Ella and Tala. He's either a Mormon, or a total stud.

Need I mention that my son is 3? Ok, 3 1/2, he'll tell you. Zach made sure to explain to me that, "We held hands and got married. But it was just pretend". Thanks for the clarification, Zach.

Needless to say, he's gotten his first marriage out of the way, which at this point in my life, I commend him for. I hope that the tattered ends of this marriage do as little damage to him as mine has done much. He deserves it.

I asked Zach who officiated said ceremony, though I didn't think to inquire about caterers, florists or placecard settings. Instead, Zach told me that a kid named Oliver tried to edge in on the proceedings, creating some emotional havoc between the happy threesome.

"But Tala and Ella didn't want to marry Oliver", he insisted. Zach didn't want to marry him either. Apparently he wasn't in the mood to share.

I don't know if he even grasps what marriage is. He obviously understands the dissolution of the relationship between mommy and daddy, but does he know that mommy and daddy are "married"? That they will someday be "divorced"? (I still haven't yet bought one of those helpful books of dinosaurs divorcing, because who better to associate with divorce than extinct meat-eaters who once ruled the earth?)

I recall my own first wedding. I was six. I married Katrina. We walked down the "aisle", between a row of kids, and some kid probably mumbled something about us now being married. Then we went over to the chain link fence to find out if we could kiss for the entire rest of recess. I think our lips actually stayed locked that whole time, and didn't do much else. I subsequently remarried in fourth and sixth grades, which I think was the peak of my appeal with girls. I'm pretty sure Zach's appeal will last longer...

Maybe it's a good thing to get the first one out of the way. Maybe the second time is meant to be better. My second marriage was with Rebecca, a 4th-grade brunette who towered over me by a good 2 or 3 inches. Maybe it was even 4. Remember that age when the girls all shot past the boys? Yes, I remember that time. Unfortunately for me, the guys largely picked up on the slack... I didn't. But I've long come to terms with the genetic hand dealt me; it's not a big deal to me, though now that I am suddenly "single" again (shudder...), I realize and hate that it actually still is a big deal. My ex never cared... maybe there will be others.

Back to first marriages... Why can't we learn the necessary life lessons when we're three, or six, to avoid all the heartbreak, anger and resentful discussions over who gets what picture frames and bedding sets?

Three year olds are much better communicators, frankly, than adults. They feel something, and they say it. Adults don't do that. They hold it in, build up anger and misunderstandings, and eventually explode or implode. A 3 year old would never do that. No, they would speak their mind, just as Zach did today, saying "Oliver, I don't want to marry you". You tell that boy, Zach. Don't marry him. You got the girl (well, girls, actually), as I knew you would. Destined to be a little heartbreaker.

I just hope he takes some of the lessons from today and learns from them. I wonder if he asked for a pre-nup.

Going through a divorce - though I'm not even officially on that page yet - is a astonishingly debilitating experience from a self-esteem perspective. It doesn't help that I spent most of this year receiving a litany of blame for the failings of my marriage. And while I certainly committed many sins of omission, and had my moments of thoughtlessness and carelessness, I didn't create all of the failings that ultimately did in our marriage. It was a combination of both of our behaviors, and factors on each side. But I've spent most of this year taking the blame, acknowledging it and internalizing that, which takes a massive toll on your self-image, self-esteem, etc.

Needless to say, you go through this process, and you start to wonder... am I lovable? Can anyone even be interested in me, attracted to me, wanting to spend time with me? It's a terrifying situation, and it doesn't help being a single father with a solid, but not groundbreaking, career. Yeah, I do okay, but I'm not jetting off to Cabo on the weekends, and I'm going to suffer the indignity of even having to sell my condo in this horrible market to get through the divorce.

So, it's certainly not a time when you feel very good about yourself.

Meanwhile, there's a woman I know, who I casually asked out for drinks. With no overt agenda, but deep down, from the time I met her I had a crush on her. There was something about the way she looked at the world - with an amazingly well-rounded point of view, and an inquisitiveness and energy, that was captivating. Yes, she's beautiful as well, but it wasn't even that. It was her energy. She's the kind of person you feel you could disagree with, and she wouldn't take it personally. She's someone that I feel energized to be around.

