Eli Manning vs. Love

He who has never experienced hurt, cannot experience true love.
- Tristan J. Loo

2.5.2012

6:53PM PST: Hail Mary fails. The New England Patriots lose the Super Bowl.

7:13PM PST: I am lying on a bench in Los Angeles, staring blankly up at the sky. Under my shirt, smudged red & blue marker reads the names and numbers of my fallen heroes.

2.10.2012

3:34PM PST: My ManWagon wills itself up the final, steep piece of mud. I arrive at my home for the next month. 

2.13.2012

1:24PM PST: "Oh, hey, I didn't grab the water pump and it can't sit out in this weather. Make sure the valves are shut, then saw the pvc in the mid-section on the intake and the output. Make sure there's enough room to reattach, then bring it up to the barn."

I nod and hear, "Uh-huh," and, "Okay," come out of my mouth, but I'm too high to know if I actually understand what is being said. Farewell Joints will do that. We all hug, say our goodbyes and their truck pushes its way through the thick snow, heading for Mexico. 

It is suddenly very quiet. Sixteen hours after it started, the snow continues to accumulate. I turn to my car, which is half-buried in white. Anxiety builds in my belly. I am stranded.

3:14PM PST: Freezing water spurts out of the pvc's fresh wound. I cut it free and carry the water pump up the mountain in knee-deep snow. 

2.14.2012 (Happy Valentine's Day)

8:44PM PST: A storm is pounding the side of the mountain. With my headlamp on, visibility is about 8 feet. Without it, it's about five inches. As I refill the generator, the gas can empties and I toss it next to the other empty cans. I'm out of gas. There's no electricity without gas.

2.15.2012

11:26AM PST: In the emergency 4 wheel drive vehicle, I take a wrong turn. With everything covered in snow, it's hard to decipher the road from small riverbeds. If the truck slides into a ditch, it could be days before anyone else passes and I'm miles from the cabin. I carefully turn around and backtrack. The trucks blinks a "Low Gas" message at me.

Up in the top left is my new home.

February 3rd, 2008 marks the hardest sports loss of my life*. I still prefer not to talk about it, as there were some mystifying cosmic forces involved that I still don't quite understand and still need to explore. Suffice it to say that when the loss occurred, I died a little inside. The morning after, unshowered and hollow, I slumped into my car and pointed it in several directions at once.
With most details now lost in the ether, I eventually emerged, joints popping and creaking, from a blurry & faded two days... or three? More?

I sat in the snow on the side of a hill overlooking the I-5, just above a historical tourist site I'd never noticed before, unsure where the hell I was going next. As I began to apply another dose of pain-numbing matter to my brain, a bush rustled. Ten yards in front of me a small family of deer climbed out of the brush. We all froze as we realized that one of us didn't belong. I don't know how long I sat there or how long they stood looking at me, but as Wil Wheaton can attest, it was somehow deeply meaningful. I stood up, tightened my skirt and took the first hearty pull of fresh air into my lungs in days. I decided to re-enter the city of Los Angeles and immediately throw myself into a project. I creatively perspired my way through the pain over the next month.

February 5th, 2012 marks the repeat of this sports loss. This time I knew something serious had to happen. Perhaps even epic. Over the past four years, only the hazy story of the deer and one other event has helped me cope with the 2008 tragedy. Knowing this, I prepared my options.


A week earlier, a half-human/half-robot friend of mine and I went to learn Man lessons from Liam Neeson. He taught us that in order to contend with the daunting task of feeling feelings, one has to be dropped into the center of the most wild wilderness and man one's way through. That became my plan. In order to gain perspective on- and hopefully conquer- my heart's pain, I would battle nature with squinted eyes and chest hair peering through freezing gales.

Recently, after another life fracturing event, I contemplated shutting down a section of my soul. Putting myself in a position to Love had left me in a position to Hurt. Perhaps if I stopped Loving, I could stop Hurting? But the real question is, can you still be a Champion if you no longer feel feelings? I don't think so. I think a real Champion feels all the feelings. So I am hunting for experiences, stories and perspective to transform my pain into something else. Something beautiful and hairy. How could it not work? It's like a fucking Rocky IV training montage up here. So far I've carried gas cans, chopped wood, sawed a water pump free and the other day I carried a giant barrel up a hill.


So, here I am, a broken man on top of a mountain, isolated from the world with small hiccups of internet and TV to keep me sane. In one month- assuming I survive this adventure- I plan on returning to society with glorious life-force oozing out of my scraggly beard, ready to Love the shit out of something. Anything... Everything.

I will be a force of Love once again. Eli Manning hasn't broken me yet, though he's trying his damnedest.


For now, it's time to gas up the chainsaw.



