Dearest Mommie

Tomorrow, my mother arrives.

For those who know her, that is a tremendously weighted sentence.

I must confess I am excited/frightened/loathing/worried/relieved/anticipating/looking forward to our time together. My mother is very(too) close to me. Family is very(too) important to me. It has been a year since I saw her, ironically at a surprise wedding celebration she threw for us. That last sentence makes me seem like Nicolas Cage, all instant Hollywood wedding and divorce and all.

She planned this trip before my life took a permanent stop in the shitter. Now, I can feel her salivating at the opportunity to "mother" me.

See, she had me at the ripe old age of 17. Actually, that makes her seem experienced, when the truth is she had only just turned 17 six days before my arrival. So, besides harassing my father, I am the thing she has done the longest.

She lets me know that too. She is very proud of me(proof that people should actually experience life before procreating and then vicariously living). Not to say that she isn't "involved" with my brother and sister, but she is a bit more in tune with me due to my unusual, and to her, enlightened path.

These days, however, she doesn't have anyone to mother. It has been like that for a while. None of her children followed in her foothpath and squirted out the next gen early. In fact, the youngest, at age 30, is only now talking kids. My brother is aged 34 and no where near even meeting the right woman, not to mention inseminating her. And of course, any hope of me being the vanguard in that field has been abandoned. As my father so delicately put it the other day, they just hope that someday I might adopt a starving Asian.

Due to her lack of purpose in life, my mother has found an alternative hobby. Alcohol. She isn't quite to AA proportions, but she is certainly creating a secret buzz amongst family members. The problem with this is, she gets drunk and wants her mothering life back. So, when she is too emotional, and depressed, and not censoring herself due to poor objective ability caused by wine, she starts to "love" us. Let me tell you, that is creepy. My wife was privy to this once, and after exclaiming, Oh my God, she had to leave the room. Uncomfortable.

And now, this is landing in my lap. At a time when I could actually use some mothering, but the easy kind. The let me hug you, and tell you it gets better, and then move on kind. Not the emotional, finally I have a goal, super-uber mothering.

So, part of me feels like I have to be strong for her, so she doesn't need to be strong for me. The other part of me is racing to fill a schedule where we are never close to a liquor bottle for any where near an hour. Then, we can come back here, and she will crash in my bed, and I will get improper, worried, repressed sleep on my couch, only to have her arise at 7AM, after lying in bed awake for two hours, and start doing the dishes for me.

Well, it is only four days. Only ninety six hours. Only five thousand seven hundred sixty minutes. Only three hundred forty five thousand, six hundred seconds.

Needless to say, I will not be blogging during that time. I know from experience that the last thing you want is the people who love you to know the inner truth about you. She must never discover this, or I will have to kill her. Hell, just reading this post would do the job.

When I return, I will talk more about my next improv show, which I have yet to find out if I am in (even though, I named the show), and how terrible it will be. I will also work through the big life change I put into motion. That being, I asked a friend to be my roommate, and he said that sounds good. We need to discuss the matter more, but it looks like a go.

Til then...

A view from the toilet

After taking down most of the artwork in the apartment, I definitely started to feel better. It was a large blank, but that is better than painful sentimentalism.

But that is just me.

When my wife made an unexpected stop to pick up some financial info, she didn't find the removal of her traces comforting at all.

She in fact threw, what is known in the psychological field as, a "tizzy". That wasn't fun.

Not only did I miss lunch, as I tried to explain my reasons, but I further destroyed my appetite as I grew angry and started shouting at her. I stormed out, and went to work.

When I returned, already feeling remorse at having a STUPID argument, I got aquainted with the feeling of empathy. In other words, I knew exactly what she felt when she walked into the apartment. I knew this, because, she had, in my absence, completed the job I had only begun.

Now, anything at all that had any trace of her was removed and put into the spare bedroom, and the door was closed. I felt robbed. I couldn't handle the art, because art was so much a factor of her personality that it would constantly remind me of her, but I could handle little knick-knacks, and signs we had put up as goofy affirmations, and her collection of hats in our bedroom, or the spare clothing left behind.

Why I could handle some and not others, I don't know. You've been reading this... just try and figure me out.

I stood there, shocked. I do that often these days.

The bedroom seemed the most empty. All the little nails, ringing the ceiling, stared down at me through the night. Empty, they whispered, as I slept. The closet was a gaping maw, yelling at me in the morning, as the sun hit the white of the walls, that hadn't seen sun in so many years for the forest of clothes. Empty!

Then the most curious of things happened.

Where most of the empty spots seemed all that more empty for what I knew wasn't there, there was one spot, in the bathroom, that seemed even more empty, because I realized I couldn't remember what was there before.

I sat there staring at that lone nail, desperately trying to recall what had greeted me before. Granted, that particular moment is not one where we debate, internally, the finer points of color theory, but it was one of the few pieces that would have gotten a guaranteed viewing EVERY day.

I just couldn't recall.

So, I did the next logical step. I entered the forbidden zone. Pushing open the closed door seemed so bold and defiant. Here was territory, although formerly mine, that was clearly designated as off limits. Do not enter, the door said. My pushing it open actually took some force. I was not just pushing a free swinging rectangle of wood, I was pushing the limits of decorum. Wars have begun on much less grounds.

I pitied the pile of hats, so uncermoniously dumped from their former glory. The collection of stuffed cats seemed homeless, and I think I heard mewing. Plaintive mewing. I know this because my live cat came rushing into the room, looking for something- I'm sure he didn't know what.

The few pieces of artwork I did find around were not the one I was looking for. Some that I knew were missing, indeed were still missing from that room. Had they been too valuable to leave in my care? Or were they so tainted from my viewing them, that they had been discarded and were now forever gone?

Either way, my question had not been answered.

Still, in my mind is a hole.

Probably only the first of many, that tells me there are going to be things about your life- your former life, that you will forget. Slowly, they will slip away. That is both a comfort and frightening.

Early on in this split, my wife called me crying. She was scared because she said, "Who is going to remember the things about me that I forget?"

Well, I said, maybe nobody, or maybe your friends, but the great thing about that is, you will also forget that you don't know these things. If you don't realize that it is missing, then it isn't.

Unless there is a nail there to remind you it is.

The wrong part of me is numb

The other night I pulled something in my back. Nothing new. I have frequent back pain, I have a guy, he helps me, all good.

This one, however, was unusual, in that, I felt a shooting pain down my right leg. First time for that. As the night progressed, so did the pain in my back and leg.

Then I awoke, about 3am with intense pain. Plus, my whole leg was numb. I thought maybe I had been in the wrong position, and shifting would help, but alas, as the hours passed, there was no relief or change.

That's when my brain started to do its job. It panicked.

I haven't had such great luck this summer, and I thought, with my numb leg, that I was about to take that a step (pun not included) further. I decided that I was going to wake up paralyzed.

Who thinks that? Who actually thinks, OK, now I will need a wheelchair.

