Sobah Comic

Slow Going on re: the writing.

2009-11-13T14:35:00.000-08:00

Well, I hit almost 19,000 words, but man is it slow-going lately. Something is going on. When I sit down to write, I become incredibly exhausted and can barely stay awake. I also have the constant droning that this isn't important, or won't be good.

Jenn Dlugos, who teaches the screen writing class I decided to take with my friend Dot, said this week that there is no such thing as writer's block, it is just "fear of writing something down because it won't be good enough."

I agree.

She also mentioned something I've heard many times, (but sometimes it is the 10,000th time I hear something that I "get it."

Jenn said, "all first drafts aren't good, but you can't edit a blank page."

Point taken. So I am telling myself that while I think all the stuff I am writing now is trash, I can always back and delete it or change things around. It is 5:40pm and I swear, I am passing out. I forced myself to write about 600 words yesterday and 700 or 800 today. Not much, but better than nothing. I am going to lay down, maybe snooze and see if I can write a wee bit more later.

I also went to a job fair today and liked a couple of the companies, but was appalled at some of the salaries. I am hoping to find something I love so I am not worried about the horrendous salary.

I Heart New York

2009-11-05T14:05:00.000-08:00

I Heart New York

So I headed to NYC today to see my pal MYQ Kaplan perform stand up for a comedy central taping. In the past, I have had success parking at a Metro Station in Connecticut and taking the train in from there, about an hour ride. I have been to NYC before, so I came prepared.

I was somewhat dreading having to be in New York at this particular point in time, marinating with obnoxious, gloating Yankee fans on the verge of another world title.

Remove all Red Sox paraphernalia from sight in vehicle- check

Scatter trash in backseat to reduce likelihood anyone would expect to find anything of value in vehicle- check.

Remove cash (except three bucks to make it look good) and credit cards (except expired BJ's card and an old library card) from wallet- check

Tape credit card to inner thigh- check

Put money in sock- check

Slip shiv inside right shirt sleeve- check

Hand sanitizer- check

Ready to rock- check.

The train ride was pretty mellow, but as we got closer to New York City and Grand Central Station, I could feel it- the presence of NYC. I would have to be on guard. I wisely had left any Red Sox and/or Patriots gear in Massachusetts, so I thought as long as I kept my head and didn't pronounce anything with an “r” in it, I cold pull this trip off safely.

Arriving at Grand Central, I walk with brisk purpose even though I had no idea where I was going. After covering several city blocks only to wind up back at that same spot, I approached the information booth carefully. Speaking to the clerk in broken english, I managed, “What freakin' train do ya take to 10th and 59th? The head gasket on my freakin' Camaro is pissing oil and my old lady tells me to take the freakin' train, if you can believe it.”

The clerk eyed me, but bought the act hook, line and sinker.

“Take the shuttle to Times Square, yeah, heh? Then the one train to 59th and 8th and ya can walk the two blocks.”

I grabbed my package and half grimaced like I had bad sausage earlier in the day- so far so good.

I hopped on the shuttle, but being unaware that it was one stop, back and forth, I ping ponged a couple times before I whispered to an elderly woman, “Is this Times Square?”

I proceeded to get on the one train, but again didn't realize it was only an express train and 59th street was the first stop. I went to 66th, then reversed direction and made it back to 59th in no time. Exiting the building, I noticed there was a 58th street running parallel to 60th street, but no 59th. Was it a trap? I wasn't sure, but it didn't look good. I asked a kid with a skateboard for directions to 59th street.

He fumbled around and brought up Columbus Avenue, so I figured he was from out of town or had sustained brain damage riding the skate board. He apologized and sat on a stone bench. I read the bottom of his skateboard which had his phone number and “if found please call.” I now saw my mistake. This kid was obviously from pout of town. No New Yorker would be fool enough to think a skateboard would actually returned if lost. Secondly, if you somehow misplace a skateboard, I might side with the Big Applers and refuse to reward such stupidity with a skateboard.

I found a policeman who informed me that 59th street ended before the station. He pointed me in the right direction. I am almost there, I am early, and as yet, no major mishaps or trouble. Walking toward 59th, I spotted a Philadelphia Phillies fan coming the other direction, brazenly wearing a Phillies hat. You had to admire those Phillies cats- absolutely fearless.

He had chewing tobacco in his lip and a bulge under is jacket that said AK47. I think it was a tad big for a saw off shotgun and too small to be an uzi or some sort of bazooka. He met my eyes as I gave the slightest nod from behind my cornea, visible only to another navigating through enemy territory. He returned the nod, but it was visible. I was filled with admiration as I thought, “you crazy bastard, you'll give me away.

I maintained my cover as I made my way toward Gerald Lynch Auditorium at John Jay College, where the taping was being held. I stopped for hot nuts on the way. I hate hot nuts and have actually never eaten hot nuts, but they help you blend in. The mistake I made last time was failure to discard the nuts
when they grew cold. No "real" New Yorker would ever let his/her nuts cool.

I had time to kill before the show. making my way up to a Starbucks. As I entered the establishment, I held the door for an elderly woman behind me.

Without thinking, I had blown my cover. The old broad read I was from out of town, but from the look of fear in my eyes and her years of savvy and experience, she rightly guessed Boston. She clicked her heel, and reflective of a James Bond flick, a sharp dagger protruded from the front of her right shoe. I got my foot up for the block and she swung it toward my knee, the poisonous tip inches from breaking the skin and injecting me with instant death.

I thrust downward at the crest of her ankle, relishing the crack which preceded her groan of agony. Feigning a downward swoon, she swung upward with the tip of her cane, also seemingly tipped with some sort of of poisonous substance. I barely evaded the cane assault, gripping the shaft and twisting it around, ending her attack by thrusting the javelin-like cane into her ribcage.

There were about forty people in the Starbucks, but luckily no one noticed as they were either retrieving or ordering lattes or focused on cell phone conversations.

I left the hag's now limp body on the floor and got in live for a beverage, trying to act natural. the next few patrons casually stepped over the cadaver and stood in line. I had maintained. I ordered small mocca with one pump of chocolate. When I went to pick up my order, I absently said, "thanks". You guessed it- cover blown. the barista dropped a pumpkin spice latte and hurdled the counter. I loosened the cover of my steaming latte, hurling toward the face of the charging coffeeman. buying myself a few seconds, I fled toward the door, hoping the old lady's body on the floor had not yet garnered attention.

As I wheeled around the corner, I reduced my pace to a steady gait, blending in with the foot traffic east on 59th street. I had escaped a fatal situation with ease. Perhaps a little too easy, I thought. Easing toward the theater, content to wait in the lobby at this point, I began to relax a bit the farther I got from the donnybrook in Starbucks.

With about a block to go, a heard a strange sound coming from a side street not much bigger than a narrow alley. It stopped me in my tracks. "Was that a baby crying?" I wondered. Curiosity and concern got the better of me and I headed down the slim side street to investigate. The sound seemed to be coming from behind a discarded cardboard box. I rounded the box and was stunned to see an abandoned baby carriage. The cries were consitent. As I closed on the carriage, a fluffy pink blanket appeared to cover the baby. As I peeled it back, I realized a moment too late that I had been set up.

A small tape recorder played the soft cries of a baby over and over. I did a double take as the baby sprang to its feet, not a baby at all, but rather a midget wielding a home made weapon. The angry dwarf lunged at me with the home-fashioned shank. The device appeared to be comprised of the handle of a pacifier attached to a bic pen welded to a toothbrush handle. The toothbrush had been melted down, then honed into a spike to form the business end of the weapon. I snapped to a bit late, as the thrust winged my cheek.

"I'm gonna send you back to beantown in a bawdy bag, punk."

I thrust forward a palm-heel to the forehead of the fake baby, rendering him unconscious. Using my latte napkin to pad the blood from my cheek, I quickly exited the alleyway and headed toward the theater.

The show came off without a hitch. At some point during the warm, I recalled George Constanza's strategy of looking annoyed to appear busy. I wondered if I could use the same strategy to blend in as a native New Yorker. As I walked to the train, I remembered all the incoveniences of the trip: not being able to park at the first train station I went to and having to find a second, not being allowed to sit in the library at John Jay Colege because I wasn't a student or police officer, the internet connection not working, no seats at Starbucks. I genuinely grew irritated as I thought about, adopting a tightness around my lips and stiffened brow. As I walked through Grand Central Station, I noticed the locals warming up to me, giving occasional nod.

I made it home in one piece, end of story.

MYQ in NYC

2009-11-04T06:49:00.000-08:00

Well today is a special day. My friend MYQ Kaplan is taping his first special for Comedy Central. His name is MYQ now because he is smart, and realized 6 or 7 years ago when he was starting in comedy that Mike Kaplan was a common name, but there's something about the power of the Q, maybe a concept he stole from the people who name radio stations.

A zillion people with talent come along, but I always knew MYQ would "make it", whatever that means, because he is what would be known in poker circles as a "grinder", a worker bee churning out small gains everywhere he plays. In comedy, we refer to this affectionately as being a "stage whore", which is no way intended to be a derogatory term.

MYQ would hit the stage as many times a night as he could, right from the beginning. He'd do five minutes at one joint, then hop on a train or drive across Boston, Saugus, Dorchester, New Hampshire to get another five minutes.

Don't get me wrong, this s.o.b. is funny as hell, and is a true comedian in the best sense of the word. MYQ is a craftsman, and I hate to use a hackneyed comparison, but his workmanlike approach to comedy reminds me of Jerry Seinfeld. Not his style, his professionalism. If you've ever seen the fantastic documentary, "Comedian", you'd know what I meant by that.

The end product is a crisp, clean, perfectly timed joke, but often the recipe for the end product involved rap sessions with other comics, and relentless perfecting of a joke, trimming, scaling down, economizing until you have the best joke you can possibly have. Of course without the natural talent of being funny, this is all mute, but combined with humor, this ethic produces fantastic comedy routines, and Kaplan is the perfect example of this.

He can tell a short story, riddled with punch lines. He can shoot one liners all day. And his sets are bam bam bam, he keeps coming at you the entire time, joke joke joke joke joke, and the true gift of the master is how natural and relaxed it all looks, like this guy has all day, is in no rush and is running the show.

Beyond the talent and the work ethic, MYQ is one of the genuinely nicest people I've met in comedy. He is smart, humble and simply a guy you just want to root for. I will be rooting for him today at the Gerald Lynch Theater on the corner of 10th and West 59th in New York City.

The only part of this trip I am not excited about is having to marinate in NYC with all those obnoxious, gloating Yankee fans.

The plan is to drive to Westport, Ct. and take the train from there, a strategy I have used when traveling to the big city a few times. I am bringing my laptop so I can write on the train ride in which takes 69 minutes, according to the Metro North schedule. I like the train, it is very relaxing, especially in comparison to navigating through Manhattan in a car- no thanks.

