Sunday, August 22, 2004

"Go to church today."

That's the message I got from Mom today on my cell phone. I checked at lunchbreak 1:15 pm and heard, "This is your Mom. I'm leaving a message. Go to church today." Click.

Either my voice mail cut her off or, more than likely, she fooled with her cell phone again and accidently cut herself off. She doesn't usually hang up abruptly like that, but that's what I got left with the rest of the day.

"Go to church today." Because it's Sunday. Because my flight back to LA next Sunday is at 12:35 and I won't get a chance to go to church then. NEXT Sunday. Yes, they figured this out last week, three weeks ahead of time.

I would scream, but I haven't got it in me anymore, and hand (analysis) class was absolutely bone-crushingly exhausting this weekend. I discovered that my fire hand shape absolutely rules my environment -- my water heart line ONLY affects how I relate to people IN it. Wow. All of a sudden I had energy today -- fire energy burning that extra fuel -- and went up tons of stairs and took walks at all the breaks. How good did THAT feel? Incredible.

And now I'm too pooped to pop. I'm gonna eat a bit and go to the bookstore away from this computer and finish what I can of Wil's book (sorry, haven't bought it yet). I can't wait... and then a delicious night of well-deserved Venusian rest.

Friday, August 20, 2004

Watch the mouth

I just re-read my last post -- well, my brothers always told me I swore like a sailor! But after reading this... if I'm going to curse, I have to at least be more creative.

A little sore neck today, not bad. However, upon advice of friends, I'll go see the doctor Monday, just for the record. I wonder if Asshole hurts today. I hope so.

Oh my rear end!

Yup, coming back from Hollywood today I got HIT and HE RAN. Asshole plowed into me, and I braked as hard as I could to not plow into the person in front of me. I immediately looked into my mirror and saw his right headlight was was totally GONE, and as I pulled over, the creephead TOOK OFF (I hope he rots. Now. FOREVER.) Thank God I was only going maybe 15 in stop and go traffic, him 20 in his puny white baby convertible (Miada?). I couldn't go after him (I tried) and trying to get his license I only got the number "3" because the sun was setting and glared into my eyes. Fortunately, the lady behind him in the big tall SUV :) saw EVERYTHING, waved me down and motioned that she got That Golden Number. She gave me her business card (she was a Personnel Director -- how'd she know I was lookin'? LOL) and we both swore up and down was an asshole-creep-asshole he was.

I pulled into the lot of a very popular flower shop (it's off the 101) and quick, called 911 -- can you believe it, I got a machine! I was on hold for 5 minutes, where I was warned by machine that "911 should not be used to ask for directions" (come on people, what are you thinking?!) and I got my vengeance by reporting that son-of-a-bitch's license plate number. (Hey, I should publish that sucker just so EVERYONE ELSE can use it for claims on their accidents. Yeah.) They told me to just wait there, and LAPD officer would be by to take my report. I hung up to wait. I also almost got the boot from a worker bee from the flower shop because the parking lot was only for customers. I asked him if they had anything there for a buck because I only had five dollars on me. He said you can talk to the owner. Fortunately she felt bad for me and offered me something to drink. I should've said a scotch, but I just thanked her and went reparked my car so others could get by easier.

I was too ancy to sit in the car so I stood outside it and watched as a Geo Tracker (a girl's version of a Jeep) pulled into the parking lot steaming all over the place. Poor girl, didn't have her phone, didn't know what to do to get her Illinois Tracker back to Hollywood (we were just over the Cahuenga Pass). I asked her if she had AAA and she said, "They can tow you?" I told that's the best thing they're there for -- that and free maps. I let her use the phone, but to make sure if someone called to pick it up because that might be the police. It took her awhile to get through to AAA (I guess 6:30 pm in LA traffic is pretty damn busy), she heard a beep but said it didn't display. So we waited together, me and this dancer/actress from Chicago named Ellie, and because I couldn't keep my mouth shut (I was pretty damn angry), I gave her my entire history of rides in tow trucks and the "boo-boos" that caused them. You know, "since I've been around while." (And getting OLD because I'm using that stupid phrase.) At least I reassured her that the first time a car overheated I also mistakenly thought it was going to blow up.

One hour and 15 minutes later, after Ellie left with her Carmel Trucking AAA tow guy and buying me and herself a bouquet of gladiolas, I called LAPD again and waited on hold again. They'd come, they'd missed me, they called, they got the answering machine. I guess Ellie was a bit farklempt (sp?!) and couldn't handle an incoming call. That's okay. They said a car would be there in 1-2 minutes (I thought they said), I should wait near the street and wave them down.