At 4am, I made a mental list of the appropriate people to call to inform them I no longer had the use of my legs (the disease had already spread). It takes a certain kind of person to be awoken with paraplegia. Not a job for Mom. Maybe a best friend, but generally I would recommend someone not too close to you, so that they don't panic and are able to help you, since you went through the trouble of crawling to the phone.

I had decided that I should not get a motorized wheelchair, because it would be tough dating as an invalid, but if I got a manual wheelchair, at least, I could build my upper body strength, and look, and then maybe have an edge over other
top-light "walkers".

I fretted over my career, knowing now that there aren't too many restaurants that hire leg free waiters. Maybe, I thought, I could be the interactive dessert cart at a real fancy place. Another rugala, Mrs. Speilberg?

As the night passed, I went in and out of conciousness. I also slept some. When I awoke in the morning, all was fine, if maybe a bit stiff.

If it wasn't for this brain of mine, I might just have been a functioning human.

Oh well, next life.

Big loss, huge gain

Tough weekend. One of the worst.

Let me explain.

At the beginning of this trial seperation, my wife and I didn't talk. Then, gradually, we began to talk again.

First, it was just on Saturdays after she got done teaching. We would meet and swap important bill or check stuff, and see how the other was dealing with this. During these times, we would check to see if this was going to be just a bump in the road, or if we were just putting off the inevitable.

We both seemed to agree that it was the end; that is, we were both really ok with letting the spouse go. What we didn't realize was, we were not ready to let the friend go. That realization came this week.

We started to talk more this week. She was scared, or I was upset and broke. She didn't want to get a new apartment, and I didn't want to have to live with a roommate. We were almost able to help each other, but then the last day, we just couldn't get past our own shit to help the other. We hung up the phone feeling awkward.

When I told a friend this, he said that I needed to cut things off. That we couldn't be there for each other any more, it was unhealthy. I knew what he was saying, but I just didn't let it sink in. He told me it was now time that I became my own best friend.

Then, Saturday morning came around. I found myself making enough coffee for when she came by. I was delaying going to the grocery store, so that I could pick up lunch in case she was hungry. Old me. Old routine.

When my wife called, I thought it was to say, I'll be right there. Instead, she said that we couldn't do this anymore. She wasn't coming over. I knew she was right. I told her we couldn't be this for the other. She said yeah, then said goodbye.

I hung up the phone and stood there for a moment. Something had hit me, but the force had left me in shock and I wasn't yet aware of the pain. I got in the car and drove to the store. Half way there, the tears started coming.

I was able to gather myself to shop, but when I thought of treating myself to something nice, I went for ice cream. I went for the extra creamy, just like she always liked. It didn't register, but it did. By the time I had gotten to my car to drive home, I was a wreck.

I drove home while sobbing. The kind where you can't catch your breath. The kind where you just float through the room, blind to what is around you, and only aware of what is no longer there.

I cried alone like that for about an hour. I kept thinking that I had to be my own best friend. Pull myself out of this. I just couldn't though.

Who could I call? I felt like I had been dumping too much on my friends lately.

My mother is so frightened of me, that I couldn't call her.

My sister!

No one was there.

Pulled myself together just enough to make it obvious on her message that I was trying to pull myself together. I needed to talk to some one. Who? Who?

Break down. Call the folks. Who knows, maybe the unexplainable will happen and your father will answer. Sure enough, he did.

What's going on, I said, trying not, yet, to have him realize that I was a puddle.

The whole family was gathered at the house, waiting for my uncle's family and my grandmother, who should be there right then.

Shit. This isn't going to be good. Slowly, so as not to release all at once, I tell him that I am having a bad day, and could he just not let on to anyone else that I am like this.

Sure, sure, he says. I hear him light a smoke, and grunt as he gets up and heads out back. Sitting on the porch, he is not really hiding from anyone in our small house, but he is at least out of earshot.

What's up, he says.

Then, I am unable to hold it in. Finally, someone to tell. Someone who asked even. I jump into breathless sobbing, and mutter how I have just lossed my best friend.

Here, I need to give a bit of background on my father.

He is a funny guy. He is a tough guy. He doesn't show emotion. Sometimes, I am unsure he has emotion.

I always thought he liked my jock, macho brother better than me. I figured he respected me, but didn't understand me. I remember, in my early twenties, thinking that I hadn't heard him say I love you to me for about 10 years. It took awhile, but I got him to start saying that. He never sounded like he meant it. He always paused before saying it, like he was holding his breath, or plugging his nose while doing this awful task.

So, I must say, it came as quite the shock that he said and did everything right when I called the other day.

He told me about when he split briefly from my mother, how he felt alone and sad and full of rage. He was surprised I hadn't gotten to rage yet.

He told me that of all his children, the thing he loved about me was how emotional I was. He said he thought I was capable of feeling emotion that he would never be capable of feeling.

He told me he would pay for whatever I needed, and knew that that sort of thing bugged me, but told me life is harder than it ever has been now, and just to let that go for awhile.

He told me to start taking down the paintings in the house, because the memories and sentiment attached to them was too much to bear. As we talked, I moved all of the art into the spare room, and turned it backwards. My plan now is to draw torture paintings on large notepad paper and hang them up in the blank spots in the room.

I cried to him like that for a whole hour. He never left to go to the rest of the family. He held firm with me, and chain smoked, until I was able to breath, and then he told me all of that again, knowing that this time I would actually hear it, and let it sink in.

He told me that this is the bottom, and now, slowly, it will start to go up. Slowly. Eleven years is a long time. This is like a death. I am going to need time to grieve. Then, soon, but not real soon, it will start to feel better.

I knew he was right. I knew it because for almost forty years, I had wanted a dad who would say just that, and never felt like I had him, and then there he was. One hour, and I had the thing I thought I didn't have for almost four decades.

So, this other loss is only one decade. Shouldn't take that long then.

Thanks dad.

Black Attack

Last night at the bar, my past came over to haunt me.

Nearing the end of the night, I was talking with a castmate of mine, and a sweet girl he was desperate to have connubial encounters with.

That's when IT hit. This girl, very, very young Girl, puts her arms around us and proceeds to tell us what a great show we had. We being pleasant boys, and ego maniacs, listened with happy-keep talking-faces. Then, she mentions last week's show, and, again, we nod with appreciation of her fine taste.

That's when she looks right at me, as if I was holding up a blinking sign, and says, "You don't remember me, do you?"

Oh, my God, I thought, who is she? I think I heard her name... Danielle, maybe? Wait, I think I met a Danielle at the showcase my buddy was in. Yeah, that's a good gamble. Say that.

I, with a tremendous amount of the faked confidence I have learned to squirt in troubled times, start to assure her, DANIELLE, that I indeed remember her from the showcase.

She makes an awful face (which, as I am speaking, I notice goes well with her ample, awful body), and my castmate grimaces as he recognizes my failure.

He leans over and says, "You met her at the party last week." You could almost feel the psychological nudge he tried to give me: come on, old man, don't let your bad habits ruin a night of very fleshy indulgence.

I tried to laugh off my complete and utter lack of rememberance of this Girl. I beleive I made an ill placed joke about drugs and how she should try to avoid them when she grows up.