Nanowrimo 2009

2009-11-03T15:11:00.000-08:00

Well, it's that time again- National Novel Month. The object is to write a novel of 50,000 words in one month. Last year, I was totally focused on word count, just to prove to myself I could write that much in a month. Consistency and discipline have always been my greatest obstacles to productivity. While I can't say I came up with anything one could consider a novel, or even one linear or non-linear story, I DID crank out the word count. For me, this was a major achievement.

This year, I have a few friends who are tackling the mammoth task again. I am going to plug away and try to be as consistent as I can be. While I am not writing a novel, but more of an autobiographical piece of what they call "creative non-fiction" nowadays, I am still going to log into nanowrimo and use the word count charts for motivation sake.

I cranked out about 3,500 words today, which is an incredibly productive day for me. I also caught myself doing a little editing, which is a big no-no, it slows you down, and first drafts are first drafts for a reason. If I keep going in an editing, I never go forward. The mission now is to CRANK out volume and fix it later.

Good luck to my friends also writing. I know at least Tom, Claudia and jesse (who successfully wrote her first novel last year) are doing it this year.

Drunk Dream

2009-11-02T23:31:00.000-08:00

I had a drunk dream last night. For those who don't know what that is, it's just what it sounds like- you dream about being drunk. This can be unsettling for sober alcoholics. I have the same dream, but have only had it, oh- 10 or 15 times in the last 10 years. It is really more of a nightmare than a dream.

It's a nightmare on the lines of watching Grady Little walk away from the pitcher's mound in Yankee stadium in 2003 after deciding to leave Pedro in with his arm falling off and Matsui coming to the plate.

You would think if you were going to dream about drinking, it would be a fun dream, a 2004, come from down 3-0 dream. A dream of when booze "worked", but I always have the same shitty dream, rare as it is, it is horrifying. In my dream, I already drank, or I drink maybe one beer, and it is a crappy beer like Bud Light. It's too late to change my mind, and I have flushed double digit years of sobriety down the drain. I get absolutely nothing out of it, kinda like the last three years or so I kept trying to get that old effect.

My reputation as Mr. Sobah is obviously in ruins, and I have no identity, because virtually everyone knows me as a sober guy, and most people know me from sobriety. There are still a number of folks, I'm sure, who know me from the "old days". I really don't even think about it, to tell ya the truth, it was another life, but this dream, argh, it is a tough one.

The worst part is that I always wake up in the dream to find that I really DID drink, and my life is crumbling around me. When I finally wake in reality, I am not sure I am awake, then I have to remember, "What did I do? Wait- I didn't drink, right?"

I am grateful that I rarely if ever even think about drinking, and I haven't "wanted" a drink this century. I am one of the fortunate ones with my particular demon. But am I hoping the next time I have a drunk dream it is a wet one, with cute chicks and parties and everyone having a good time, like the way it was with alcohol when it still worked... in like, oh say, the late 1980s. I am exhausted and really looking forward to sleep. My room gets pretty bright in the morning with daylight savings kicking in, or is it over now? Anyway, I am hoping to get some solid shuteye. It's almost 3 a.m., a late night.

short update

2009-10-28T05:34:00.000-07:00

Well, I am off to what may be the last Foxwoods tourney of the series. I have also been thinking about starting a poker blog for this type of nonsense so people who are more interested in hearing tales of watching paint dry than my blow-by-blow description of hand histories and poker details won't have to come in here and see this nonsense.

For the poker nerd, this is all highly interesting stuff, for everyone else it is like going to see what you expect is going to be a pretty good movie only find an empty theater and a dentist waiting for you.

And oh- he forgot to bring the Novocaine, this is going to hurt- a lot.

Bad Beat at F***woods

2009-10-26T20:36:00.000-07:00

Yeah, nothing new, that's why I call it F***woods.

Poker can be fun, interesting, exhilarating, and above all, frustrating. Today was a perfect example of the latter.

Beau and I entered the $500 NL. They like to do this goofy thing with starting chips counts at Foxwoods, where they give you progressively more chips as the buy ins get larger. The idea is not a bad one, but they overdo it, get too fancy. For the $300 shootout, they gave you 5,000 chips (we didn't play it) For the $400 NL, they gave you 5,000, the $500 6,000 chips, and and the $600 Nl they start you out with 7,000 chips.

What I don't like about this is the lack of uniformity. there is less of an advantage to playing more tourneys, because they pace differently do they varying chip stacks. It is also a pain in the ass to calculate the avg stack size in your head when it is 6,000 or 7,000 at the outset, which is why I really dislike the goofy amounts.

Just make it 5,000 or 10,000 for Pete's sake.

Today, I was determined to play much tighter after the flop for the first two rounds (50 minutes each). I bled too many chips early last time on drawing hands, which you have to be careful of when you start with 5,000 or 6,000 chips. 10,000 gives more freedom to speculate early.

Right out of the gate, I flopped top set, which turned into a full house, and got paid off through the turn (6th street). Shortly after, I had pocket aces and was able to get the same guy I victimized with my full house to pay me a small amount, grudgingly. He folded with irritation, so I showed the aces to show the table I was playing big hands.

I didn't want to mix it up early. I showed big hands and made some excellent reads. A guy to my right was raising light (weaker hands like KQ or AJ AT) which really aren't raising hands in early to middle position, especially early in a tournament.

He raised the 50-100 BB to 300. I called in late position with 55. The flop was something ugly like 2 7 9. He bets 300 into a pot of 850- weak. he missed. The turn brought an 8 or something, and he stabs out 500 into a pot of almost 1500- very weak indeed. At this point, I put him on AQ, little did I know he was playing even weaker hands and had, I believe, A-10. The river card is another 9. I know this misses him because he would have bet top pair stronger. He must be putting me on a small pair, over cards, or perhaps he isn't a player who thinks a lot and isn't "putting me" on any hand in particular, but just tossing out small bets hoping I'd go away.

He fingers his chips, doesn't even look at me, and throws 1,200 into the 2500 chip pot. I am not excited about calling, as dropping another 1200 chips would cut my stack to around 5,000 chips, but I have to trust my original read- two high cards. I did think about it, then called and as he threw hand away said, "AQ"?

He said later, "if that your six came on the river, I would have had you, and you would have had to call with a straight, right?" So I know he had a 10, if he was telling the truth, and I am pretty sure it didn't make sense for him to lie about that, as it made him look goofier. So he was probably betting A-10 there.

He said, "Wow, good call. How can make that call." So I told him what I thought he had. I like players to think I know what they are holding. It makes them nervous and cautious and easier to steal pots from later. Another player later told me I was "making some sick reads", but that is really a fairly obvious read on a pretty bad player.

First of all, the biggest mistake people make when they bluff is making a bluff that doesn't make sense. The second biggest mistake is bluffing a player who isn't good enough to understand why he should fold, or trying to bluff a "calling station." Don't waste time or chips bluffing someone who has shown they will call down with weak or mediocre hands.

The guys bluff didn't make sense. There wasn't a hand I could put him on, other than maybe A-8, and that would have been a seriously weak hand to raise with in his position, that made sense.

I made my one blunder of the day shortly afterward when I raised a guy all-in on the river after he had already committed most of his chips. I mistakenly thought he had a lot more chips and could afford to fold, but he called me down with second pair and hurt my stack.

It was a rookie mistake I thought I had put behind me, similar to a blunder I made by overplaying AK after a missed flop last Friday. I was steaming, very pissed at myself for such a boneheaded play, so I took a short walk. Upon returning, I saw that I had croaked my stack from a little over 10K to about 6,200.

It could be worse, I had more than I started with, but I had handed over chips to a very loose player- the exact kind of player you don't want to have an abundance of chips to play around with.

Keeping my head, I stabbed here and there, picked my spots and chipped back up over 11K. I continued to bob and weave, avoid big pots and chip up. Finally, my chance came to attack the guy who had called me down and hurt my stack. I wasn't looking for revenge- that is moronic and gets you busted out of tournaments trying to be a hero or "teach someone a lesson". What lesson would I be teaching? "Hey, don't accept chips from me when I make a stupid play? Fold anyway?"

He raised in early position. I put him on AQ. I had 99. he had about 8 or 9K, I had about 17K. I figured I could get him to fold that hand with an all in. I had two shorter stacks behind me, and the guy to my immediate left was very tight. He wouldn't play unless he had a monster. The initial raiser hopefully would fold to my push with his tournament life on the line. AQ is one of the most over-rated hands in poker, especially to call with. I would much rather be the raiser than the call with AQ, because most people who re-raised you have either a big pair or AK, which has a 70-30 edge over AQ.

I shoved my stack. As He thought about it longer, I felt better about my hand. He was trying to talk himself into calling me, but his heart wasn't really in it. I thought more and more AQ, he has AQ. he said, "This hand has been good to me all day," and AQ was the hand he made his biggest hand with- against me earlier.

He finally calls and the news is even better than I had hoped, he has pocket 88, a 4:1 underdog to my 99. My 99 holds up, and I picked up a nice pot. I was surprised he called me with that hand, as I had been showing a lot of big hands, but sometimes, the chips seduce you into making a call, dreaming, you will win that big pot, forgetting that your opponent likely has your ass crushed.

I had also started throwing chips around a little bit, so maybe he thought I was starting to bet light.

As the tourney wore on, I picked up a few hands and played them very strong. A guy raised my BB when I had AQ. He had about 9K, I had 20K, so I shoved my stack. I had 10 10 in the BB, one limper, plus the Small blind- I shove my stack. I don't like to flip coins, but if I feel I have the best hand in a situation like that, I am going to put the other guy to the test.

Both hands resulted in folds, which is fine. I don't really want to see flops with those hands anyway, I am happy to take down the pot. As the tourney went on, I chipped up to about 43,000 or so, then hit a dry spell. I didn't win, or really play a pot for over an hour. I wasn't wasting chips, so I still had 35,000 or so when they broke my table up. It is an advantage to stay at the same table, as you know the players, but I was almost happy to be going, with the rags I had been seeing.

This would be my demise, however. We were down to 99 players or so when I was moved. 55 made the money. I wanted to make the money, but the day had been going so well that I was aiming much higher. I had played very well, with one exception, and had redeemed myself. I had also avoided bad beats- hands where I had far the best hand, but got some asinine beat.

My first couple hands at the new table told me this was going to be a challenge. I wasn't going to float into the money or run this table. The guy to my left was a chip mover, and so was the guy to his left. They had huge stacks and liked to throw chips around left and right. I called his raise from my BB with 22. the flop of 3 7 9 was ugly, but I check folded, after missing my shot at trips. It would not have been smart to start splashing around with a guy who likes to make moves with 22 in my hands.

The next hand, I am in the small blind with QJ off suit, not my favorite hand by any means, but not bad from the small blind. A guy with about 20K raises it to 3,000 from middle-late position. I call the extra 2,400 chips knowing the guy next to me would call with any two cards. I thought the raiser had an ace or a middle pair like 77 or 88 by the way he bet.