Two minutes later I wave down a cop car -- er, patrol car -- and I say "Hey, you lookin' for me?" with a great relieved smile on my face. They said, no, we're on our way to another location. I said that the folks on the phone said you'd be here in two minutes and here you are to take my report, right? They said Aw no, we're real busy and it could take 1-2 hours to get to you, a non-injury accident. Aw shit.

They said go to the Hollywood and Wilcox station and report it there. I said I can't go to police department where I live? (BTW, I LOVE MY LOCAL PD. I WILL NEVER LIVE IN LA PROPER AGAIN JUST BECAUSE I'VE BEEN SPOILED.) No, because this is LAPD, but you can go to the North Hollywood station. Okay, I say. Besides, he says, you have six months to file a report. Okay. Yeah. See ya.

So off I go to North Hollywood, a brand new station, slick with giant fingerprints on the pavement leading towards the entrance. (Whorl, Whorl, Tented Arch, Arch -- didn't see any Loops though -- figures, since that's the School of Love... hehehe, hand analysis joke there.) There were three policemen swirling around to take my report (because they were so busy -- NOT), Officer Yabana drew the short stick while the tall blonde guy -- er, officer -- plowed down two pieces of pizza "with stuff in it." It took 30 minutes to take my report, all in pencil because they send it to Traffic, and that department "really" fills it out there (so why I am I talking to you?). He said the patrol cars put me off because they like the Traffic unit to handle us instead (I guess they have murders and rapes to get to or something), and even at the station they don't like to do them (they prefer to do reports on burglaries, thefts and robberies). I had to surrender the little piece of paper that Ana the Witness had written the license plate, time and place and her phone number on, and the Asian Officer Yabana who looked about 19 came out to look at the car, telling me on the way that a detective would be giving me a call.

Compared to the impact I felt when Asshole hit me, there's relatively minor damage to the car. His nasty-ass white paint made a big ugly design on the right rear bumper that blends well with all the METAL that it scraped off, and the fender itself is a little out of alignment on the right side. But that's it, not even a mean dent. Mr. Loserface's vanity mini-car suffered much worse. Officer Yabana said it wouldn't take much to get that looking new again: "Hope you have a low deductible." (I do.)

He sent me off, I got a McChicken sandwich in the drive-thru (for that buck), got home, made a claim with the insurance company, got places to go for estimates, and then called Mom and Dad on the phone. (Oh first, can I just Thank God -- and Mom and Dad -- for keeping me current with my insurance, registration and license? Thank you! As a friend said on the phone, it at least feels good that YOU didn't do it. Ah... you'll never know how good!)

I called Mom and told her to put Dad on the other phone. It was important and I didn't want to have them relaying it to each other over one phone, nor did I want to repeat myself 378 times. Mom had a few gasps and questions here and there, but she basically let me get through the entire story. Dad was completely silent until I was done.

"I'm glad you're all right, honey." Man of few words.

Mom said the same thing, and suddenly I was exhausted. A cool walk with the dog, and this girl called it a night, hoping I don't have any crap like whiplash in the morning (wait, it is morning... lucky so far). But now I have medical insurance too, so that's taken care of. (Insert more God-Mom-Dad thanking here.)

[FYI, I'm just listing the following facts so I have it somewhere for my records. Time: 6:20 pm 8/19/04 on Cahuenga going north at Benda, just south of Barham in Hollywood (Witness Ana wrote down 6:25 pm). Going approx 15 miles per hour in stop/go traffic. Rear-ended by driver going much faster (20-25?). I had lap/shoulder seatbelt on, no cell phone on, no eating, no drinking, radio on. Braked hard to avoid driver in front, no impact, and airbag did not deploy. From rear view, saw his right headlight was completely damaged. I pulled over, thought he would too -- instead he took off into left lane, north. Could not catch up with him. Driver behind him gave me license of the car, California plates. (I have her business card as she offered to witness for me). Description: small, white convertible, top down. Male, Hispanic, 30-40 yrs old, dark complexion, black hair, don't remember facial hair, no glasses or shades. Driver remains a Complete Schmuck.]

So those are the adventures in LA-LA-Land today everyone, and I AM FINE.

Tuesday, August 17, 2004

Addendum to the reading

[I posted yesterday's blog entry to the Wil Wheaton Yahoogroups list to share, and then forgot to tell them all about this incident and posted it as well.]

When Wil was doing the Q&A after his reading -- he read the chapters about the "Hooters Incident" and about his audition when his family went on vacation -- a guy came sauntering into the bookstore, and you could tell he was "different." Unkempt hair, terribly matching clothes... let's just say he was the standard NERD type like in high school that you hoped would never stop in the halls to talk to you lest you be banned from the normal kids forever. (Not like our dear Wil, he's Just a Geek :).