She leaned in very close to me, and in a tender whisper, said, " Do you see that tiny bubble over there, POPPING? That is your chance."

Wow, actually poetic in its crush. And so insightful that this Girl, who hardly knows me, could recognize that my chances are tiny bubbles, popping.

Later, after she stormed off (a fact, for which, I was actually glad), I wondered what had I actually said to this Girl the week before? Did we have an intimate conversation, or was I performing in the kitchen, and she felt like she KNEW me?

We shall never know.

What I do know, though, is, I don't think this is the last Black Attack I am going to suffer. I'm sure there are plenty of little Girls whom I may have chatted up in my undocumented two hours that night. All waiting to pounce.

So many tiny bubbles.

POP!

You've got to be kidding

Bad news yesterday. Some one broke into my car.

Bad news for the thief.

He broke into a Geo Metro. Hatchback!

He (let's just assume for the ease of writing with hatred) must have been desperate. The reason I say that is, it was a professional job. He removed the passenger side lock from the door. Literally, removed it. Now, there is just a gaping, jagged hole in the door. So, he had some good tools. A pro. Except, he targeted a Geo Metro. In a neighborhood where, though a bit run down, a couple of blocks away would have yeilded him much more.

Also, this had to have been risky. My car was parked under my balconey, with a light on it. He would have had to move fast, as there are people going to and fro at all hours in my part of town.

What did he get? About $7 in change, and 20 CD cases. Ten of those cases had the CDs in them. That is the greatest loss, as they are some of my most favorite (Two of my Wilco's, and THREE of my PIXIES!!!), but I had taken the player and the slip case inside with me. So, all told, this "professional" made off with about $30.

Here's the rub. Because of the body damage to the door, I may need to pay about $700 to fix it. That is one crappy ratio.

I remember in Chicago, someone broke my passenger window to make off with about $3 in change and it cost me $50. 3/50 is much better than 30/700, it is, in fact, a difference of 1/16.6 to 1/23.3. It's tough losing those CDs, but that 6.7 difference in the ratio is what really burns. (Geek)

Now is where it gets even worse. For any of you optimists out there who say, "But a Geo is a fine car, with great gas mileage at an affordable price", you don't have to live through this:

Every time I tell this story to friends, when I start out by saying someone broke into my car, they ALL make a face and say, "What? Why? You drive a Metro!"

Like I don't have a car that is good enough to steal from. How could that driver possibly have anything we would want to posess, he gets affordable gas mileage!

It is one thing to kid yourself that you aren't in that bad of a car, but when the reality comes springing back at you from the faces of your loved ones, it is humiliation realized.

It is giving me a Rush of Blood to the Head, causing The Bends, as I ponder All That You Can't Leave Behind. Damn it! Those were stolen too!

'Tis Pity She's Divorced

Went out with some friends tonight. Got to talking about being divorced. They were surprised that we had come to that decision, but they listened. Then, one said that I was lucky.

LUCKY!

You see, we have some friends who got divorced, and She is having a hard time with it. She didn't want to be divorced, even though it was a mutual decision, and the right thing to do. Still, She thinks all is ok, but she isn't ok, and everyone talks about her with a massive amount of pity.

I don't want that. I don't think I am getting that, but I am being compared to that. Ok, so my divorce will be amicable, and not a blood letting. Yes, it is an easy divorce. I know that. Still, even though I want this, as the proper thing to do, it isn't easy. There are times when everything comes crashing down. But, you can't say that cuz you have the EASY divorce. Look, I don't want everyone to be nice to me and pity me behind my back, but I also would like to have people realize that this fucking sucks, even if I asked for it.

I sat at the bar tonight, and watched a cute girl get hit on. I imagined me doing the hitting, and then all went weird. I am lonely. I want to lie next to someone, naked, and just feel them. I want someone to smile a private smile when they look at me. However, I think I need a long time before any of that happens. What I crave, might just be the worst thing for me right now.

My friend, to end the heavy divorce topic, said that all I needed was to put my hand on some girl's ass.

That might be true. But, what feelings would I have to deal with then?

A weighty matter

Goddamn film. Goddamn video. Goddamn genetics.

Just came out of acting class. I hate looking at myself on camera. This guy really has his work cut out for him, if he thinks he is going to make me good. The positive note is, he thinks he is going to make me good.

He told me I am too big. That I know funny, but now I just have to let it come out, rather than push it out. I thought, great.

Then I watched the tape.

First of all, I thought the camera was supposed to add ten pounds!

Where are my ten pounds!

I look like a concentration camper. I was thinking of cutting my hair, from the big, crazy look, to the very close cropped look, but, anymore resemblence to the tortured, will not put me in the good graces of the people looking for attractive people to send into folk's living rooms. Plus, I pop my eyes out and it gives me a crazy serial killer look. That's what would make Everybody Loves Ray funnier. If he was a crazy, murdering victim of the Holocaust!

The only good to come out of class was a young, chesty new girl, with tight black tee and low slung jeans over red Converse, was hitting on me. She asked if I was married during the break, indicating my ring, and I told her yes, but then dropped the D-bomb. She flip flopped to reply, but I launched into I'm-OK-you don't worry, and she calmed down. Then we got paired up to read a scene, and I pulled out a Zone bar to eat. Well, she starts asking me about the bar, and if it is a Zone, and what flavors I like, and I have to try Chocolate Gooey, or something, and all I could think was, if she is doing five minutes on a protein bar, then she is in to you, my friend.

I had the presence of mind to be flirty, but not totally open to her. That way I can determine if she is crazy. Most actresses are. Plus, she was a child actor. Not good.

Still, puts a little zing in my step.

I may not look good on film, but the emotionally stunted are in to me.

Liberation: Aisle 3

Today was all about the errands.

Vacuum, dishes, bills, and grocery. Check, check, checks, and check list.

I wrote the various items I needed: lightbulbs, breakfast bread, toothpaste, and chicken.

I went to the Trader Joe's first. Always have gone there first. They have the smaller parking lot, and it is a right turn. Then, after the TJ's, you can cut across the street quickly, defying head-on death, and pull into the expansive Gelson's parking.

At the TJ's, I would grab the toothpaste and the breakfast bread. Tom's of Maine, Spearmint Gel with Whitening, and Ezekial 4:9 Cinnamon bread.

Pulled in and parked. Walked the long way around, as always, because then I am not hit by the homeless and the petitioners, both of whom I would like to help, but can't. Guilt. So, avoid. Always do.

Inside the TJ's, I make my way to aisle 3. Toothpaste, shampoo, vitamins. Take a quick glance at the checkout lines, not too many people, good. Reach for the Gel.

Stop!

Why?

Why the gel?

That was the toothpaste my wife always wanted, because she didn't like the one with baking soda. The one I like. THE ONE I LIKE!

Epiphany! Enlightenment! Ecstasy!

I can brush with the baking soda toothpaste now. I am alone, and able to make my own choices!

Suddenly, I looked at the post-it-note that held my list, and it became this archaic scroll. Who needed to follow this? Not me, modern man! I am liberated! Had I a bra to burn, I might have. Better yet! I have a choice. And my choice is Peppermint with Baking Soda!