The flop comes A K 10, with 2 spades. I have just flopped the nuts. I have the best hand possible at this point in time. Some players might check here, to induce betting, but I bet out 4,500. I don't want this clown next to me getting a free shot at a spade, knowing he is the kind of guy who could have called the pre-flop raise with 5-8 of spades or something. He folds, and the initial raiser goes all-in.

This I expected, as if he had an Ace, he would have to play it here. the fact that I bet out also makes me look weaker, because it looks like I am trying to discourage action, which is exactly what I had hoped.

I call instantly- I mean, I have the nuts, right? I doubt he has spades, which I fear more than anything as another spade would crush my straight with a flush. I am guessing he has an ace, maybe AQ or AJ.

He flips over A 10 for two pair. I am way ahead with my straight, but I would rather have seen AQ or AJ, as he would need running cards to beat me, or a gut shot straight for a split pot. As it stands, I am about a 6:1 favorite. He has four "outs". He needs an ace or 10. the turn comes and 10 hits the turn, crushing my hopes. I take like a man, and dole out another 17,000 chips as everyone shakes their head is disbelief. I am not in disbelief, I am at Foxwoods, where these things tend to happen to me with regularity.

It is disheartening to play so well, make all the right reads and plays, and catch a bad beat. people whine about bad beats all the time, but a 6+:1 favorite after the flop falling is a bad beat. I still had 10,000 chips, I wasn't dead yet, although the uphill climb just got steeper- as Lenny sits down to my right. Lenny is possibly the most respected regular player at Foxwoods, and made the final table of the $10,000 main even last year at the Foxwoods WPT.

I catch KQ, not my favorite hand, but not bad for a short stack. A shorter stack pushes in front of me, I shove my 10K. Lady Luck has turned out to be a psycho-chick with herpes who is stalking me at work and telling the police I tried to force myself on her. the guy to my left calls with AK and my day is over.

All things considered, I feel great about my play, except the one mistake. My reads were very good, and I seemed to make all the right moves, but that's poker. I am going to have to downplay reporting the tournaments to my father, as he said, "this is costing you money, right?" and he does worry about that. he knows I won a small tourney last week, and I told him that covered me for a while.

I do feel like I am playing well, and geez, I don't even want breaks, just a lack of screw-jobs, and I feel something good will happen. We play at Foxwoods Wednesday in our next tourney, and I am targeting Mohegan Friday.

Callings

2009-10-25T07:47:00.000-07:00

I broke out a new book this morning to blend into the pile I use for morning meditation. I let up this week, skipped a few days, and only sat and read for a fragment of the time I was spending on the days I did sit down.

By "new" book, I mean new to the pile. The book is "Callings: Finding and Following an Authentic Life", by Gregg Levoy. It was first published in 1997, so it isn't new new, and I have had the thing for probably ten years. As I may have mentioned previously, nice folks are frequently giving me "spiritual" books. This one was a gift from a professor I had in an introductory writing course I took at BCAE about ten years ago. We became friends. She was a poet, and greatly enjoyed and benefited from this book.

I am sure I glanced at it a number of times over the years, as I moved from apartment to house to apartment, packing it up and thinking, "hmmm... I should read this sometime."

So today, in an effort to jump start my waning meditations, I grabbed "Callings" and a couple other books, adding them to the small stack. I have a very simple morning practice, part of which is reading a paragraph or two, or pages, from a book, and pondering. It is often referred to as contemplative meditation. I don't do well sitting in complete silence for extended periods of time. My mind is still very undisciplined and thoughts are rampant.

Much like Brennan Manning "got me" as early as the introduction in "The Ragamuffin Gospel", Levoy called my number in his introduction. I always read with a highlighter, these types of books, and I found myself reaching for it half way down the first page of the intro.

Levoy described a calling as a "centrifugal force". Rather than something coming from the cosmos, it is something inside trying to get out.

"We often tune out the longings we feel...rather than confront and act on them... we do not forget our calls, but what we fear what they might demand of us in pursuing them... Anticipating the conniption of change blocks us from acknowledging that we do know, and always have known, what our calls are... we also fear the hope that such a call evokes in us, and the Power that we know is dammed up behind the resistance."

Awareness of a call puts me in an ambivalent position. Ambivalence is sometimes seen as meaning wishy-washy, not caring which direction we float in, but in reality, it means torn between two options, almost the same as dilemma. A dilemma isn't just a problem, it's a problem with two unsatisfactory options.

When I think of people "called", many things come to mind. Most often, a calling is associated with the religious, so it tends to take on an ominous tone. If I answer a call, I have to do something BIG. Anything less than changing the world is failure. At one point, after having a spiritual awakening that saved me from an ugly death, I thought I ought to become a minister. I wasn't that far off... but all things considered, that is probably not my path. I had many ideas swirling around.

The thing is, I don't think you have to work that hard to know your calling. In your heart of hearts, there has always been something you were drawn to. Motherhood? Painting? Bowling? You felt at peace and in joy when the little stick turned blue, or you set foot in an art store, or when you picked up a tough split and filled a spare with a strike.

One has to wonder why we put so much effort into busying ourselves, distracting ourselves, launching ourselves into consumerism, obsession with things unimportant and rise and fall with the success or failure of the Red Sox, Bruins, Yankees, Patriots etc.

Many people come to mind when I think of answering a call.

The first who popped into my head is my sister Barbara. Barbara knew at a young age that she wanted to live in Europe and that she loved singing. She sang in high school and college. A few years down the road, she learned to speak French and moved to France. Not too crazy about the friendliness factor, she moved around, settling in Germany. She worked a job at a bank that was less than thrilling, but always worked toward her dream. She sang and sang and sang. Glee clubs, choruses, voice lessons. Eventually, Barb got a "job" singing in the chorus of an opera company.

Now my sister is not a religious person in the sense most of us consider religiosity, but if you kick around the classic sense of the word "religious" is a re-learning of what we've always known to be true.

Barb was born a singer, and through a series of small steps, arrived where she was always intended to be.

My niece Nat is another example of someone who responded to an inner call to sing. A mother with small children, Natalie decided to teach herself guitar, write some songs and sing them in public. When she mentioned this to me, I had had no idea she ever even thought of singing, or writing or playing guitar. In spite of intense fear of performing in public, not only did she pull it of, but she brought the house down and tears to the eyes of those who knew her. Anyone who knew her, (and even some of those who don't) could see that the songs were written on the lining of her stomach. No one else could have written them and sang them the way she had, beautiful, painful, liberating, true.

If she hadn't picked up the phone and answered in spite of her misgivings, the still small voice never would have been heard.

That's what it ussualy is, a still, small voice. Rod Serling concurred, "Thunder doesn't rent the sky and a bony finger... point at you and a great voice boom, 'YOU! You're anointed!"

Levoy continues, "most of the calls we receive and ignore are... daily calls to pay attention, to be authentic, to live by our own codes of honor. Great breakthroughs are often the ...accumulation of innumerable small steps."

So, as Levoy stated earlier, I do know, and have always known what I long to do. "We approach our deepest callings with both exhilaration and terror."

When I acknowledge that I have always lived to make people laugh, and loved to write. I like to perform in front of crowds and make them laugh. Combining these things with a deep self awareness acquired by recovering from alcoholism, and the subsequent spiritual awakening which kept me alive and opened my eyes, it would seem there was a reasonably clear direction, of not path, suggested.

It never ceases to amaze me, no matter how many times I hear differently, how persistent that voice of fear seems to be. Without fail, I will hear things like "who do you think you are to write? Do you really think anyone cares what you have to say? Rent a video. Play a game on the internet. Have a snack. This is too big a task. You probably won't finish. This has to be the best (fill in the blank) book, screenplay, article ever written, or you shouldn't bother writing anything at all.

It is sometimes very difficult to hear the still small voice among those voices, thought is always there. the voices of fear seem to dissipate as I take action- like I am now.

Even writing a blog helps me. It is not the flow of kind words and compliments from friends after I have written something. Oddly, I feel... "right" while writing and afterward. It is the before part that always kicks my ass. I find myself doing anything possible to "kill time", so that I don't have to write, or think about it, when time is the primary nonrenewable resource in the human experience.

So what can I do today? Well, it is unlikely I can write an entire book. But what I can do is bring my laptop to my dad's and write part of a chapter while we watch the Patriot's game.

10/22

2009-10-22T14:35:00.000-07:00

Well yesterday's poker exploits didn't go quite as well as I'd hoped. First off, I was exhausted and if I hadn't already signed up in advance, would have skipped playing. Secondly, I didn't play my best. I was a little too loose and aggressive way too early.

This particular tournament started you off with 5,000 chips, not a big stack. While the antes and blinds go up rather slowly (every 50 minutes) which gives you plenty of time to wait, I tend to try to mix it up too much early, and when you miss, you deplete the chip stack further.

I got low on chips pretty early and rallied a bit, but got bounced fairly soon. At the start of the day I thought, "the worst thing today would be if I got bounced early, and my partner busted out on the bubble just before the pay spots, which is of course, exactly what happened.

Finally got a little sleep today and had dad over for a movie.

We watched "Taken" and dad loved it. For an action thriller type flick is was actually not bad.

The Slippers Deliver

2009-10-20T19:46:00.000-07:00

As if bringing Ren (the dad) with me, I wore slippers to the poker tourney today. I would have left my pants at home and gone with long johns to complete the Rennish wardrobe if I thought they'd let me in the door.

As for the day's success- I give half credit to the slippers and half to this clay turtle given to me by my cousin Bill for my birthday which I use at a card cap. It reminds me to slow down and take my time.

Turn out was a bit of a disappointment, as only 19 people showed up for this thing. Mohegan Sun is annoying in that they must have the worst P.R. strategy going. "Hey guys, tell people about this, we're doing it every Tuesday and Thursday now!"

You can build a high rise, yet you can't let people know you're having a poker series? It's really up to me? Gosh, you're in trouble then guys.

Beau and I opted to stay and play anyway, since we were there, though we are definitely skipping Thursday. Today felt longer than it was, and we have a long one tomorrow (hopefully) at Foxwoods in the $400. It should be a pretty size field, maybe 900 or so if history dictates, though it is a tough economy. They lowered some of the buy ins, the lowest used to be $600, now they have tomorrow's $400 and next Monday's $500.

I wonder if Foxwoods will ask me to tell my friends about the tourney so someone shows up- probably not.

Today's tourney was looking pretty bleak. I was short stacked pretty late and didn't much in the way of cards all day, but I did lucky on a couple of all-ins. Anywho, long story short, when we got down to 4 players, we decided to split the prize money, then we renegotiated again at 3 players, then at two. It wound up being me and this other dude. The prize money was already chopped up, so we were playing for seat they added to another tourney because of the meager turnout.

We wound up splitting that, too.

So in effect, I won the thing, but it really was a small victory moneywise, but at least covers my tourneys this week and some of next week. And hey, it beats the hell out of losing.

Tomorrow we kicvk off at 11am at Foxwoods.

Weeeeeeeeeeee.