The audience could see the fellow coming, barreling along side the makeshift "podium" past Wil as he's answering someone else's question. He looks to see who the speaker is -- stops, takes a double take and then immediately shoots his hand up in the air, waving.

Wil Wheaton in Stand By Me (1986) My heart sunk. Please don't ask it.

Wil takes his question next.

"Hey, hey! Aren't you the guy who used to be on Star Trek?"

"Yeah. Used to be." Ugh. Poor Wil. Sucked up real good and I know I wasn't the only one with him. But the guy goes on:

"Oh yeah, yeah. Well, have you done anymore science fiction?"

Not a bad question and Wise Wil runs with it. I'm sorry, I can't remember the answer, but it's basically no -- I was too distracted by the other fellow's hand at attention again, ready to ask yet another question! Fortunately one of the employees there felt our collective cringe and told the guy something like "Give everyone else a chance, moron!" (okay, maybe not exactly that). He pulled his hand down and he left us and Wil alone.

We all got a taste of the entire "Hooters incident" right then and there, twenty minutes after Wil read it to us. Wow. Talk about synchronicity. Talk about empathy.

Monday, August 16, 2004

Wil to David Sedaris

Elaine just called and I told her about the reading last night with Wil and that he mentioned he wanted to right like David Sedaris. SHE JUST RAVED! So I'm off to the library to get a couple of his books -- read an interview online and he's a GAS. And I think she's gonna look up Just A Geek!

Cross-pollination all over the place.

Sunday, August 15, 2004

Wow Wil Wheaton

Wil WheatonYou ARE "Just a Geek"! But a humble, smart and funny one at that.

I made it to the reading with ten minutes to spare (ah the benefits of living ten minutes from Sunset and Vine), and was shocked to see that Borders wasn't teeming with teens. Just us other geeks who want to be ourselves... I think Wil was the youngest one in the room! And boy was he fun. I've never been to a book reading where the author was an actor -- this was the most entertaining one ever. He sure has the best of comic timing, in his writing so consequently he had something great to "act." LOL Hey Wil, did were you thinking that when you sat down at the computer how you were gonna "say" it? Because it certainly all rolled off the tongue.

He said he writes "narrative non-fiction" and wants to make others feel the way his favorite writer, David Sedaris, makes him feel. [How come I've never heard that phrase before, "narrative non-fiction"?!] Well, right back at 'ya Wil -- I want to write like YOU.

The difference, I heard today, is DISCIPLINE. "I'm very disciplined with my writing," he said. "Sometimes I write 5,000 words in three hours, sometimes 60 words in three hours, sometimes I write a lot of stuff and then throw it all out. But I'm disciplined." He got that from Stephen King's book "On Writing" -- hey, I read that book and I didn't get THAT out of it! For shame. Come to think of it, I don't even know where I PUT that book...

Three hours. Every day, no matter what. Pen/paper, typing... no matter what.

Yes, I can do that. I want to do that. Hell, Madonna does that (three hours of "creative time" everyday before anything else) and look where it got her.

As I was driving back, I thought "He doesn't know me, but I'm gonna drop him a nice note" and I realized that everything that will let ME be successful in the world MY WAY has do with OUTPUT. Writing. Playwrighting. Composing. All time I need to be ALONE and honest and OUTPUTTING. That's it... no heavy lifting required.

I can do this. It doesn't matter if I'm, as a reviewer said who's review I can't find again, a "normal person trying to be famous" as opposed to Wil who's a "famous person trying to be normal." I just have to do the work.

Make the time. Sit in the chair. Be yourself and output.

Thanks Wil Wheaton. You've made my day.

(P.S. to this story: I was warring with myself whether I should spend my $14.95 + tax for his "Dancing Barefoot" to have him sign it -- or get Yvette's nails trimmed since I only have $26 left to my name. I felt bad if he wasn't going to have a line of people to sign it... but he did, all those other older geeks like me, who unlike me, brought funds to buy the books. So I didn't feel so bad walking/sneaking out. (Besides, my hair looked like shit. I didn't want to remember this like that -- okay, I didn't want to meet ANYBODY or Wil like that... so maybe I'll find him at the San Diego reading and get a book signed there. Support the arts and the arts will support you!)

Truth is...

...I'm stuck, I'm falling and it feels bad. There, I said it.

So now I'm going to go hear Wil Wheaton read from his latest book "Just a Geek" in Hollywood. Wish I could buy the damn thing... but today it'll be enough to be inspired. He doesn't seem to have trouble with the truth at all, lucky bastard.