Now, the whole rest of my grocery selection process was an exciting new adventure. I was giddy with the thought that I could now create new ruts with which to numbingly flow through life.

I nearly skipped to the back, where breads and cookies are. Damn thee, Ezekial 4:9 Cinnamon! I have choice now! What might my Nectarines and Granny Smiths look like tomorrow with a new bread! Wait, maybe a bagel!

I scanned the wall. Poppy, Sesame, Honey, Nuts, Whole grain, Seven grain.

Hunh.

You know the thing is, breakfast really is sort of Cinnamon.

My liberation wavered, was I just drunk with power for the moment, only to be lost again at the sea of mediocrity?

No. I just like Cinnamon with fruit.

Some ruts are there because they should be. You broke one today. Good boy.

I betcha that toast tomorrow tastes like heaven though. My choice. My Cinnamon. Then know one will know I had it, because of my Baking Soda.

Life: Here I come. Look out, I'm armed and dangerous.

D*I*V*O*R*C*E

So, I spoke with my wife, and both of us have concluded that it is done. I tried to be as frank and open about my feelings as I could be. I even told her that I wanted her back, even though I told myself I wouldn't say that, because I don't know if that is true or not, but she had the sanity and insight to tell me I didn't really want her back.

It's so great when your partner knows you so well, they know you don't want them.

Anyway, this all came after we had a little sit down for her to yell at me about my psychotropic meltdown. Gee, I wonder what incident gave her such resolve to leave me?

So, there it is. The great experiment has done nothing except to prove that the disease had, in fact, invaded the body and there was no cure.

I was talking with a co-worker last night about it. She kind of understands, because she too is divorced. I asked her how long she had been divorced, and she said, six years. I asked if she wanted to get married again. She said, yes. She told me that she enjoyed being married. Not necessarily to the man she was married to, but the whole idea of marriage. Not the romantic, lost in the all-about-the-wedding kind either. The actual day to day of it. I told her I felt the same way.

Which was odd. I didn't think, before I was married, that I would feel that way. I thought that marriage was just paper, and that it didn't affect the relationship, but I was wrong. It does. And it is beautiful. That is part of what hurts in losing your marriage, all the new found feelings of security and longevity that marriage spins into your love.

She, my co-worker, said that she has had opportunities to get really involved with men, but that they have flaws that make her realize she would just be making a bad choice once again. That was scary. If I am letting this great girl go, because I feel I deserve a higher level of intimacy, then I damn well better only accept that in the future, and not compromise.

Six years. And she isn't even close to being married again.

I'm going to be like the men in Sex and the City. All the twenty year olds were party obsessed, immature boys (me), all the thirty year olds were taken (me), all the forty year olds were looking for a new relationship, but putting all of their own complicated rules on to them (me).

Does this mean I could land Sarah Jessica Parker? A little crazy for my taste (who am I kidding, I love crazy), but she sure is hot.

Drug Induced

Well, we were able to make rape funny.

I went with the whole falling in love with her thing. Sang a song too.

"When my ring hits your eye - and you fall down and cry - That's Amore!"

As for her, she gave herself, with make up, two black eyes and a bloody nose.
Ha Ha. I guess I beat her too. Wow.

She ended up with amnesia, and her husband, the pastor found her, but everyone he tried to get to help always confused her bloody nose with the fact that maybe he beat her. It was very Three's Company, and actually very funny.

For my part, a new guy came to town looking for his drug dealing son. He came to my restaurant, and after hearing that I bought drugs from his son, gave me a pill. Later, I was walking around thinking I was a chicken, and doing cartwheels in the back, as he found out from his son's wife that his son was, in fact, now dead. Then she told him that I did it. I didn't, but she is vindictive. Things don't look good for me now.

Found out after the show, that we had a reviewer (great, only two more shows left), but he loved the show. One person from our theatre said that he was laughing so hard, he never had time to write, and that he stood up and gave us a standing ovation, and that he said this show should be on TV!

Ok, that's good.

So, after words in the bar next door, I start to have my usual... Belvedere Gimlet Martinis. At which point, my friend leans over to me and says, "Hey, you want a Zanax(sp)?"

I laughed and said, "Sure, but it won't make me cluck like a chicken will it?"

It didn't. But...

Oh my God!

As the night went on, I found myself in an alternate reality. Things and people were around me, but I wasn't really sure that they were there.

I can't quite recall leaving the bar.

Now here is the really scary part. I went to a party after the bar.

I don't remember walking to my car, or driving, or walking to the party, or what happened at the party, but then I do remember wanting to leave.

However, not knowing where my car was, I decided to just go walking and find it. Turns out it was on the main street by the party house, but when I arrived at it, thankfull I had found it, I realized I didn't have my car keys. I peeked into the ignition, but no keys.

Then the next thing I remember is being back at the party, and people saying didn't you leave, and then I must have told someone I lost my keys, though I don't remember that or who, but I do remember the host coming to me and saying sleep on my couch.

Well, I couldn't do that. I have a cat that needs to eat. So, at 4 in the morning, I called my wife, who lives about 30 miles away, and asked her to come get me.

She said ok, and said it would be about 45 minutes, so I left the party, don't remember that, but I know I ended up back at my car. At which point, I layed down on the sidewalk in a nook between two buildings and fell asleep, waiting for her.

When she arrived, I somehow talked her into letting me drive the Geo with her key, so it wouldn't get a ticket, or worse, towed. When I got home, I went right to sleep.

This morning I awoke at 11:30 with no recollection of any of that, until I noticed my couch pillows on the bed next to me. Then it all came back. Where was my wife?

Oh, right, at school teaching.

Wait, where is my wedding ring? It wasn't on my finger! What the hell happened to me?!

Zanax(sp). That, and about 4 Belvedere Gimlet martini's.

Still have no idea what happened at the party. Found the wedding ring in the Geo. Still don't have my keys.

God, aren't Friday nights fun!

Men are from Mars, Women are from Venice

I just listened to an episode of This American Life. I love that show, and would love to one day contribute to it, but for now, I am an avid fan.

The episode I decided to listen to was called Reunited. Uh, oh, what am I doing? I'm certain, I'm not, I'm certain, I'm not.

Well, sure enough there is the story I was hoping for: couple divorce, then somehow reunite. True to This American Life, it is both touching and hysterical.

The couple are an Iranian couple, who in their teens were an arranged marriage. He is the typical alpha male who is never wrong, she is meek and miserable. They move to America.

Then she divorced him. At age 46. Now, a new life, right? Well, yes, but...

She is miserable being single, because she is still meek, and never leaves the house. He is an alpha male, so he figures he must go out and get a conquest. But how? He never did this before. So, he buys a book. That's right, Men are from Mars, Women are from...

The thing is, he has such a thick accent, that when he tells the title of the book for the radio listener, it comes out Venice, instead of Venus.

I laughed so hard. Then, it struck me. My God. That's my truth.