Back to the Poker Tables

2009-10-19T15:09:00.000-07:00

Well, my friend and former poker partner Beau is back in town for six weeks. There are two poker series at Mohegan Sun (Blowhegan Dung) and one series at Foxwoods (F**kwoods) over the next month.

We are joining forces yet again in hopes of duplicating our 2007 success. It really helps to have a number of tournaments, and also a partner (providing the guy can play) as it doubles your chances, obviously.

The goal is not simply to make the money in a tournament, but to finish right near the top 5 if possible. Obviously, you'd like to win the thing, but the way they structure tournament payouts, if you finish IN the money toward the bottom 1 out of every 2 tournaments, you would actually LOSE money. One key is to be aggressive as you approach the money "bubble" (the line between players who cash and those who do not cash) and try accumulate chips.

I need to remember to bring that most important tool, the ipod. I like to pay attention to the players, not immerse myself in music, but in the event there is a goon at my table, I prefer to just shut the noise out. Six or eight or ten hours with a goofball is a bit much.

We play our first tourney tomorrow at Blowhegan at 11am.

Weeeeeeeeeee!!!

I Don't shut the Door on the Past

2009-10-17T11:52:00.000-07:00

There's a spiritual promise in a book I studied that was a great part of saving my life.

"We will neither regret, nor wish to shut the door on the past."

This is referred to as a "promise".

There are a number of promises, all of which have come to fruition in my life over the past 12 or 13 years. All, that is,. except this one. Is it possible for me, sure, I believe so, it just hasn't happened yet.

I can stand on the "nor wish to shut the door on" portion of the promise. That much is true. I can honestly say there is not one single thing I have ever done, had done to me, or thought that I have not already shared with another human being, and of course, God, Who (I had a sneaking suspicion,) may have already known.

The purpose is not simply to share horror stories, or lowlights, but to share insight on a tragedy from the perspective of someone in whom the difficulty has now been solved.

Sometimes, the entriety of the problem has not been relieved, but I am compelled to share whatever perspective it si that I have.

The freedom to share my worst moments, humiliating defeats and darkest nights of the soul comes not from pride at having survived them, because let's face it, most people don't need to go where I've gone and experience what I've experienced to smarten up and do things differently. I never changed out of virtue, but rather out of necessity. And honestly, I never really changed me, I merely became unwilling to continue living the old way, and willing to let God do whatever the heck it is that He does with characters like me.

So it occasionally comes to me- my greatest regret of many regrets, the lone regret I can't seem to completely forgive myself for. I can share with depth the hows and whys, the ways God has changed me, and the things I need to continue to work on, but to say I no longer regret my greatest failing... well I just can't do that, not yet.

Humility is sometimes granted to the lucky in sublime moments when you know God is there, patting your head, whispering that it's all going to be okay. I often fluctuate from "I'm better than you" to "I'm worse than everyone", when in reality the truth is "as good as any, better than none", and God has a gentle way of showing this to me, taking my darkest moments, and using them to shine light into someone else's personal hell cave.

Today I met with a young man I am helping with his sobriety. We were talking about life, and we like to go to a certain place to get hot dogs when we have our chats. This week, they started deducting child support from his already meager check, leaving him with very little money left over. he said with not a little shame that he couldn't afford to go for hot dogs today, as he was broke. I good-naturedly and happily I might add ('cuz that's just the kind of guy I am!) offered to treat. he accepted, probably wishing he didn't have to.

As we sat and scarfed our dogs, he hung his head a bit, feeling bad about being broke while living in a half-way huse, which was bad enough. Without any effort, I thought myself somewhat magnanimous inmy generosity at helping out a down-on-his luck chap.

Before I completed the first pat on my own back, an awareness came to, sharply.

This kid was paying child support, that's why he was broke. I had money, perhaps because I had no child support to pay. Why is it that I don't have to pay child support?

Because my child was never born.

The opportunity was presented to me once to take on the responsibility of caring for another human being, but I was too scared, too sick to even dream of such an undertaking. It was many years ago when was in my mid 20's, a chronic alcoholic, daily drinker, bookie and degenerate gambler. What kind of father could I possibly be?

My own parents were marvels of parnethood. Dad had a truckload of kids. Mom (2nd marriage for both as her husband had died very young) waited until the wedding night, althought she was 39 when they married. I wasn't raised to be this selfish, this irresponsible, yet here I was. What happened to me? Where did everything go so far astray? How did I become this person I now loathed?

I couldn't face the responsibility, and was overwhelmed by the fear of how terrible a father I would be. I gave the poor woman zero emotional support, and pretty much, through lack of help, left her only one choice.

In the aftermath, I became more self-hating and ventually, suicidal, though no one close to me would know that. I pasted on the persona of a comedic chronic inebriate and tried to dull the pain as best I could. It would still be years before I would finally crumble and get sober.

As the kid sat there, feeling bad about how he had failed as a young father, as well as me having to pay for his hot dog, I realized I had to share this with him, though my ego would rather let me sit there and play the hero with a ten dollar bill to burn.

So I told him the reason I had money to pay for his dog might be because I lacked the courage he had displayed when he got his girlfriend pregnant to help her see it through. I instead thought only of self-preservation, and how poor a father I would make. I hadn't even dared to try, and because of that, there was one less person walking the earth.

"You might not be able to pay for your hot dog, but your son is alive."

I felt tears coming to my eyes, and fought them back. This kid, who had probably seen me as some sort of half-assed guru could now see the truth- I am just like him, he is just like me.

Either one of us trying to forge through life without God guiding us is going to leave a wake of wreckage.

I told him I was proud of him.

He countered with the admission that the money was deducted by the state, he had no choice, a truth he may not have been willing to pony up, but now was. God was showing him through me that it was okay to tell the truth, to fail and admit it, get up and keep plugging.

The only thing I have of value is the truth of my experience,nothing more. The truth is that when I am on the right Path, I am a pretty amazing guy, because that's how I was put together, and when I am off track, I am a wrecking ball, destroying everything in my path, because that's how I am put together. I was designed be with One with the Master, and when I stray, I pay as do those around me.

We talked for a long time about the inevitability of crashing and burning as the result of the alcoholic mind as marshalled by the will. I could see for this kid, it simply was not going to be any other way.

There was no great job,no winning streak, no new car, girlfriend or combination of them all that was going to change the fact the he was and is, a chronic alcoholic. As we talked about the mind of the alcoholic, his and mine, a small still voice whispered to me... if this is true for him, isn't it true for you?

"Yes," I thought, "Yes, it must be true for me as well."

This is how God shows me my own humanity, fallibility and ultimately, forgiveness, by teaching me through compassion for others andblessing me with forgiveness for others.

So today I was willing to open the door to the past so that someone in need may get relief from shame, guilt and remorse. That's a good step for me. Some day, I may look deep within myself, and notice that something is missing- regret and remorse with regard to this painful memory. As for now, it is still there in some degree, but lessening, and the pain has never stopped me from sharing the truth when I honestly believed it could help someone, so there's that. Right now, I'm pretty sure it's the very best I can do.

I still feel a little sad today, but I think that's a normal reaction. It's okay to be sad, sometimes "sad" is the exact right way to feel. The difference today is that I can be a little sad without trying to alter the way I feel with something outside of myself, but can go within, share the sadness with God, and move out into life, where I am supposed to be, as opposed to in my head full or regret for something I simply can not change.

Some things can't be undone.

You know, I generally like to write or talk from the perspective of a man who knows the solution, has the answers, is on top of things, but sometimes it is refreshing to simply write "I don't know", or "I have faith...but I don't have the answer yet."

I don't know.

I have faith, but I don't have the annswer yet.

There, I did it.

The Slipper Boys Volume XXVII

2009-10-16T11:06:00.000-07:00

Actually, this is the first installment of The Slipper Boys, but I thought making it seem like one adventure in a long series, which it is, really, would make me seem a more prolific author.

I met pop for a flick today, "Law Abiding Citizen". A vigilante-revenge flick, dad's favorite genre. he loves to see some killing gettin' done, provided all the people (except the hapless victims who generally get murdered at the outset of things, barring the buddy/cop partner who often go down 3/4 of the way through the formulaic yarns) who get killed are "bad".

Dad used to adore the Charles Bronson "Death Wish" films, and got giddy before watching Clint Eastwood's "Dirty Harry" wipe out the punks who somehow managed to evade "justice", dealing out his own brand of Magnum 45 scale-balancing.

When I meet the old man for a movie, or anything, really, I try to remember to wear my slippers. It is dad's great pleasure to wear his slippers anywhere he goes now, not because he is senile, but because (I think but can only guess, really) he says, F*&% it... I can do what I want now."

It may be only as the reality of losing certain pleasures and freedoms approach, that we are able to grasp the true privilege and joy of doing as we please.

Many people feel bad for people in their 70s and 80s, and think, "Gee, it must be tough to get old."

Which is, of course, true, but "beats the hell out of the alternative" as my cousin Fran used to say when she was still alive and kicking, and she sure did kick.

While there are the obvious physical limitations to aging, I happen to covet the freedom that seems to come with age and the right attitude. There comes a time when you seem to stop giving a shit about things that matter only to those of us trapped by the illusion of immortality. A friend told me once that none of really at our core believe we are going to die until we do. If I am immortal, I am going to need people to see me in a certain way, like me, approve of me. But when I genuinely realize that none of us is getting out of this alive" (thanks Don P.) it frees me up to be silly, to not care about anything but being free. Free from boredom (When is my last day on this earth? 2043, as it claimed on a questionnaire I filled out recently? Or sooner? 2025? Tomorrow?) Not out of morbidity, but out of a respect for those who can't go to a movie, I go. I hit Red Sox games, even though they are expensive and often break your heart and it is a pain in the ass to park, ride the train, or arrive by way of air drop.

I say a prayer of thanks (when I remember) when I pee sans aid from Avodart, or without passing a kidney stone. When I drink a delicious cup of coffee,because I can, or poop because all the parts of my body still function absolutely perfectly (well...for the most part.) Coffee, chocolate, popcorn, steak- all things dad forfeited his right to when he let them put a tube in his side to keep him alive when he could no longer take nourishment by mouth.

I'm 43, not 90, but someday my body and my faculties will not serve me as they do now. I know a few folks who would argue that my faculties don't serve me all that well in the present, by the way. Why wait until I'm forced by way of an enema to appreciate the freedom and glory I once had of taking a simple dump on my own time? I assure you, if you lose the ability to do such a thing (as I did for a brief period that felt like a lifetime), you would feel covered in glory after the simple execution a dookie.

Perhaps the greatest freedom afforded the aged is a return a gift God gives us as children, only to see us toss it aside; the freedom from fear of people's opinions. Until it is instilled in him/her by the world, children don't know you're not suppose to put jelly on a hot dog, or wear your jammies to the park, pick your nose or tell the truth about how momy and daddy really act when they're alone, or arguing. Nonexistent one day. the ruler of all thought and action the next, we abandon the freedom to be ourselves voluntarily, and pick up the company guideline. The beauty is that there's a company line for non-conformists, as long as they refuse to conform in an orderly fashion, like the goth kids who often dress exactly alike and listen to the same music. They conform by rejecting everything in sight.