- Captain Andy

Lips that taste of tears, they say are the best for kissing.
- Dorothy Parker

Cabenzi and I returning from a hike.

*I know it's difficult for some people to understand the level of investment some of us employ when it comes to sports. While this is a larger topic that will have to be addressed at a different time, for now I would simply like to say: 
I think we can agree that it is important to express love- or at least emotion- in some form. However, when more common outlets for love break one's spirit, betray one's moral sensibility or simply cease to exist, we can choose to either shut down our love-gland altogether, or we can find another dark hole in which to shove our passions.

Life is Magic.

    Life is Magic.

    I think.

    It's been over a year since I lost all the possessions that I had gathered over the first 32 years of my life. It's been a year since I slept on the magical mattress that had treated me so well for almost a decade; A year since I slept with Roland, my ratty and charming stuffed dog; A year since I perused some of my old notebooks and scoured them for old story ideas or old sketches I had whipped together while sitting in some lecture hall way back in the nineteen-hundreds. A year. What can happen in one year?

    Sitting in a giant metal tube, I decided to finally write a story covering the year since the fire. As I began, I reached into the bowels of my computer to find some digital ghosts from the 12 moons past to refresh my gray matter when I found something I had already forgotten. Only three weeks after the fire I had started writing a blog that I never finished. Reading through, I realize how that one trip set the tone for the rest of my year. In lieu of writing a new story, I present to you a story by a special guest writer: Past Andy. I've barely adjusted his words (hence the paragraphs that cut off, never finding their end) and present them to you here as Step One of my year as a gypsy-hobo.


-----------------
Written September 21st, 2009:

Where the Wind Blows Me


"Ooo baby do you know what that's worth?
Ooo heaven is a place on Earth.
They say in heaven, Love comes first.
We'll make heaven a place on Earth..."
- Belinda Carlisle

I have a good, solid history with this fine love jam by Ms. Carlisle, but I'll write that story at another time. Maybe. Just know that when I do, it will include: The world's largest bologna sandwich; Going blind; Transforming a stream into a vomitorium/ karaoke bar; A human brain getting stuck on a maddening loop for two years; And, finally, sex, though not for me. That, however, is a tale for another day. Today I open with Belinda's ode to love because I believe I have discovered the original inspiration for this song. Through a small crack in the Universe, I have had the good fortune to sneak a peek at Belinda's original muse: Nebraska. More specifically, Omaha, Nebraska.

 

When the world comes along and steals all of your possessions with its hot little fingers of fire, your mind sort of... wanders. It looks for something to grasp to help ground you in the reality of the situation. Distractions are hard to indulge, but when a good, solid distraction does grab you, it grabs you hard and you are thankfully whisked away on an adventure that is only as potent as you let it be. This last week I was very potently whisked.

Omaha's love actually started poking me in Los Angeles, taking the form of a bad-ass, tattooed minx from my past. An evening spent in the nicest dive bar ever and then continued on Blues Traveler's couch was my primer. At the time I didn't know it was Nebraska, but now, with my unrealistically pleasant adventure behind me, I can see clear as day that it was in fact Omaha (with a sprinkling of Humboldt and Portland, Oregon in there for good measure) with me the whole time. I know this because this pre-Nebraskan moment was the first time I got the undeniable feeling that I have it good. I have it really good. I know in my head that I am homeless and every non-living, physical thing I have ever loved no longer exists, yet... sitting there on John Popper's couch one week ago, I knew for certain that I am fortunate. This was the first of many moments of euphoric certainty that would set in over the next week. Skipping sleep (because sleep is for suckers), I immediately transitioned from the southwestern desert to the kindest center of America.

I can in no way do this weekend justice with words. Words are to this weekend what a single glass of champagne is to a wedding: insufficient. As much as I try to bend this little language of ours- and boy do I love to bend it- there is no way to mold it into the colors and shapes required to describe what I am describing. So, I will merely reminisce about some of the finer moments and, should you ever be moved to hear more about any section, I cordially invite you to come share a glass of whiskey or wine with me. Once we have a glass or two in us, you will stare into my hairy chest where you will begin to see shapes of my own recollection and your skin will start to feel the perfect weather and warmth of perfect people and you will know how transformative Omaha can be.

Omaha hosted a wedding this past weekend and people came from every corner of the country to be there- a testament to the sweetness and genius of the couple getting hitched. At one point I stood on the stoop of a castle, dressed as a CIA agent. The sun spit straight into my eyes, while a sea of tiny bugs tried (and succeeded) on entering me from many more orifices than I care to admit. I watched The All-Powerful & Mighty Reverend Rachel unite this magical couple and I realized again that I am lucky. This amazing couple saw fit to have me there at their wedding and everyone --

- Floating above the city, drinking free concoctions of deliciousity, I- along with 5 or 6 others- was handed a bible written by a better version of me from the future. How did this couple manage to get their hands on this book, even though it's from a parallel reality? I told you, this couple, and everyone around them, is magical.