So she agreed to go out for drinks, and in the back of my mind, I was hoping we'd get along, so I could have the courage to ask her out. Expecting, of course, that I would be turned down. Because that's what I've come to believe about myself, not to mention the fact that I haven't asked a woman out in 12 years, and the last one I did married me (then again, shouldn't that be a positive sign, rather than a negative?). But we went out for drinks, and got along fabulously, and midway through the night she made reference to "our first date". 

Cue contrived needle scratching a record sound effect.

Wait, this is our first date?

I couldn't believe it. Not only were we over the ask-her-out-the-first-time hurdle, but moreover, she wanted to be here on the date. And she was having a good time. Maybe I was even charming, or likable, or attractive. And at the end of the (what I now understand to be the first) date, she wanted to go out again. A brief kiss goodnight. 

And I can't even express what a pleasure it was to have a first date with someone who I not only enjoyed spending time with, but also made me feel good about myself. Yes, a very selfish emotional need, but I think there are times when we all need that.

There are good days

It's Friday. After a very long week. Thank god it's over.

But Friday night turned into a delightful surprise. What was supposed to be a casual night out, with personal undercurrents that I felt, turned out to be a a fantastically wonderful night where it turns out I wasn't the only one on that page.

Feels like a Mozart moment. At least for the night...

Winner in 3

Finding yourself single again is supposed to be about discovering new things to enjoy, or reconnecting with old things. I've caught up with old friends, including my college girlfriend, who is a wonderful woman going through some shit of her own that she is, frankly, too good a person in my opinion to have to endure. I tracked down one of my first co-workers in LA, who I haven't seen in 8 years, who is still in the Hollywood rat race and loving it, though... she seemed quietly sad too. 

But one of the things that I've really enjoyed the last few months is playing tennis. I play with my friend Stuart, and we're both guys who hadn't picked up a racket in 10-15 years (I think I last played in high school). We're both naturally athletic, but obviously not great tennis talents yet. We play every week, almost without fail, and we're pretty evenly matched, and getting better each week. The matches are pretty competitive - we both like to win, and we both like to push ourselves. Since I haven't had many physical outlets the last few years chasing around a little kid (I haven't made the time, and am fortunate not to get fat naturally...), this has been great. 

Stuart led the series 6-4 up until a couple weeks ago, and we had to call a tough match because of darkness. So that didn't hit either win column. I've had a bear of two weeks of work, doing nothing other than working or caring for Zach since... god, it feels like forever. Or at least since the camping trip. So I really, really needed to work out some aggression tonight. Took the first set, 6-4, lost the second 6-3 and then jumped out to a 5-2 lead in the third before collapsing and letting him tie it up at 5-5. After finally stopping driving the ball long, and held on for the win, 7-5. Felt pretty good. A minor Mozart moment. 

Though Stuart still has me, 6-5.

I am, but I'm not

Today was my wedding anniversary. 8 years. Except she all but ended the marriage 5 months ago.

A piece of paper says I'm married. Nothing else does.

If you're married in a forest, does anyone notice?

I Will Not Send You To The Darkness Alone...

"You forget what you want to remember, and remember what you want to forget" - The Man, to his Son, in "The Road"

In all likelihood, there aren't many people around in America that have read as many books as I have. That's not meant to sound arrogant. Rather, it's just math. I used to be paid to read books and screenplays, so over an 8 year period, I probably read 1200-1500 novels. Add in a bunch of Stephen King, Hardy Boys and mystery books as an adolescent, an English degree, a genuine love of reading, etc, and the number rises.... So aside from longtime literary agents, readers and proofreaders, I've probably read books more than most Americans. Then again, that's not a very high bar to cross these days, and whether I've internalized most of those books, or can even remember them, is another story entirely. And not a very good story, sadly.

The downside of doing that kind of work, which I did for so many years, is that I never had time to read books for my own pleasure. The only exception was John Irving novels. Irving's my literary idol, and I'd put everything aside, from food to sleep, to devour his latest books which took him so long to create. Unfortunately, the last couple of books could've used far more time in the womb, because they came out pretty much stillborn. I wonder if he'll be able to climb that artistic mountain again... the last two books fell so, so flat.