But sometimes something happens when you get close to the finish line. You stop worrying about death, which is of course, inevitable, and start focusing on living, if you're one of the lucky ones, like my dad. A cantankerous old goat, I think he mostly uses ranting and complaining as a means of camaraderie, I doubt he really all that concerned about anything.

He lives like he's on death row, but they're not gonna juice him until Sunday, and they're serving prime rib on Saturday night. He is in the now 24/7. He wears those fucking slippers whether or not they forecast rain, snow or a hurricane. If it is raining now, he'll grudgingly put on shoes, but otherwise, "%^&$ it... I may be dead by then."

The thing is, he says it with a smile. Something about dad's near death and brutal run last winter was transforming. He is basically the same guy, but more so, if that makes any sense. I soak up every moment I can, knowing that while we've sure had a helluva run, it isn't going to last forever.

But mostly, we laugh a lot. While to say I tend toward the reflective would be a gross understatement, my role in the family it to make dad laugh, and it's a role I cherish, and might be the most important job I've had in my life.

So I wear slippers to the movies now, barring the intervention of inclement weather, anywhere I meet pop.

I showed off my slippers to him as he entered the theater, noting that I "was on time for a change." As I paid for the tickets (with his $20) I asked the clerk why it was full price, I thought it was "free if you were wearing your slippers", The clerk looked confused, so I reported to dad, "no deal, dad. Wednesday is the slipper discount day."

When he starts laughing, dad often has this look that says he simply no explanation as what a knucklehead I am or how I came to be that way.

I guess dad's laughter is fertilizer for my creative gene, I guess, as it always gets me on a roll. On the other hand, some of my family members feel my creative gene produces fertilizer.

Seeing dad was having a good time, I said aloud, "I can't wait until I'm a hundred and five, like you. You just don't give a damn about anything do you? Man that must be liberating. When you have both feet in the grave, and are keeping the casket ajar as your fingers get crushed, what can you possibly be afraid of?"

I know it sounds nuts- but he loves this stuff.

"Dad, I'd kill for your level of freedom. F*&^ it, I'm wearing slippers from now on."

He is laughing so hard he is beginning to tear up.

Doing my best dad impression, I said, "What's that sonny- oh you're writing me a ticket? Good luck collecting that, I'll be dead in 6 months, jackass."

I stop before the clerks have time to realize it might be a good idea to deny us entry to the movie ans throw my arm around dad.

"Let's go to the right theater this time, Helen Keller, I don't want to see Rainy with a Chance of Meatballs again because you get lost."

Law Abiding Citizen was everything dad loves in an action flick. As we walked out to our respective cars, dad thanked me.

"Shit dad, I palmed your five bucks change."

"You always do that," he deadpanned.

Laughing, I handed over the wadded up singles, and dad squeezed my hand, looked me in the eye and thanked me. It made me a little uneasy, to tell you the truth, like maybe he knew something I didn't.

I told myself it was just his way of showing appreciation, his equivalent of a grateful audience at the end of a good comedy show, a nodding his approval for the entertainment. But a part of me I tried to ignore used it as a reminder to cease every opportunity I have, as all things fade in time.

Football and movies.with dad

2009-10-13T13:14:00.000-07:00

I went to my nephew Mike's football game Saturday afternoon. It was a matchup of 4-0 teams, though Northbridge was a decided underdog, even playing at home. They fought 'em close, but lost in the end 16-7. The Auburn players were giants. Mike is about 5'6", 165 lbs- and plays ceneter, yes center.

He came just below the shoulder of the opposing nose tackle when standing up, but I have to say, the kid dug in and held his own. The best part of the game was that my dad agreed to come to it. He hasn't been getting out nearly as much as he used to. I asked dad if felt like going, and he said "sure," which surprised me. The game started at 2pm, and did hits the sack for his afternoon nap at 3pm- no exceptions. he also gets some medication at 3pm.

We hopped in my car, and began to head to the game when I noticed dad was wearing his slippers (which he likes to do in public.) I insisted on getting his shoes and bringing them along, suggesting the ground may be wet.

I drove to the gate and dropped dad off, at which point he quickly skipped out of the car and said, "I'm not taking my shoes," before bolting like a kid who had just gotten away with some sort of mischief.

We cheered, stood, sat and yelled for the Rams. It was an amazing experience for me. Seven months ago, this man was in the hospital and was so weak he couldn't walk. Walk? He couldn't sit up. My father couldn't put on a t-shirt. I had to hold him up with on arm, and wriggle the t-shirt over his head with the other.

Yet, here he was, up and out and rooting for the home team.

The previous Wednesday, dad and I hit a flick, "The Invention of Lying", the week before we saw "Surrogates" against his better judgment. While I got popcorn, dad went into the theater. When I showed up, he wasn't there, so I went to check the bathroom and see if he was in there, and just to make sure he was fine. As I went down the hall, I see dad coming out of another theater (which was also showing the same film). Dad yells at me from 60 feet away, "Where the hell are ya?"

We wound up in the right theater, and the flick was better than we expected, but any movie I see, any game I see, any time I get to spend with this little 85 year old kook, is the best spent time in my life.

Twenty years, or ten years, or five years from now, it's unlikely I'll wish I had spent more time playing poker tournaments, or playing video games, or driving around in circles. I have long appreciated time spent with my father, maybe moreso because my mother died when I was so young, but after seeing dad in the condition he was in last winter, after the 4th and 5th trip to the hopsital, we weren't sure he'd ever make it out of the hospital, the out of rehab, then up a staircase again, let alone be out rooting and viewing and getting haircuts and hitting CVS to buy shit he doesn't need again.

He is getting around quite well, very well, actually, and is planning on coming up to my place tomorrow for "Benjamin Button" (or an action flick if I can find one I think he'll like.)

I feel very blessed to know that these truly are the best days of my life. I am grateful that I can enjoy pop and let him be himself and just get a kick out of the nut. I would say, though it be a cliche, don't let days turn into weeks turn into months turn into years before you realize who is really important in your life, and what the most valuable commodity in the human experience is... time.

Tom Dustin is my Hero

2009-09-24T09:07:00.000-07:00

Well, Boston comic, former used car salesman and all-around funny sunuvagun Tom Dustin has done it- he has realized one of my dreams.

While on a series of mid-west road gigs, he performed at Des Moines, Iowa last night. After the show, actress Amy Smart approached Tom and apparently told him she loved his set, understandable because is one of the funniest muthaf-----s going.

You have to understand- I dig Amy Smart, and not just because she was the winner of the 2004 MTV Award for "Best Kiss" (shared with Owen Wilson and Carmen Electra for "Starsky and Hutch") I always thought she was just one of those women who had "something", ya know?

She is firmly planted in my all-time hottest babes eva list.

1) Halle Berry
2) Tina Fey
3) Teresa of Avila (There is something hot about spiritually powerful dames.)
4) Amy Smart
5) Sarah Vowell (Smart is sexxy)

It dawned on me that the "something" she has is that precious space between her front teeth. There seems to me to be something genuine about a movie star who says "go take a dump fer yerself" to perfecting every aspect of her appearance so that she can look as much like everyone else as possible.

Maybe what I like is that this character trait of Amy's, and her embracing of herself as she is allows me to delude myself into thinking I would actually have a shot at her if she happened to stumble into a show I performed at and killed. Or at least, I could garner a nice compliment from her... thanks Tom... dream stealer.

So kudos to Any for not only being ultra-hot, but recognizing great comedy and talent when it's standing in front of her cracking wise.

Kudos also to Uma Thurman for never fixing her nose... or getting a foot-reduction (have ya seen those kicks- they've gotta be a size 14)... and to Jennifer Love Hewitt for telling the Enquirer to go screw ("I like my body") when they asked her about her cellulite. Here's an absolutely beautiful woman ridiculed for refusing to starve herself, revolve through lines at the liposuction clinic and pander to tabloid celebrity idiocy.

Call me crazy, but it is these flaws that make people beautiful to me. It makes them seem human, instead of part of some production scam designed to get me to buy something, or believe I need to be somehow something "more" than me to be happy, healthy and whole, that all I need is the next product, fad or wave to fix the part of me that's still fallibly human, then and only then, will I be whatever it is they are trying to tell me is "okay".

So thanks Amy- keep that space, Uma- you go girl, and you can probably punch out anyone who doesn't like your nose anyway. Thanks Jodi Foster for publicly stating you didn't think plastic surgery was for you, I mean that sincerely even though I am vaguely aware that you play for the other team, I respect you, but I was never really all that attracted to you. I know it seems insensitive to tell you this for the first time in such a public forum, where 3, perhaps even 4 people will read it as well.

What was the point of this blog again? Oh yeah, Tom Dustin=hero, Amy Smart is hot. I guess we've covered that.

Good Things Happen to Funny People

2009-09-22T08:05:00.000-07:00

I got some terrific news this morning when I opened my "Comedy Studio News" email. Two Boston regulars, now performing across the country, but Boston Comics all the way, recently got signed to their own "Comedy Central Presents" specials.

Myq Kaplan and Shane Mauss are two outrageously talented, funny and skilled comedians. From the first days I met Myq on the Boston Comedy scene, he was a gentleman, a genuine sort of chap. He also was a stage-whore. This guy would perform anywhere there were five minutes available, often cranking out brand new material night after night, throwing stuff at a wall and seeing what sticks. He would work out jokes others might have tossed until they became something. This kid has a lot of something. He is just one of those guys you knew had the rare combination of talent and drive to make something very special happen.

In case you don't know, Boston is full of great comics you will never hear of, guys and ladies who can throw together a set that will bust your gut, night after night. Myq is a guy who does that, and combines it with the work ethic Jerry Seinfeld demonstrated in his fantastic documentary, "Comedian."

I couldn't be prouder of this guy if he was my own son, conceived after a wild night of dropping rofies into some chick's manischevitz at the annual Matza Ball.

Shane Mauss is outrageous. A lights-out entertainer who can follow anyone. He has the kind of confidence you want to see in a comedian. He isn't waiting for the audience response to tell him he's dead-on hilarious, he already knows it. He's there to crack himself up, and if you want to join, that's okay too.

I remember seeing this kid at a dump in Dorchester called the Emerald Isle. When I say dump, I mean it affectionately. Ed Regal and Richie Gustus held this open mic for years. The thing ran for 3 or 4 hours sometimes until every single comic had a chance to perform. Shane was one of those comics. he began working out new material here, and Rich, a veteran of more than 20 years in comedy, had the sense to see this guy was something out of the ordinary, and had a chance to be really special.

Gustus was right.

I am so happy for these guys. I am feeling inspired to get back out there again for the only reason there is for doing stand up- LOVE OF COMEDY.

Thanks guys, best wishes and good luck.

If anyone would like to go to the taping of these shows in NYC, I will be going. There's nothing quite like a comedy road trip. Myq's show is Nov. 4th or 5th, Shanes Nov. 6th.