- Under the stars, a historically accurate story was discovered about a Jewish dragon exacting preemptive revenge on a group of nerdy Nazi soldiers (and one sexy Nazi librarian) just one week before the invasion of Poland.

- At the Hotel RJ, the largest breakfast of all time was forged in a pit of smoke and surrounded by famous Meerkats. Sean Astin was there to see it all.

- A librarian with an intimidatingly sharp mind for comedic brilliance chose to adventurize the hell out of her life. I was a fortunate witness to her risky, ill-advised, but ultimately wise choice. And a sentence was spoken to me that I shall not soon forget.

- An Amazonian woman passionately listed off all the secret places of genius in Los Angeles, drowning a sheet of paper in ink and shaming all those who hate on the sinful city of dirt and corrupt morals. As she eagerly spouted her mind's knowledge, I tossed out stories of my own 'Fear and Loathing in Hollywood' experiences while chewing on a flower petal. Then it rained a beautiful rain, while outside a building from my hazy past and foggy future watched us.

- So much beer was consumed that at one point my body was a perfect sampling of liquid displacement. If something went in, something went out.

- Zombies of all ages took over the dance floor as a chorus sang out about the power of pussy. Soon after, I was wowed by Kevin's Electric Slide. So was everyone else.

- I slept on a floor and was lucky to do so. The hotel RJ saved the day four times over and for more than one person. I spent my time hanging with the owner of said hotel and a future rock star, bearing witness to the power of Thost, the most delicious substance a toaster can create.

- I was defeated more than once in a game that consisted of throwing droopy testicles across a lovely lawn, despite the fact that my teammate was The All-Powerful & Mighty Reverend Rachel, who has a direct line to the hand of God, but not Jesus.

There were too many moments of amazing to --

My trip was synchronistically book-ended by the bad-ass minx who kicked off my travels. Just as she was the first to remind me that I have it pretty damned good, she was also the last. She blogged me and she blogged me good. You ever been blogged? I have. It makes you feel better than you are and I'm thankful for each undeserving word. She book-ended my trip with surprising awesomeness and I will try to do the same with this blog.

"Omaha... Somewhere in middle America.
Get right to the heart of matters.
It's the heart that matters more..."
- The Crows that are busy Counting

-----------------

Soon after I wrote this, I found myself waist-deep in my favorite corner of the ocean and perhaps the most significant place I've ever stood. Let the magic continue...

Flame Style

"Fuck her," said the actor I recognized most recently from his stint on "Lost". He drunkenly shook my drunken hand and left. It was a nice thing to hear. Whether I agreed with the sentiment or not, hearing someone else badmouth some of my pain's source felt good. It was a tough weekend packed full of sympathetic words from both friends and strangers and something about the simplicity of "Fuck her" seemed most helpful. It may have been the (in)famous margaritas (specially infused with comedy) I had imbibed, but not feeling like a victim for a second was nice. You can't fuck a fire, but you can fuck an ex-girlfriend.

Sometime between the evenings of August 29th and August 31st, The Ranch- my home for the past four years- burned down in "The Station Fire" in Los Angeles. Over the same weekend I was informed that my ex-girlfriend (thus far the proverbial love of my life) was moving in with her new boyfriend. It was the most thorough two day life cleansing I have ever had- though it should be pointed out that I've never had a colonic.

One year prior we had been evacuated for a local fire, so when the time came to evacuate for this one, I didn't take it too seriously. Despite evidence suggesting more deliberate and serious packing was necessary (the atmosphere was orange and it was raining so much ash that you could literally hear it hitting the ground), I grabbed my laptop and some hard drives and that's about it. I drove out to Bakersfield that night for a fantasy football draft. I returned a day later with some questionable wide receivers and no access to my street. I had left my cat(s), guitars, clothes, pictures... really everything I have accrued over the last 32 years, in the middle of the largest fire in Los Angeles county's modern history.

On that first week of September, a few of us Ranchers went up to assess the damage. We had heard all kinds of rumors about the condition of our street and went up looking for either something to salvage or some kind of closure. We apparently took a wrong turn and ended up in Hiroshima. The entire street was decimated. The four of us split up and sifted through our respective fallen cabins, which were still smoking and smoldering.

I can't say that I'm intelligent, complex or advanced enough to know exactly what feelings I was feeling, but I can say that the feelings I felt were feelings I've never felt before.