Saturday, August 14, 2004

Two of my favorite people

My cousin and my nephew smile back at me and calm me down. All is well when I see their faces. 

Nothing like VENOM to create some Action

I've been contemplating the use of this blog -- whether I want comments or feedback, whether I want my family and friends to read this or not. I wonder if I'm only preserving history with a a false note, making everything more significant and wonderful than it is. And I'm wondering if I should stick with a pen and paper -- I did that two nights ago and I think my hands went into shock. They didn't know what to do with a damn manual writing instrument.

But now I know when it is I actually come back wanting to write: WHEN I'M PISSED.

Seems I know I how to feel "sad" and how to cry -- them there are some pretty comfortable emotions. But anger? Forget it. Never allowed in our house, it was "disrespectful." When I get angry, I want to eat -- ANYTHING, anything at all to numb out. It's so much easier -- either that or turn it inwards and beat myself up like a fucking rag doll or get so depressed I can't stay awake for longer than an hour at a time. FUCK!!! Thank god tonight it was just a jr. bacon cheeseburger and a coke. Used to be a half a gallon of Rocky Road.

* I'm pissed at Claire tonight, for saying, "You know, it's time. You're 40-something-years-old and it's time for you to take care of yourself, make your own living, get a job. You can't REALLY be "yourself" in front of your parents until you do that. And it's time."

I must have looked shocked/bewildered because she said I had the same look on my face as I did when I couldn't cross a three-foot-wide stream in Hawaii and dropped my wallet in the water: like a devasted kindergartener.

"I can tell by that look that you don't really get it. Not really."

Well, fuck that noise. Good thing she was drinking all that wine, it gave me an up on her to change the subject really easy, really smooth. The damn TV was on so loud and she talked through half of the Opening Ceremonies anyway -- the whole night was bloody annoying. I'm not going to be the Nasty-Ass #7 (my Enneagram number) right now and and start giving someone ELSE'S inventory away (yikes, how did 12-step lexicon get into my language again?)... I'll just mumble the topics of "smoking" and "men"...

* I'm a pissed at BC. I can't believe the only thing I've heard from her about is the "money" I owe her. "Victimhood becomes you" -- shit, I feel like I've been kicked in the pants and forgotten, a toy she couldn't use anymore and got tossed in the Salvation Army pile... UGH. (BTW, it's not MY victimhood, it's hers.)

And yet, the truth of the matter is I HAVEN'T faced the music yet about money yet. (Face the music -- oh boy, ain't that a pun that sucks.) I can't get a job yet, I need to graduate -- I don't have energy in the day to take care of myself PHYSICALLY, much less monetarily.

I'm firmly attached to my mother's proverbial "teat" until December and I'm just going to have to figure it out money-wise until then. This "Persephone" is cutting them [ice long string s of assd] <-- I'm re-reading this and have no idea what that was supposed to be! Fingers got moved on the keyboard?) Maybe I need a fucking BC break too -- my goddamn hands aren't going anywhere, ARE they?!)

* I'm pissed at Jack. Asshole hung up on me because he said I was "argumentative" -- I told him like I've told him before that if I need CLARITY or INFORMATION I'm gonna keep askin' I'm not doing it to be a pain in the ass. "But it'll save time if we don't go over it again." Save time? What, we only have a three-word-a-day limit? Asshole. Of course, I kept calling but because his work has Caller ID he'd just hang up and not even answer. Well fuck him. I unplugged both phones and I'm locking the outside door. No early morning internet for him tomorrow, jackass.

* I'm pissed at my family. I told them today that the family website domain name works and it's terrific, I've started the website and that I want and need their pats on the back... "asking for what I need" being one of the skills I need to practice. Surprise! Not one note today. Not a peep. FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

You know, I know I need to create a new life for myself -- one that I love, one where I can BE myself and take care of myself really well. And I'm 44-1/2 and a hell of a late bloomer... and guess what? THAT'S FUCKING OKAY WITH ME! I'll probably forward this to Viv (hey Viv), but for once in my life, everything I'm doing feels GOOD, authentic, organic and precious. AND I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT FROM ANYONE ELSE WHO SAY "IT'S TIME NOW." It's time for who? YOU?! Fuck you! Get off my back.

Jenny said the other night that my "Saboteur" was kicking my ass right now, that I'm in a head-to-head battle with my old broken-record-theme-song "I'M A FUCK-UP." Well, I don't think I am anymore. This whole anger thing just feels like I'm CREATING BOUNDARIES. Like Fuck You get out of my space, get of my pool, GET OUT OF MY HEAD! AAAAAHARHRRHRGHGGHGHAAAAGGH!

Now -- better.