Butterfly Effect... III???

2009-09-21T20:11:00.000-07:00

Who knew? I sat through the entirety of Butterfly Effect I, thinking... that was horrible. I heard a rumor that there was in fact a Butterfly Effect II. I was curious as to why there would exist a sequel to a film no one saw, and of those who did see, about which none seemed to be all that enthused.

Generally, when a movie blows and no one sees it, the rea$on for making a sequel is squashed. Now I can see the impetus behind Basic Instinct II. Basic Instinct was a pretty decent thriller, erotic, and Paul Verhoeven did con Sharon Stone Stone into the now infamous crotch shot with the old "panties-will-reflect-off-the-camera we'll-edit-out-your-hooha" scam. A promise he now famously reneged. So, one might think, maybe in spite of horrid reviews, Basic II is worth seeing. I mean, it wasn't, it was a cashing-in of the worst kind, a total piece of non-creative bile spewed out like a frat boy's late night ill-advised chili dog- and less attractive a production at that. But what I'm saying is, at least I understand the notion behind such a venture. Whereas, Butterfly Effect II leaves me puzzled and ButterflyIII leaves me stunned and wondering if New Line Cinemas was in desperate need of a tax loss to balance some books.

Does anyone recall "Ishtar II"? How about "Showgirls: The Next Skank Wave" or "The Postman II: Special Delivery." Incidentally, I defy you to come up with a movie title involving a colon that is even watchable. Case in point, "Ballistic: Ecks versus Sever."

The colon in a title is almost like a red flag, a warning. The only more obvious warning to a potential movie watcher would be if the usher blocked the door to theater on his hand and knees, pleading with the popcorn-holding attendee, "Don't do it, I beg you. It's shit...it's absolute shit. It's John Travolta in platform shoes and bad makeup, it's a talking duck, it's the low point of Eddie Murphy's career."

Okay, that one could be a variety of films, but I was talking about Pluto Nash.

Not to blame the victim, but anyone who saw Butterfly Effect III got what they asked for. That's right, I said, they asked for it and I don't care if it's politically incorrect to say so. You walk in to Mission Impossible 3 or Gigli, you get what you deserve.

So anyway, Butterfly Effect III.. un frickinbelievable, eh?

John Cryer Takes Emmy

2009-09-20T20:13:00.000-07:00

This saddens me so much so that I decided to blog for the first time since January. John Cryer... John bleeping Cryer????

This guy's best work was as ducky, in Pretty in Pink. He wasn't bad as a 27 year old guy hiding out from hit men in a high school while waiting for the mob trial to start, except he was pawing some 16 year old chick, so it was epically creepy in some respects. Thus,k I was pretty stunned when he took the Emmy for best supporting actor in a comedy.

it isn't so much that I dislike John Cryer, he's harmless enough, but that this sort of show is why network television is dying an unceremonial, slow and extremely painful death. I have only seen this show about 4 or 5 times over the years, and none on purpose, but I can honestly say that I do not recall one moment, one instant or original comedy.

John Cryer plays the lame-o foil for Charlie Sheen, who of course, plays himself. They find new ways for Charlie to same the same fucking thing week after week after week about doggin girls and generally acting like a twit as he refuses to become an adult.

Super painful.

I am almost ashamed...no strike "almost" to be considered part of the American viewing audience. When shows like Arrested Development get canceled and shite like 2 1/2 Men win awards, it might be time to sell the LCD flat screen and spend more time reading.

Reflections of Great Gigs, Volume I

2009-01-23T08:30:00.000-08:00

It must have been 4 or 5 years ago at least.

I popped into 3G's in Worcester, slightly concerned that I had forgotten to wear a flak jacket that evening. The host of the show, Andy Paquette, was there along with someone or two I can't recall and Vince Golden.

If you don't know Vince, he started comedy years ago, opening for George Burns in the 1850s and later taking Charlie Chaplin under his wing, and is still around today. He is known for a bit where he hurls himself over a railing or some other object, flipping himself onto the floor.

The 3G's bar area was about 1/2 full, most of the patrons watching TV. The other side of the place had a small stage. Vince was on before me, and always sets an example, leaving it all out there, holding nothing back. This man gives the same gusto each performance, regardless of crowd size.

Four people were watching the show, which did not stop Vince from the full performance, hurling himself over a bar stool onto his back with his usual full vigor.

While waiting to do my set, the unfortunate need to take a dump struck. There was no stall for the toilet, and the door didn't quite shut all the way. (Andy informed today this is still the case.) I roamed a block or so down the street to Stoney's Pub and was able to use the facilities there.

Upon returning, I was up there riffing on the place, unsure whether I was bombing in front of 3 people, or 4. One of the patrons had passed. Since he was technically unconscious before I hit the stage, I wasn't sure whether or not he counted? After sharing that thought, I made an off the cuff comment about the vibrant fishing industry in Worcester keeping Gazo's bait shop afloat, the only business I recognized in the decimated city from when I was a youth.) I then asked if anyone knew exactly how many bodies were buried in the back of Gazo's, finally getting attention of the bar folks, who uttered a shocked, "oooooh", which I took as confirmation of the presence of the aforementioned bodies.

The only guy in the entire joint laughing was Andy, the host. he was losing it and really cracking up. I would have had more fun myself were I not concerned with being stabbed en route to my car after this set.

Were it not for places like this and guys like Andy who open rooms so new comics can get stage time, I never would have had the success I did manage to have. I don;t remember that many of the highlights... a few maybe, but shows like this always stick out in my mind.

There is some sort of open mic still running there, and I may drop in to remind myself why I love comedy, and why I hate comedy.

A Surreal Day

2009-01-20T18:49:00.000-08:00

The inauguration was almost surreal. I wasn't sure it was really happening. I almost felt like i was in the Matrix, and was going to wake up to find none of it really happened. We didn't really have a black president. We hadn't really rejected the status quo and thrown our hats into the ring and taken a real chance.

All day long I heard on the radio how people thought the speech was okay, but not one of his better speeches.

I wholeheartedly disagree.

He said everything that needed to be said, and nothing that didn't. I listened in disbelief as one talk show host said there were no great one liners like JFK's now famous "Ask not what your country can do for you" quote.

That's what I liked best about the speech. It wasn't designed or written for sound bites, but for a message outlining the mission ahead of us. It wasn't in a tone of a self-congratulation, of mission accomplished or of arrival, but a call to muster stations.

And if you needed a soundbite, I am fond of the invitation to hostile/difficult nations, nations with perhaps despotic leadership that "we will extend a hand, if you unclench your fist."

Democrat or Republican, black, white or purple, married or single, we must get together or perish. That much seems pretty clear.

Tool Academy

2009-01-19T10:17:00.000-08:00

I got an email from my brother-in-law, whose first language is German, or perhaps it was my sister, I'm not really sure, asking me "Korte, what is a tool?"

A tool, basically, is a guy who is cool- in his own mind. The world can see that he is a self-absorbed clown with delusions of grandeur, but to him, the fantasy he has of himself is real. He likes to hear himself talk, generally about nothing, or if about something, with a cluelessness of the topic or of reality in general that boggles the mind.

"Tool" is also slang for a particular male body part, which is probably not a coincidence.

Take the new reality show "Tool Academy" as a frame of reference. There is an assemblage of various "kinds" of tools. Jason- the skinny tool. Tommy- the "slacker tool" lives with his girlfriend off her child welfare checks, There is "power tool" who is always showing off physical strength by whipping his girlfriend around in the air, the "loudmouth tool" and so on, Matsu-something-or-other who can't keep his clothes on, hence the "naked tool" moniker.

Generally, I loathe reality TV, and well, yeah, I kinda loathe Tool Academy. But after watching the first two episodes, I am reeled in like I'm witnessing a car crash from which I simply can not turn away.

After recommending the show to a female friend, I was informed that it was "too painful" for her to watch, as she sees so many hapless , clueless girls (like the women on the show) who continue to put themselves in league with imbeciles like the tools on the show.

She said to me, "it is kind of funny at first, until you want to jump through the screen and yell at the girls, "What are you DOING with this ASSHOLE? Start worrying about why you want to be with this loser, and stop putting all your energy into changing him."

I see her point, it is painful to watch unfold. While I agree wholeheartedly with her assessment of the situation, I doubt there's going to be any encouragement of introspection for the ladies. The total focus seems to be on the guys and what colossal idiots they are.

The premise is somewhat evil genius. Nine guys arrive via bus to this mansion where electronic signs abound, shining "MR AWESOME!" into the night. Yes, the guys think they are competing for the title of "Mr. Awesome", America's number one alpha male.

Perhaps the coup de gras of each episode is the end, when the "Tool Badges" are handed out. Of course, one of the tools is going to get a badge, and is instead going to be bounced from the show, not without ceremony. The girls will be focused on with closeups, as they hope against hope it isn't their tool who is given the gate, the slim hope for their flagging relationship is on the line here.

The real hidden gem here is that the host of the show is perhaps the biggest tool of all. He smugly condescends to these por shmucks throughout the show, and at the crescendo of each episode, declares the soon-to-be-exiting contestant to be "just a tool".

Of course, the host is the least repentant style of tool, the "I am better than you" type.

In episode one, the lads, (most of whom look like they spend a great deal of time staying in shape,) are led to a runway styled stage and dance down the runway to the cheers of screaming women. These clowns really ham it up, from obnoxious pelvic-thrust style dancing to talking smack into a microphone. My favorite moment is when "Tommy", the "slacker tool" comes out spinning a basketball on his finger and says, "I get it done ON the court, and OFF the court" then proceeds to take one dribble, which goes awry and biffs one of the cheering girls off the head.

I immediately thought, "now there's a tool for ya- he can spin a basketball, but he can't even dribble."

To put that in perspective, I played four or five hours of basketball most days of my life between the ages of 13 and 17, then played constantly for another 6 or 7 years, and I could never spin a basketball. It takes time, effort and skill to spin a basketball. Since there is no real practical use for it in the game of basketball, I never learned to do it. Dribbling, however, comes naturally. You learn it instinctively just by walking around with a ball, by playing.

This goofball had to have spent countless hours learning to spin a ball for show, but he can't dribble one dribble without beaning some unsuspecting bystander off the noggin? That's a tool for ya- all show, no game.

I got into a bit of trouble with Tina last night after sticking up for Sean. "I can't believe your sticking up for him," she said, retiring after 10 minutes of the show.

Sean has had two girlfriends for the last three years or so, which we just discovered (and they discovered) in last night's episode.

To me, this guy is a classic example of the difference between selfishness and evil. Some of the other guys strategically cheat on their partners. This guy is just so self-absorbed, and obsessed with the delusion that getting his way all the time and getting what he wants is the key to happiness. Last week, he matter-of-factly stated that he "seems to feel better when he has multiple girls" hanging around to date than just one.

He is oblivious to why that is, of course, assuming it is the natural order of things- more makes you feel better, right?