Here I am, in LA, and have always felt like an outsider. I still consider Chicago "home", even though I don't think I ever want to go back. I find myself thinking about the women out here as stereotypically LA, which is very much also Venice.

Then I loved the fact that the Iranian man learned information from this book, but due to his inherent self, when he tries to relate the information, it comes out wrong, and becomes misinformation.

You see, I think that right now, I am just smart enough to be very stupid. As I gained knowledge through life, I always would be aware, with every incremental leap, that there was now that much more to know, beyond my grasp. In other words, I was becoming smart enough to know how much I didn't know.

Now after 5 years of couples/individual therapy, have I learned enough to react, but not enough to know I don't know what I am doing?

To be fair, I have never been one to make a decision and then feel it made. I always ponder the other side, then switch and ponder the first side. That is me. I guess you would call that a waffler.

So, just because I have these thoughts now, there is no gaurantee that they are my determined thoughts. I think that is why I was so surprised by my quick action when this all began.

Maybe that is an indication of the new me emerging. Sure of thought, and quick to respond. Determined to have what he wants, and bold enough to go after it.

Or maybe not.

The Iranians, after all, got back together. Now, he listens, and she tries to be more herself. They are happy, happier than they ever were before. But still, ultimately, the same.

?????

Haven't been feeling particularly funny or sad lately. Is that good? Not good, not feeling funny. Good, not feeling sad. Also, I've noticed that my sleeping habits are back to about 8 hours, as opposed to the ten of a month ago.

By George, I think he's getting it.

Last night, I once again watched Will & Grace, sipping Chardonnay, dreaming of a more perfect belly.

Oh my God. I going gay.

Always have been close, but looks like it is finally taking. I even spent a fair amount of time yesterday afternoon in Pier One looking at dishes! Red ones!

My dilemma today is how to make rape funny. That's right, rape.

You see, I am doing an all improvised comedy soap opera, and I play a former hitman turned Italian restaurant owner. Well, last week I went on a bit of a bad boy streak, and in a non-scary, actually funny way, raped the pastor's wife. Ha Ha.

Well, tonight I have to deal with that being reality. And it has to be funny. Actually, that will be harder than making the rape funny. No one really saw it coming, not even me, so they weren't grossed out. Our characters were just talking about sex. Then, she remembered she was married, and tried to leave. I threw her on the couch and lights out.

Ok, not too creepy.

Now, however, is the real tough part where I have to deal with having done that, but still kind of make the audience like me enough to want to laugh at me. Tough.

Most comedy comes from the unexpected reaction. Laughing at your own failure. So, maybe the best way to deal with this is for my guy to now fall in love with her. Think of her as his girlfriend. I don't know. We'll see.

The funny thing about improv that I have discovered is, it has a life of its own. Even if you think, well this is what I want, and what I will go for, you suddenly find yourself doing something totally different. That is what is great and scary. Not having any idea what will happen, but making sure that forty people who paid ten bucks each love it.

thepainthatbringsustogether

Listening to Pete Yorn's musicforthemorningafter right now. It is easier to be alone with noise of some sort, than not.

The song Just Another is playing, and it made me think of something.

Lately, I have been wondering if I am doing the right thing. Part and parcel for the trial, I guess, but I must say, I really felt like I had picked the right woman. I would just like to make her better. That is impossible, so I am letting her go, granted at a time when she is letting me go, in the hope that I will meet a better right woman.

However, a friend asked if I had ever known a relationship that had all the qualities that I am looking for. All of them, all at once. I must say, that I don't know that relationship. Their are a couple of them, that come very close, closer than mine was, so I have some hope, but nothing is what I think I want.

Not good.

That is what makes me doubt my gamble. Maybe I am close to that ideal, and I just need to try harder.

Part of what brings people together besides attraction, is commonality. When you say he/she "gets" me, you are saying they think I am pretty to look at, feel good to touch, fun to hang out with, seem to want the same future, and understand my pain.

When some people tell me that my wife and I are doing the right thing, that there were problems that they could see, what they don't know, I think, is how well we understood each other's pain. Maybe that is what, in a way, is bringing us apart.

I don't know, as I read over this, if a conclusion is coming. Don't hold your breath.

Relationships are like snowflakes. No two are alike, and they are so fragile and delicate, and can be blown apart at any moment. They also are very intricate in their beauty.

Maybe I will one day look back on this, in a happier place, and think that all that I am saying is correct, but still, things had to go the way they did. I hope I am learning a great deal, that is yet to be understood, but that is sinking in deep.

I hope I can be happy. I hope we all could.

People can be such people

Great class yesterday. I managed not to kill the interest that the teacher had in me from the day long intensive.

Started out with everyone gathering, and they all have been together for about 6 months, and are very familiar with each other, and then, wham, I dropped in. Actually, me and another girl from the intensive. It had been a month since that day, and I asked how she had been. She said in the past month, she got married, went to Italy on her honeymoon, and bought a house. Wow. Busy.

Then, she turns to me and says, what have you been up to? I almost laughed. I thought, well she asked. Why not throw it at her. So sweet, and in the very first blush of assumed matrimonial foreverness. Crush her. I did hesitate, thinking don't start out class with negatives, but she just kept staring at me, mentally asking me to respond. Two other girls seemed to stop and listen too. So, I thought what the hell. I'm here in class to be an honest actor. Boom. I told them.

This is where it gets even funnier. People's reaction to bad news is so odd. They weren't expecting bad news, so they are thrown, and feel ill equiped to answer. This girl just mumbled something about the planets (there are those planets again, maybe she is working with them), and then told me not to sign anything on the 22nd or a few days after that, cause Venus is going to be in retrograde, or something. I asked her if not signing things during that time is in order to receive good luck, or to avoid bad luck. She said yes, and I dropped the conversation.

Anyway, class. The teacher is an ageing queen, who is starved for attention as the funniest, and who doesn't want to waste a single SECOND! He came in at noon, and saw that not everyone was there, so he went outside to yell at the people walking to class to hurry the fuck up. Ok, now be funny!

The thing is, I love him. He makes me scared and if I can do well while I'm scared of him, then maybe I can learn how to do well in auditions when I'm scared of them. I told the teacher that, and he seemed a bit put off that I called him scary, but later when another girl in class was having a mental breakdown, and he was yelling at her, he finally said do your scene now, you have to learn how to still act while upset and scared, because that is what auditions will do to you. He stopped and said, somebody was just saying that to me. Then he looked at me and said, it was you. Actually even pointed his finger in a jabbing motion. I think he respects me. Maybe.

My acting was ok. My first little scene, I got up and my heart was throbbing in my chest, I thought my shirt was lifting and falling. I shoved my hands into my pockets so that they wouldn't move and fly around the room. I did my scene. He stopped me and said, you are always so confident(hah!), even when I try to tear you down, you always stand there so confident with your shoulders square. Great. Probably the only time in my life I did that, but at least I got credit for it.