But now that I've been out of that career for some time, I'm finally finding the pleasure in reading fiction again. And I just read Cormac McCarthy's, "The Road". Which was perhaps the most devastating reading process I've ever experienced. Or endured, as the case may be. It was an utterly terrible, haunting, transcendent, emotionally wrecking experience.

The book follows an unnamed father and son wandering in a post-apocalyptic America, trying to reach the coast while avoiding dangerous marauders who sporadically dot the countryside - and the Road. Not much happens aside from their search for food, shelter and warmth, and the considerations of their slowly crumbling moral compass in an amoral, empty world.

It's a novel about endurance and morality in a world that's been laid utterly bare, but more than anything, it's a father and son story. About how a father will do anything to keep his son alive, even though he knows there's nothing at the end of the road for them. There is no hope, there is no future.

In the current state of my life, this has a poignant, very real resonance for me. There are times when I feel like me and my son are alone on a road just like that, with no one to turn to or rely on. This thought is, of course, complete hogwash, but in my darkest, solitary moments, it somehow rings true. And every page and passage tore my heart out, with the spare dialogue, the poetic depictions of a world without life, sustenance or possibility.

"I will do what I promised, he whispered. No matter what. I will not send you into the darkness alone."

I don't think I've ever had a passage from a book cause me to spontaneously burst into huge, wracking sobs that wouldn't subside for a number of minutes... at least not until I encountered those words. I was crying so loudly I thought the neighbors would be concerned.

The man says this to his son as he holds him during the cold night, convinced that his boy won't survive until dawn, and I often think of my own son the same way... and yet it is I that needs someone to say those very words to me.

No Bears, oh my!

Took my son on his first camping trip. Since he's only 3 1/2, we kept it close to Los Angeles, winding our way through the Angeles National Forest above La Canada to a gorgeous, mountainous area called Buckhorn. Bear country. Fir and pine trees all over the place, the hillside littered with the carcasses of long living, recently dead redwoods. A stunning place.

Zach was an absolute trooper, helping put up the tent as much as he could, laying out his new dinosaurs in the dirt and doing everything I asked of him. Pleasantly, we met a family of three with their 20 month old up for the whole weekend. Zach became the quick big brother to Jack, who he insisted on calling 'Jack Jack' throughout. He had his first smore, which was like Bubbles' heroin need on "The Wire". Needless to say, he was hooked. After the whole experience, Zach insisted his favorite part of the trip were the marshmallows. Then demanding an answer on his second favorite thing... marshmallows. Requesting insight into his third favorite... marshmallows.

I still think he had a good time, though.

The Buckhorn campground is filled with warnings about bears. They're indigenous to the area, and prevalent, and it's not uncommon for them to raid a camp in search of a free meal. This makes them fairly harmless, because they've been domesticated by the easy access to food. For better or worse, however, we never saw one. Zach couldn't decide if he was happy or sad about that turn of events. Honestly, neither could I.

The entire trip was great, although Zach became painfully aware of the difference between our campground and our neighbors. Zach and his daddy, and Jack and his daddy... and momma. Late at night, Zach sobbed in a way that seemed WAY too mature for his years, saying "A kid should have a daddy AND a momma to take him camping, like Jack!". It broke my heart. Because he's right, and he doesn't have that. If he ever does have it again, it'll be a weird merging of families and people, that one of the real mommas or daddys can't take part in or understand. It broke my heart, and his.

Late that night, I sat around the fire with the parents - two very nice, sweet people - who generously were passing around the pot pipe, and learned that the mom's parents separated when she was 3. Lots of similarities there. But the takeaway was that she admitted that it crippled her relationships with men until very recently in life, and she was probably pushing 42 or so. And she was a counselor and spiritual healer, so not one out of touch with her emotional side. Of course, sometimes it seems the therapists are the most screwed up, but she certainly seemed to be pretty well-balanced.

In the midst of the natural wonder, the starry night, and the wonderful time spent with my son, it was almost as if I could hear bears rustling through the undergrowth.