In our culture, it is almost impossible not to believe that. It is shoved down our throats every minute of every day. He has no clue as to why he feels this way, no idea what his gluttony is covering up.

What I like about this guy is that I think it is possible that he could see that he is missing the point entirely. When confronted with the two women, there was a moment of clarity, when he just threw in the towel and stopped lying. He bluntly stated how he got himself (and the women) into this situation and seemed to have a genuine moment of anguish and pain when he saw how much suffering he caused the girls. I thought he was having a fleeting moment of clarity, after which he bluntly stated with what seemed to me to be genuine regret, "I hope I don;t get kicked off the show. I need to stay here. I am obviously the biggest tool here."

Tina thought he was just feeling guilty, and maybe that's true. But I recalled a similar situation in my own, one which I consider a very powerful spiritual experience.

I was a few months sober, and writing some personal, "spiritual inventory" when I realized that women were nothing more to me than emotional, mental, and spiritual Tylenol.. pain killers for alcoholism and how I felt inside my heart and mind. Ego boosters and pain masks without which I may had skipped in front of a fast moving vehicle a thousand times over.

That moment triggered a shift in awareness and thinking for me. I would go forward from there and write a thorough inventory and discovered that I was as much of a tool as any of these goons on this show.

This morning I awoke and recalled a similar situation to the one that Sean experienced on the show, and it was horrific. At that point in time, all I was capable of was resenting one of the women for "making me look bad", but in reality, the entire thing was self-inflicted.

Today.

Today I set the coffee up for Tina before I go to bed so she can flick a switch at 5 am and get hot coffee.

Today I go shovel out her car at 4:30am so she doesn't have to.

Fifteen or twenty years ago I was terrified of being too good to a partner for fear she would feel too good about herself and figure out she was too good for me. (Of course, I was unaware of this.)

Today, I thank God for Tina, and I pray that God give me empathy, compassion, loyalty, appreciation, and show me the way to be the best man I can be. I need to pray daily for unselfishness, honesty. I thank God for the privilege, and ask to be a mirror for her, that God show her how wonderful, beautiful and special she is through me. I can somehow see how special she is, when she can't- that's a gift of the Spirit.

Ironically, when I align myself with spiritual principles, I don't have anything I need to medicate emotionally or mentally or spiritually.

As I sit here, I realize that "Tool Academy" isn't an opportunity for me to sit here and feel superior by observing degenerates ruining their lives, and the lives of the women around them, it is an opportunity for me see myself in these hapless men.

The difference between me and these guys isn't intellect or instinctual decency, or any sort of virtue. It is God.

Without a vital spiritual experience and awakening, I would be exactly where these guys are today. Sometimes I forget that, and maybe I even forgot until I started writing this blog. The only difference between the guy who makes the coffee, cleans off cars in the middle of the night and tries to be a mirror to a special lady each and every day, and the guy who possessed only the capacity to think of himself is God and spiritual principles.

I had intended this to be a funny blog, poking fun at these jerks and the women who hang on to the delusion that they can change them into someone else... but it turned out much differently, as it so often does when I open my heart an just start typing. The truth has a way of finding its way onto the page.

A Visit with My Cousin

2009-01-11T13:13:00.000-08:00

Well, we got back in one piece. The flight home was slightly adventurous, leaving late for some unknown reason, and hitting a little turbulence en route to Boston.

The cruise was good- very relaxing, especially for Tina, who stuck with her early-to-bed style and stayed up a bit late twice, but got plenty of extra rest. I read two books, and started two others. I polished off yet another Andrew Vachss "Burke" novel, "Down Here". I read my first John D McDonald book, The Lonely Silver Rain, which is one of a large series of books revolving around a sort of semi-retired investigator named Travis Magee. It was pretty good, for what it is.

We landed Friday, and didn't fly home until Saturday morning. I realized my cousin Bill had moved a few months back, and thought he might be on the close side to where we were, which was just outside of Miami. I called my sister, and she confirmed that Bill was, in fact, less than thirty miles away.

I rented a car, and Tina and I headed east to Dania Beach, and Bilmar Gardens, his current residence. It was a little complex of twelve apartments or so, not like the last place I visited him at, which was a huge complex with many residents. At first, I thought it might be an improvement. I fondly reflected when Bill lived at Manor House or Arlington House when it was owned by an old guy named Jack, and run by his daughters Penny and Barbara. They loved Bill to death, or really, to life. They gave Bill a chance to earn a few bucks and feel useful, helping some of the elderly men, shaving them, etc.

But mostly, they just loved Bill. When he moved to Michigan with his girlfriend, Bill had a good couple of years, but with mentally ill adults, twpo good years is like forty, it was a terrific success. Unfortunately, after helping each other stay well, one slipped a bit, got out of sorts, or maybe the meds stopped working for a while, and the wheels came off. I remember talking to Barbara, and how happy she was that Bill was coming back to Florida.

"Could he come back? Of course! Bill is always welcome here."

Unfortunately, when they retired, things changed drastically. The Manor and Arlington Houses, as well as other mentally ill or disabled adult facilities were purchased by a man named Andy. Since this happened, Bill just hasn't been the same. He has had a few good stretches, but mostly has been in and out of the hospital, and occasionally, incarcerated. The violence at these facilities seems to be constant, if not always severe. There also has developed a disturbing trend of Bill's meager monthly allowance being skimmed, or palmed altogether. (He has about $30 left from Social Security ater paying his monthly rent.)

Because of Bill's condition, it is hard to tell exactly what is real, and what's in his head, so I sometimes have to take some of his reports with a grain of salt, though often there is some validity to it.

Saturday, when we pulled in, Bill came running out, jumping up and down and high fiving me hard to break a wrist. I had never seen him so excited. It wasn't long after I saw him that I noticed he had been beaten up pretty badly. There was dried blood on the porch near the door to his room, his nose was still a little bloody, and his lip was still bleeding, though the incident happened that morning.

I could barely look at him.

I tried to play it cool and went into his bathroom where I began to sob immediately. I wondered what my mother would think, knowing her nephew lives like this, and I have gotten too comfortable to help him get out of there.

The bathroom was gross, the shower creepy, and he had no toilet paper. Bill claimed they wouldn't give him any, but that is another of those things... what is real, what is in his head. Is he afraid to ask, fearing they'll say no or yell at him, or is he imagining part of it? You never really know. I can tell one thing- Bill was lucid, he wasn't kilter, or not making sense. Apparently, he objected when he didn't get his money. He probably more than objected. The result was four or five staff and clients pummeling Bill. I'll spare the details, but they involve a metal chair, and it is disturbing to say the least.

I developed a stiff upper lip as quickly as possible, and pulled my sunglasses over my eyes, heading back out and acting as cheery as I could. I knew my job for that afternoon was to give Bill a good time, cheer him up, get him some basic things he needed and some decent food.

The thing that hurts the most is the firm belief that if the situations were reversed, I don't believe Bill would allow me to stay in a place like that. We are very much alike, Bill and I. Our mother were sisters who died a year apart at the age of fifty, from breast cancer. I was ten, Billy was fifteen.

The difference was that my father was a decent guy who took care of his family, and whole bunch of brothers and sisters who cared about me. My sister Debbie had always been like a secondmother to me, and my sister Barb stayed home and took care of the cooking and cleaning around the house after my mother died. There were always people who let me know I was important and would be taken care of. As terrified as I was, I had a pretty good set up, all things considered.

Bill's is a different story. His dad was a much older man when he was born who always kind of resented his existence. He was an alcoholic and extremely abusive, though to this day, Billy focuses on all the things his father did well, the times he took him fishing, taught him things, how interesting a life his father had lived as a young man, how he fought in World War II, how he was a fantastic chef, and amazing physical specimen as a young man.

He skims over the beatings, and how he was abandoned shortly after his mother died, sent to Boy's Town, or the streets of Miami to fend for himself before he turned sixteen years old. One day, when he was around seventeen, something inside him just snapped. He had a nervous breakdown/psychotic break which triggered paranoid schizophrenia, and he has never been the same since. When thinmgs are going well, when his medication is right, he is a wonderfully gentle, generous person. In spite of having very little, he is always trying to do something for someone else, praying for others, speaking well of others, trying to contribute any way he can.

I don't believe anyone really deserves to be victimized by unscrupulous scumbags, especially people who are mentally ill or handi-capped. I've got to believe there's more money in ripping off wealthy widows or land barons or something than robbing people who already live in poverty, but I guess any time there is an easy victim, a dirtbag will appear to scab whatever they can from whomever they can.

The first order of busniess was getting in touch with a place Bill stayed at a while back which was safe. It wasn't really the best fit for him, too many old people, and it was more of a rest home than anything else. Bill didn't like it, in spite of the caring staff, good food and clean conditions, because his freedom was somewhat limited. There were curfues and stuff, and he couldn;t just walk out and smoke a cigarete any time he wanted.

I called those folks, at least hoping to get him somewhere safe while I started doing my homework to get him into a better place. They will be in tomorrow, and I will call and see what we can do.

Selfishness is sneaky. I believe it is at the core of all evil, all character defects, all things that rot a person's character and, well, soul, if you will. It masquerades as harmless things, things that are perfectly acceptable, and before you know it, you;ve become someone you aren;t too crazy about. It can always be traced to selfishness.

Selfishness itself isn't evil, it's just selfish, about self, self-centered. It puts me at the center instead of God, or you, or someone else. It makes everything about me, about what I can get, instead of what I can contribute.

One of the subtly self-destructive things I do is isolate. I get lazy, I make my world smaller, and the first to go are the people who require effort on my part. Okay, not always. I am a good son, and generally, a pretty good friend. I am not a bad person, but I am, historically, lazy.

Bill is an easy person to slowly cut out. Oh, I always send him a few bucks, now and then, or try to call occasionally, but emotionally, he is not in my head or my heart much of the time. It is painful. His life is so difficult, mine so easy. It is easier to become busy with things that aren't really important, if not downright time-wasters by nature and design, than it is to become more involved in someone's life.

Especially when that life revolves around so much suffering.

Standing on a filthy floor, staring into Bill's dirty bathroom mirror, tears streaming down my face, I asked my mother and my aunt to forgive me for letting Bill live like this. I asked God to help me be family, to be his advocate.

My ego has a strategy for dealing with moments like this. It is called guilt, or shame, which is more severe. My mind gets me focused on feeling bad, blaming myself, blaming it all on myself, and so you see, selfishness has a new root, a new game. As long as I can dwell on me, my ego is happy, even if all the dwelling is of a negative variety. My ego mind wants me to focus on where I screwed up, wants me to feel bad as though the "feeling bad" part is the action. As long as I feel terrible, I don't have to take any actual action.

Realization that a good percentage of people who may stumble across this blog willhave little idea what the hell I am talking about, but this is really the natire of alcoholism, of what my "illness" is- selfishness of a zillion varieties, of a kajillion forms, and if I don;t stay on it, I get sick, in the head, in the heart, in the soul.