My second scene required more of me, but I thought I knew it, and would knock it out of the ballpark. I did, sort of. I played it too wild, but I was clear on all my intentions, and character, and he saw that, and just kept telling me to do less. He was pleased with the scene, but when I watched the tape, I suddenly knew why I am not getting any work. I was all over the place. I haven't figured out how to be me, which is loose and wild and crazy, on camera, which makes every little blink and twitch of the nostril this giant expression. I think, I hope this class will help me with that. He asked me if I was ready to change my life. I said yes. He then looked at me square and hard and asked if I was ready to change my life. I said yes. He said good, because you are too good, and I see too many really good actors doing nothing with their lives. I said I was ready.

Just don't make me sign anything on the 22nd!

Women artists are destroying my life

Well, last night was a joy. After drowning in remorse/pity/blame/selfloathing/grief, I decided to have a glass of wine and watch Will & Grace.

Can you believe that helped.

Then, I had to get up early (9:30, I know that is lame for me to think that is early), because I have a class today at noon. Well, the insane foreign woman who lives next door decided that at 8 it was okay to start her miter saw outside on her driveway and cut about 600 panels of wood. WHY??

This is the same woman who feels that the leaves need to be blown off with a high powered blower at 6AM. She is some sort of hippie artist, but speaks some language I am not familiar with. Her daughter lives with her, as well as her granddaughter. The daughter is a complete type A, with some severe anger issues, and is always out yelling at the neighbors to keep it down. Hello?! Have you met your mother?

Off to class... Nothing special, just the opportunity to change my life around to something resembling what I have dreamt of. Tralala.

Another pain

Last night I had a dream about Kip.

He was one of my two cats, but he died last September 24th, quite possibly from ant poison that I had sprayed too near him.

In the dream, we had to give him away for some reason. My wife and I were together, and we had both cats, but I remember knowing that we couldn't go forward, wherever, until we gave away Kip. It was awful. I kept holding him in my arms, upside down so his belly was exposed to me. I would just look into his trusting eyes, and say "why? why do we have to give him up?"

When I awoke, it took me a while to actually remember that he was already dead. That my wife was no longer with me. Eventually, I wasn't sure what day it was, because I had been so wrong about the other first thoughts of the day, that I now doubted anything my brain told me.

By breakfast, I had buried all of that.

I just went to a blog that reminded me of those thoughts, and then I pulled up some pictures of Kip. I have been crying the entire time I am writing this. I thought maybe this would help, but it isn't.

I wish he were here with me. I wish I could cry into his fur. He probably wouldn't let me, but that's OK. I'm sorry Kip. I'm so sorry.

I love you.

An odd assortment

Yesterday was a collection of experiences that, singularly, don't make for much, but put together, help you to realize that my life is something of an amusement park ride.

Woke up hungover and read my drunken post. Didn't regret it, but also realized that even if I had, I had made a vow never to delete a post. They are your thoughts and your life, and just like the real thing, there are moments we don't want to have, but they took place and that is that.

Like the time in junior high, when I thought spitting was cool, and it would make girls like me. (As you can tell, I was as ill equipped for seduction even then as I am now) So, I started to spit all the time, even once indoors on my family's living room rug while we were all watching TV. It had become habit. I wasn't very good at it and all day long I would walk around in T-shirts that had long dribble stains down the front, but I had seen other guys do it, and they seemed cool and rebellious, and girls liked them, so, I spit. Then one day I was hanging out with a cool guy (proof to me that my spitting was working, even if on the wrong gender), when the COOLEST girl in class came over. She commanded the pack of girls who had developed breasts early, and therefore my future as cool relied on me showing her that I was now a spitter and that it was okay for her followers to acknowledge me and ravage my body. I didn't want to do one of my usual dribblers, so I really stocked up on the saliva while she was talking to the other guy, and then, nonchalantly, with a toss of my head back, then forward, I heaved. Well, I must have altered my normal trajectory with all that superfluous head movement, because the spit, a large quantity, went right into her face. She screamed and left, and I was sent away from the cool guy's house. Then my life as we currently know it was born.

Later in the day, yesterday, my mother-in-law called.

She has only called for me, in the decade I have known her, maybe twice. Mostly we would talk when she called for my wife, but got me.

Yesterday, she called for me. I had just reheated some stir fry and had just put the proper amount of soy on the rice, so it wouldn't be too salty, when the phone rang. Turns out, she wanted some advice about a neighborhood in South Chicago. I am from Chicago, but it is a bit of a large burg, so I was unfamiliar with said locale. She had to pick up her daughter's stolen car at some repair shop there, and was concerned it might be "bad". I told her just because it might be predominantly black, wouldn't mean it would be "bad". She understood that point. She is a throwback hippie. She was just concerned because a number of insurance agents in Chicago were refusing to go there. I said that you could usually tell when you were in a bad neighborhood, because it usually looks bad, you know, gutted buildings and not too much traffic. She said that the neighborhood had looked fine. HAD looked fine. I asked her then if she had already gone and gotten the car. She had. I thought she was calling me for advice before going to the neighborhood, but she was calling AFTER the fact. So, I asked her if anything "bad" had happened to her and she said no. So, I told her it wasn't a bad neighborhood. She thanked me.

When she hung up, I burst into tears.

I don't know why. Well, I guess I do know why, but it seemed so random after the conversation we had. Still, I sat for a good five minutes weeping more than I have in several weeks. The downside was, all my tears were flowing into my balanced stir fry, and the salt factor got raised considerably. Nuts!

Then, at work, I was waiting on a large party. They, about 16 people, were all arriving at once and everyone wanted something. All would talk to me at the same time, even overlapping others who were still talking. I can usually remain calm in these situations, and I believe I was doing just that. One woman was asking for water, which I was pouring, by leaning over in her chair. She was, to put it mildly, gigantic. Fearing that her balance, or the chair, would give, I told her, calmly, that I saw her and would come to her. She stopped leaning, and after pouring the water I had begun, I went straight to her and poured her water. Good, right? Then a guy came to me and said we needed to add another table because two more people had showed up. I started to say let me get the busboy to do that, when I was tapped on the shoulder from behind in mid sentence. I turned to see a second gentleman, and he told me we needed to add another table because two more people had showed up. I said that we were in fact, just then, negotiating that very point. That is exactly what I said. Not snide. Clever maybe, but forthright. He looked at me and said, "Oh, you're going to give us some attitude, huh." I was actually shocked. I told him that I wasn't giving attitude, that in fact I was getting a second table and that the man behind me and I were indeed talking about that. He then said he meant when I told the fat lady that I saw her need for water, and that I would be right there. I think I actually blinked a few times before I could answer. I said I didn't see how that was attitude. He thought about it, but didn't say anything, so I think he gave up on the point.

Later when I was telling that story to a fellow waiter, he said that I usually get away with so much sarcasm, that it was fitting that I finally get blamed for something I didn't do.

No wonder I drink.

Deni said don't blog drunk

What a day.

Was so tired all day yesterday, that I pounded coffee all day to get up for my show in the evening. Then after the show, I was so wound up and nervous that my friends didn't like it, that I pounded martinis until 3AM. Boy the name of this blog really makes sense.