Awareness is my opportunity to change things. I don't feel bad about seeing Bill Saturday, about feeling like shit about it. Who would see someone in those straits and feel good about it? I do feel grateful that I am aware of what I've been doing...shutting myself off, coasting, cruising, sliding, and I am enthused that I made the effort to rent a car and drive to see my cousin. I am glad Tina and I spent the day cheering Bill up, making him feel loved, liked and cared about.

He was actually in good form, too.

The more I think about Bill, the more heroic he becomes to me, enduring, surviving, plugging onward. Always believing in the good in people in spite of what befalls him, always hoping for the best in spite of witnessing much of the worst.

If you are the praying type, pray for my cousin Bill tonight, and tomorrow and the next day, if you would be so kind.

Anchors Away

2009-01-03T12:32:00.000-08:00

We leave tomorrow!

Woo Hoo!!!

Tina is very excited, as it is going to be her first cruise. I have been on several, but I am excited myself, and really looking forward to relaxing, reading and chilling out with my sweetie. We fly out early tomorrow afternoon, land in Miami. We'll be staying over night in Miami, and sailing Monday afternoon.

We thought it would be not only more relaxing to get there the day before so we wouldn't have to rush from the airport to the ship, but would be smart, given the potential for weather issues this time of year. It looks like it is going to be a beautiful day here tomorrow, but I am still glad we'll be getting down there early.

We will be hitting Key West and Cozumel along the way on our four night cruise. I am betting it will at a minimum be a tad warmer in the Caribbean than it will be in Worcester.

I've stocked up on books, and am now narrowing down the selections for the trip. I hardly read all year, then I binge-read on cruises.

I'm a Saint (witness provided)

2009-01-02T21:21:00.000-08:00

I am leaving on a cruise with my sweetie Sunday- her first, so you'd think I'd blog about that, but I am not a get-excited-before-the-big-day kind of person. I usually don't get excited for a rock show until the day of the show when I am on the way there.

Maybe I am just tired, a bit slappy, but my thoughts are drifting to a night I spent hanging out with my charge Jack he of the autism, a couple of weeks ago.

It was one of those great nights, where I am felt a tinge of guilt that I get paid at all for such a great "job". Jack was awesome. He started out a little sluggish, not really responsive, a tad out of it. When he is like this, I usually stay closer to home and don;t do anything too dramatic, out of experience. But, one of my favorite bands was playing a rare local gig, so I said "to hell with it, I'll gamble." Jack likes the band, so I had hopes he would be into it, but you never know with this dude.

As we walked into the joint, Jack loosened up a bit. It was at a place in Natick called "The Chicken Bone". The admission is free, and they send a bucket around (I believe they called it the chicken bucket or something to that affect). The idea being, if youlike the band, you throw in some cash.

Pete, lead singer and guitarist of "The Peasants", started the show with a welcome to all and several thank yous, as well as "this is a Christmas song" before blasting right into it with "Frat Boy". Frat Boy is a riotous, angry, accusative finger, pointing at collegiate imbeciles and their behavior.

It has an infectious riff and great choruses, pauses, grunts and guitar licks... everything you'd want in a great rock 'n roll song. It didn't take Jack five seconds to get into it, and he "danced for the entire 90 minute set. When I got him home, his T-shirt was soaking through and so was the sweatshirt he wore over it. He loved every second of the show.

Jack has a sort of lurching, lunge, a violent back-and-forth juke that is all energy, and looks fun as hell. I keep waiting for Denise Austin or some other fitness guru to steal it and put it into a workout tape.

When Jack is like this, he is a pure delight. My job is super easy, and actually really fun. I love seeing him happy, and I am even more ecstatic about him behaving himself and not causing any nonsense. I simply tucked my forefinger loosely into his sweatshirt pouch so I could keep a bit of a line on him. It was very crowded, and he jerks back and forth so quickly that I was afraid he would knock a tray of drinks out of a waitress' hands.

Three quarters of the way through the show, this older lady, about three margaritas past making sense, says to me, "iire vfsah sfdh" amid a driving rock tune.

Naturally, I responded with, "what???"

"You're a SAINT," she croaked, giving me a slight buzz with her breath.

I shook my head and nodded a smile, turning back to the show. After the show, on our way out to the car, she added, "You're a SAINT, but you don't KNOW IT!"

I smiled and picked up the pace back to the Suburu, but in truth, it was what I always wanted- credit I don't deserve for something I haven't done... and for a while, I thought it had been to much to ask for.

Years ago, when I started with Jack, I probably wouldn't have admitted it, because it would have been news to me, but some part of me always thought young single women would see me taking care of Jack, and admire my patience, tolerance, and kindness toward a handicapped person.

In my head, they would say something like, "Oh look at how WONDERFUL he is with that disabled gentleman... I can only imagine how fantastic he'd be with our children! And golly, if he's that patient with this character, he must be unreal in bed!"

I'm not sure how I came to that connection in my thought process... I guess that was always an erroneous assumption I prayed women would make with regard some random, unrelated character issue. Something like this, "Oh good heavens, he can change a tire, bake brownies, tie a shoe (fill in the blank, really_______), I guess I should maul him immediately, that's a sure sign of good lovin'!"

In retrospect, I believe many women do have visions when they see you caring for a handicapped person, but instead of white picket fences, they envision a third floor walk up apartment, and the used Ford Escort they'll be using to get to the 2nd and 3rd jobs they'll have to take to make ends meet.

But my dreams came true that Thursday evening at The Chicken Bone when an intoxicated woman who could easily have given birth to me years ago, and bench-press me today gave me credit for being an angel. I knew it. That made the last seven and a half years totally worth it.

2009-01-01T10:47:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year, folks.

After completing my 50,000 word goal in November, I have done exactly nil, zero, zilch. A couple of days ago, the same writing group member who suggested the Nanowrimo thing sent me this link.

http://wriye.co.nr/

The idea here is to set a word count goal for the year, and chip away at it.

I have just never been good at sitting myself down and working on anything without a deadline. Even as a kid in Jr. High School and earlier, I always waited until the night before something was due to get to work on it. That continued throughout high school, and college.

Since I got past the deadlines of November, I haven't done a thing. I signed up for this annual word count thing yesterday. I got the feeling that 90% of the participants are 22 or younger, so that will likely be no camaraderie, except that within my own little group, but still, I hope it helps me at least sit down more consistently and write.

When I finish this post, I think I will sit down and try to jot down a short story, just for the heck of it. I have no idea of what I will write, but it doesn't matter. Then there is the unfinished "Allergic to Life" which has been half in my head, and half on paper for almost 10 years. I am still not sure what that is, what form it should really take. I guess the scary thing is that if I sat down, it would be something, then I would have to judge it. There is a certain safety in never finishing anything. If it isn;t finished, it can;t have failed, it can't have come up short, or missed the mark.

Every time I watch one of my favorite shows or movies, I am grateful that its author followed through, took a risk, poured in the effort and dedication it took to get it written, produced, finished, and at the same time, I feel a slight pang of guilt at having given myself a pass so often and for so long.

It is a bizarre phenomenon, this combination of ego and fear, morphing into laziness and lack of inertia for fear of actually arriving at an unsatisfactory destination.

Who can forget; "Porky's", “The Last American Virgin”, "Sixteen Candles", “The Karate Kid”, "The Breakfast Club", “Back To The Future”, "Pretty In Pink", "Ferris Bueller's Day Off", "Can't Buy Me Love" and “Say Anything”. Boy, do I miss those days.

For every "This is Spinal Tap", "Napolean Dynamite", "Mean Girls" or "Office Space", there are twenty like Babylon A.D. or the latest Mike Myers or Vince Vaughn vehicles. The most baffling thing is films wtih a good premise, like this year's "Four Christmases" wind up saddled with hackneyed jokes you've seen a hundred times before, or a script so inexplicably bad you leave the theater shaking your head, wondering why, in a town of literally thousands of screen writers, the travesty you've just witnessed was allowed to happen.

All I need to see of Jim Carrey's "new" flick, "The Yes Man" is the trailer to realize it is merely a reworking of "Liar, Liar". He even reproduces old stunts like the tape on his face, and various physical gags we've seen before.

When I see something like "The Big Lebowski" or lately, "The Wrestler", or when I see something that sucks, like most of the one-joke crap coming out of Hollywood (take "The Guru", for example.) I sense irritation, followed by a tinge of guilt, for not at least trying to do anything about it. Even when I listen to a great cd or see a kickass band live, for example, a rocker I have known for about a decade who fronts a band called "The Peasants", I sometimes feel lazy, like a non-producer.

The Peasants never made a million dollars. They never became famous and got plastered all over magazine covers and teen TV specials. All they've done for the last nearly twenty years is play kick ass music for the love of rock and roll. These guys are one of my 4 or 5 favorite bands of all time. Pete loves rock and roll, he respects it. He's mastered the craft, and that's all he ever really wanted to do. He still plays in bars and n Harvard Square because he loves it, and I am grateful that he does.

When I reap the benefit of someone's else's creative effort, I feel grateful, lucky even, and at the same time, I feel like a taker. I believe we all have innate, God-given talents, and it is a shame not to use them. Where we be if Tom Brady had given up asa skinny high school kid who had no college offers? What if Dustin Pedroia agreed with 99% of those who scouted him and rfegarded him as too small to play ball at a higher level. What kind of loss would it be if Barack said, "shit, I'm black, I'm never going to get elected" or if Bill Wilson (founder of Alcoholics Anonymous) said, "I'm better now, screw the next guy. I'm going on vacation."

This kind of thinking brings me to a point of self-centerednessand ego for which there is no good line of thought. All thoughts seemed to circle a drain of negativity, and wind up there somehow.

My head says something like, "Who do you think you are? Einstein? The chick who wrote "Slapshot"? (yes, a woman wrote that guy classic, based on her brother's experienced playing minor league hockey.) My ego, so afraid that whatever it is I perform, write or produce won't be good enough, tells me I am a tool for thinking I have some special talent with which to work.

On the other hand, believing one has no talent, is to make oneself special in another way.

I guess the key is the self-centeredness. as long as I let it call the shots and draw the attention, the results will always be the same, and contentment around this stuff will continue to elude me. As long as I think it is about me, I will likely fail to produce anything of which I can be proud.

Bill Wilson, Pete from the Peasants, Bogie, Jimi Hendrix, Harper Lee and the rest of those who have given so much to this world, they were all merely vehicles. They showed up and let the creative Power flow through them into the world. It came in the form of punk rock, movies and books. It came in the form of paintings, symphonies and humanitarian efforts, but the key was likely that people were doing what they loved, and through hard work, enthusiasm and..., well love, masterpieces were created.

I always think too much, and create a catch-22. Either my head says I am a slug for not using my own talents to create, or my head says I am an egomaniac for thinking I have any talent from which the world would benefit. As you can see, that is a dilemma, there is no good option there.

Perhaps the key is to stop listening to my head and take simple, constructive action. That formula worked pretty well for me once upon a time.