Any way, got up today with a massive hangover. Very slow brain functions, and what should I be hit with, but my wife. She came by and we had lunch. Which was so fucking weird. The whole time I was with her,we talked like intimates, but I felt like we were just friends. I didn't feel anything more than just a need to tell someone I know something about myself. This is the woman I commited my life to, and now it is just whatever. That's sad right? I don't feel sad, but my brain says that is sad.

Anyway.

The conversation got a bit serious, and I don't know if we were not revealing our true emotions, or totally laying it all on the line, but we both said that we still feel like this is the end, and so we decided that she should start to look for her own apartment. I remember thinking during the conversation, "stop this". I don't know why. Like I said, we felt only like friends, but it wasn't right.

So, with that under my belt, I went to a friend's birthday party. There were a bunch of gorgeous women there and my little mind was all perked up. The sad part was every time a girl would pass by me, I would be unable to make eye contact. Not unable to come up with a clever line, unable to make EYE CONTACT.

That is where this all gets fucked up. My wife of ten years feels like a friend, who I don't mind letting go of, but some one I have never met before, who comes up and says to me, don't I know you, and I not only can't think of a single line to say, I can't even look her in the eye.

If the whole human race were like me, we would have died out WAY long ago.

So, my brilliant solution to the problem was to drink, drink, drink. Then I came home here, alone to an empty home, and started to type. In the morning I will regret writing this, but right now it makes me feel.

That's why you always have to check them

So, I look at my horoscope today, a day in which I am feeling somewhat peppy despite the very limited sleep(or maybe because of), and what should my chart have to say but this:

You've been lucky for the last two months, dear Libra, no doubt about it. But lately it seems as though your luck is changing. It's hard to pinpoint, but something is not quite right in your daily life. At the moment, the planets are imparting some lessons that can be difficult to bear. Try to get through this transition time with as little pain as possible. Ultimately, the lessons learned will prove worthwhile.


IT'S HARD TO PINPOINT?!?!

Ooooh, the planets now have decided to impart some lessons! Thanks the fuck alot planets. I don't have enough shit in my life going on, but you celestial orbs think, hmm, that wee one down there needs some growth. He finally had a lucky TWO months, let's give him the royal galaxy screw. (note: I hear the planets thinking with a cockney accent, so if you could go back and read it that way, we will be on the same page.)

At least I got the "prove worthwhile" bullshit at the end. Who's going to decide that though? The Sun? Maybe that comet that breezed by here a couple of days ago, that we so rudely welcomed by slamming a giant camera into. Great! If he's pissed at us, then he won't mind my suffering a bit more just to spite all of the humans.

All I ever asked for was to be simply happy. You know, hot wife who loves sex, fabulous artistic career that affords me travel and fame and the opportunity to tell late night hosts lines like "Oh, I hardly consider it work, but I love doing it and just feel so lucky to be able to". That and a sweet home entertainment system and I'm good. Really.

Do you hear that Mars? Jupiter, are you listening, you fat gas ball?! Hey! Uranus!

Wanted: about 100 sheep. ( For counting only)

I can't sleep.

I lie in bed and think, and think, and think. At first I thought about Will & Grace and what a funny episode I watched before "going to sleep". That guy who plays Jack has tremendous timing, and Will is the best straight/gay guy I know. Then I thought about what a future for me would be like if I were on a Sitcom. That, I think, was the lethal blow to my slumber. Dreaming of happiness always fucks up my life.

So, I got up to read. Yeah, that will help. Grab the Time mag and, well, let's see... Sandra Day O'Conner... no, too heady, not slumber inducing... giving up sources, no... Greenspan, probably would have worked, but I skipped... Ah, a review of Ingmar Bergman's first film in twenty years! That will do. Ah, it is a sequel, of sorts, to Scenes From A Marriage. Oops, maybe not a good choice. Ah, yeah, ruined relationships that destroy the rest of their lives. Searing emotional pain. Great, now I gotta read on. Oh, a doc about Penguins... perfect. Oh, they mate for life, like "an increasing amount of humans"! Thanks Time. Next issue, why don't you just shit on my floor! Ok, no more reading. Go back. Think calm thoughts.

Lie in bed... What will calm me? What has calmed me before? Then it hits...

At times like these, I would place a hand on the thigh, or stomach, or back of my wife. If she wasn't too bundled and feeling like a water heater on high, with a large amount of boiling condensation, then I would hold my hand there and the warmth of her body would ride through my fingers and hit my heart and brain. A calm would come over me, knowing that here was someone who was totally relaxed because they knew someone loved them, and would grow old with them, and would be there for them. And that thought would start to infect me, and the brain would calm, then the heart would follow. The slow rise of her body from her breathing, up and down, up and down, up and down, would start to repeat in me, and the easy comfort that a soft rocking chair always provides, would wash over me and next thing I would know... sleep.

That's when it's hard. That's when your heart feels heavy like a stone, but it inexplicably seems to rise and lodge in your throat. That's when you know, despite the 8:30 AM setting on the alarm, you are going to see a few more hours this evening. Dark hours. Pitch black. But sleepless.

Who knows the power this has?

I just read in the news that the creepy kidnapper and alleged killer from Idaho kept a blog.

Apparently, his blog detailed, with some bitterness, the difficulty his life was taking right now! He frequently wrote of his struggles!! He was unsure of what path his life was going to take!!!

OH MY GOD!!!

Does that mean I am in for the same horrific future? Will I, God forbid, one day be caught EATING AT DENNYS!!!!

What sort of deviation does this anonymous posting do to the vulnerable brain, that it would rationalize ordering those rubber-ball eggs, or that whiter-than-white toast with the one hundred year old packets of jelly. Or worse than all, the hard packed, unable to penetrate hash browns. The sin of it all.

I always knew Dennys was the last meal on the road to hell, but who knew blogging was the gas that powered the engine.

I gotta take this easy. Over easy!!!!

Great life, now toss it

There has been a recurring theme over the past few days that, subtly, has been slamming into my consciousness. That is, that most of my friends are remaking me into the man I really should have been.

First, the other day two of my married girlfriends suggested I start working out. Well, suggested is really tame for what they said. It was more like "you have to do something about that body if you ever want to touch another woman". Ouch.

I didn't think I was that awful looking. I'm only 160 pounds, just 10 pounds more than when I was in high school. Who else at forty can say that, and have others tell him he looks hidious? I think the problem is where exactly that 10 pounds has been added. Mostly, it is in my gut and love handle area. Plus, some of the pounds from my chest have migrated down to the pounds in my gut. I guess it is one hell of a pound party down there. I mean, after all, it must have a nice buffet. Everyone likes a nice buffet.

Then, another two girls told me it was time to cut my hair. As I said before, I do tend to resemble Kramer. I know that isn't the most sexy look, but I am trying to cultivate a character actor career, and that seemed to work. The real burn, when one of them told me it was time, was the fact that she said I wasn't fooling anyone about my thinning status by growing it longer. What? Is she basically calling my unique career styled look a complicated comb over?! When I told this story to another, she said she didn't agree with the comb over thought, but was certain I needed to trim down. Thanks for the hug.

The transformation isn't only physical. I have another friend who has decided that to rescue my financial status, and to prepare me for the dating scene- where one of the first questions asked of me will be what is my net income- she is going to get me a new job. You see I have been a waiter for most of my life. No, you say! An actor in LA who also waits tables? GET OUT! It is really astounding when I approach tables and one of the old cranks trying to impress his friends smiles at me and asks if I might be an actor. I just smile and say yes, but I really want to say, listen you yob, I'm forty and have fading boyish looks and I'm in LA standing here with your plate of boiled chicken and steamed spinach! Of course, I'm trying to be an actor! You must routinely astound your friends with you clever insights, you dipshit.

Oops, a bit of bitter just spilled all over the page. How about I get back to the point.

Anyhoo- my friend has decided to get me a new job. However, she told me I will have to lie about my LIFE(!!), because I am basically not qualified for anything they need! That's what she said. Not qualified for anything they need.

So, in order to get a better job I can't do, I have been reformatting my resume with stuff either stolen from other people's resumes, including phrases I haven't the slightest clue as to what they mean, or making shit up. The greatest part is, that in prepping me for the interview, my friend said to address my wait jobs and artistic endeavors with the line, I tried to make something of my life, but it wasn't working, so now I am looking forward to stability in a related, but less rewarding, field.

That would be funny if it wasn't actually so goddamn true.

Who I want to be

OK, so in telling some people about this, they all were concerned about the self deprecating sense of humor, and how it might affect my outlook. Apparently, in the movie "What the bleep do we know", water molecules respond to negative and positive announcments in different ways. Since we humans are mostly made up of water, the thought goes that if I was to continue to call myself a failure and deride myself, then my body would respond to that.

Well, who wants that!

I do think that treating all of this in a humorous way is the only way to go, and my humor is generally the kind that finds my role in life ridiculous. I like being ridiculous. I like to make people laugh. Even if they are laughing at me, and not with me. In fact, I believe my greatest tools in my arsenal of romance weapons are my chin and my humor. For those who don't know, I have a very deep cleft in my chin, and women always want to touch it. Some times the attraction ends there, but hell that is one great starting point.

As for my humor, well, I really don't think anybody likes me, male or female, until I can make them laugh. Pitiful, maybe. Whatever.

Also, in thinking about my situation, I had come to the conclusion that I was focusing on the wrong goals. Rather than trying to find out who I wanted to be with- my wife if we could fix the shit, or the vast hypothetical whoever out there in LaLaland- I realized that I should be trying to find out who I wanted to be. Period. I need to be an individual first, then the couple will come.

However, last night having dinner with my aunt, she pointed out that how do we know who we are until we test that on others. That being that, the way you respond in your relationships, whether romantic or not, is the best guide to the type of person you are.

In other words, if an asshole was stranded on an island and never saw another human being, would he still be an asshole?

In truth, I like who I am with people. I am really nice and generous. Funny. Maybe a bit too dependant on their opinion of me, or just their existence, but still. That's what you call a people person. And people who need people are the luckiest people in the world.

Holy crap.

And God created woman

Well, my fourth turned out fairly well. My large group of friends- whom one girlfriend described as an extended family, I believe with both the positive and negative implications that are inherently implied- all gathered at a 1920's mansion up in the hills. Very Gatsby. I, in honor of the feel, wore a button down white shirt with a tweed vest. Turns out it was a pool party. Thanks to my buddy Tim for insisting I bring my suit. Still, it is tough to be Gatsby in a bright orange swimsuit decorated with overly large Hawaiian flower prints. Got to get something a little more sauve.

The group of revelers besides my "family" were mostly young, hip actor wanna-be types, and middle aged, ultra hip musicians. I believe some psuedo models were there too. More on that soon. I did minimal mingling, as I am still in that stage of "so you wanna hear about how shitty things are for me". That never goes well with small talk.

Along with the swimming and BBQ, I would occasionally ogle some of the model-types. I am, after all, still a man, one who needs that fleshy visual, and thinks of women as objects. That is until I get to know them, at which point I either hate them for their shallowness, or idolize them as my next wife, and subsequently shut down for fear of ruining our "courtship" by revealing something about myself.

The reason, however, I keep refering to them as psuedo model types is, they really didn't look that good. Most were wearing bikinis, and had the requisite overly large pastel tinted sunglasses. All model fashion musts. It's just that there bodies were... well, they looked like tenderized meat. You know, the kind that is pounded with that wooden hammer with all the spikes in it. Their breasts were small, very model and in my opinion a plus, but their torsos were flat and wide, and their asses were hanging down over the back of their thighs like someone had draped clothing from a hook in their lower back. Not very model.

Of course, none of them would actually acknowledge my presence. VERY MODEL. Could it have been they were aware of my ogleing and judging at the same time. Mmmm, could be.

I know it is all very hypocritical of me to be saying all of this about their bodies just a day after I was bemoaning my own sorry lot of not being an Adonis in a town that requires that quality, but that is why I am so complex. Shallow and complex. God, I hate myself. Love myself. Hate myself. See.

Why, man, why??

So, the question that lingers is what the hell happened to my marriage?

Hey. If I had the answer, you think I would be writing about failing? I really thought I had the perfect relationship. It's only problem was that she wasn't all that in to me. That sounds ridiculous, but in my co-dependant addled brain, I thought things were good.

Sure, I was starved for intimacy and warmth and tenderness and companionship, but I figured if my parents could get along with out those, then I could too.

The turning point came when she started grad school and found a life of her own. Smoke and mirrors can be very useful tools, but they are a bitch to set up, and transportation is problematic. I was unable to infuse the grad experience with the necessary numbness inducing atmosphere that my existence required, and subsequently a cool breeze of understanding blew my love apart. Goddamn higher education!

For my part, when faced with the turning point question of what has happened to us, I reacted with a sense of speed I am not normally known for. I instantly said that I thought the relationship had run its course. Three weeks later, I look back on that and wonder who actually answered like that. It couldn't have been me. I am afraid of being alone. Terrified really. To avoid it, the past few weeks I have indulged in enough sleep to prepare me if I ever decide to stay up continuously for a year straight.

So, now I look to the future.

In a town where the women are more than beautiful, I am decidedly not. Many people compare my looks to Kramer from Seinfeld. Sure, he was popular and funny, but not a girls wet dream. In a town that places personal wealth above all else, I am swirling in financial ruin. In a town where BMW's and Benz's are the lower class choice of flash, I drive a Geo Metro. Hatchback! In a town where youth is royalty, I am pushing forty. Not that forty is so awful old, but this is LA, and understanding doesn't come with the meth and porn that is handed out so freely.

Good times!

This is a start

So, just to get you updated, I am in a downward spiral. I am just shy of forty years, and recently just ended my decade long marriage. Also, I am in pursuit of the time honored art of acting, and have been living in Los Angeles for seven years with a grand total, so far, of ZERO jobs.

What better reason to reach out and teach others my enlightened path.

I am trying to approach all of this with a wry spirit. That's the coffee. I tend to actually approach it with a cynical bitterness that has been sharpened over time by repeated use. That's the booze.