Walking through the ashes of my home was surreal. Almost everything had lost its form. Metal had melted and re-hardened, forming some new and entirely unrecognizable object with all sentimental value boiled out of it. Everything else had turned to white ash. At one point I found the remains of my biggest regret other than the cat(s). I found the pile of notebooks I left behind. It was ten solid years of writing, never backed up onto a computer. You could see the shape of the pages clinging to the metal spiral, but once my fingers touched them, they floated off. I now claim that each screenplay, note and sketch in those pages was the most brilliant thing ever formed by human hands. Go ahead and argue. You really want to punch a refugee in the heart like that?

Feeling my walls and TV and student films fall through my fingers like they never existed made it hard to grasp how, just a week earlier, these things had so much meaning to me. I couldn't connect to what had happened. Then I looked up at everyone else sifting through their ashen memories (which, coincidentally, is the name of my new emo band: Ashen Memories).

Watching my friends stand in the middle of nothingness, looking for anything that still resembled meaning, was what made me realize that this stuff really was gone. Everything I had placed value on and carried with me for so long was absolutely gone. This place that had housed so many parties and served as the location for so many shoots, was now only a memory. We were all standing in the center of a life altering experience.

No matter what happens from here, this is something none of us will ever forget. It's a hard thing and the worst moments- for me, anyway- are when I find myself in the middle of a conversation and I suddenly realize, "Oh shit! The Buffalo Bills hat I got at my grandfather's funeral no longer exists..."* I suppose that will be happening for some years to come. A lot of memories will be forgotten simply because the object that memory lived in was gone. Without those little, physical reminders, my swiss cheesed brain will probably never recall certain moments again. It's depressing for obvious reasons, but it's also a great perspective builder. Much of what we hold onto is fleeting.

I'm not sure how the rest of the Ranchers have been feeling, but I've felt like a ghost the past week. I'm trying to turn this all into a grand life adventure, but I'm having trouble starting. There is also lingering evidence that my mind is still not all there (please read this article to the end for a quote spoken by yours truly on the day I saw my burned possessions [hint: it has to do with how strong I am]: http://www.northcoastjournal.com/blogthing/2009/09/02/orange-and-raining-ash/).

Who knows what will come of the next hour or week or year. I just hope I mine this situation for all the silver linings it may or may not have. Like it or not, I don't own anything anymore. That's the deal. So I say, "Fuck fire," and why not have a tet a tet with the ocean, plow through a bottle of wine (Fuckass! I just realized I lost a case of wine Glen and Anne gave me in the fire. Assblankets!), yell at the moon and couch surf in Malibu? In a way, the world is my delicious, salty oyster right now. Just as I am jealous of you for still owning the things you find precious, I want to win at life so thoroughly over the next few months that you find yourself feeling tiny pangs of envy in regards to my freedom. That, or I want to try and be drunk for 400 days straight. Either way, I win.


* No, they do not sell Bills memorabilia at funerals in Buffalo. **

** Who am I kidding... yes they do.

For Ranch stories, go to the Ranch facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=149622974991

For Ranch videos, pics and love, go to the Ranch blog:
http://www.ranchredemption.blogspot.com/

T. Alva Edison is Yelling at You!

Thomas Alva Edison once said, "Genius is one percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration." Now, I'm the first to admit that I'm no mathematician. However, I did score higher on the math section of my SAT's than I did on the reading/writing section, so I think I know a thing or two about percentages. In addition, I have a calculator on BOTH my computer and my cellular telephone. When I, an obviously astute observer of the numerical form, take a look at T 'n' A Edison's quote, I see a truth so true, it out-trues other truths. Follow me to the next paragraph and I'll explain in further, full color detail.

I reside in Los Angeles and, like every other amazingly awesome sucker, I am pursuing a career in the film industry. I have been here for so many days that I can't even count it on all my digits put together (including toes and naughty parts). I share the same struggles and frustrations with everyone else and most assuredly understand why people drop out of this particular rat race and look back with bitterness. It's tough. It's tough like Steve McQueen's face on Sylvester Stallone's body. 

One thing that I do notice in all of our struggling artist hearts is that complacency can sometimes run rampant. "You have to know someone to even get a meeting with an agent." "All they make is crap anyway." "My face deserves money for how awesome it is." etc., etc...

We blame outside forces for our lack of production and opportunity. While there is certainly some truth hiding somewhere in that spicy frustration burrito, it's not necessarily honest. I once saw Chazz Palmenteri speak when he was more famous (so it was more true then than if he said it now) and he said (heavy paraphrase coming), "Just do something. Write something and perform it on the street if you have to. People can't know how good you are if they can't see you." He's right. It's difficult as hell to get something off the ground and get it going. Writing, finding performance space, getting costumes, filming, makeup, kraft services, lighting, singing, luring an audience and so on and so forth. We see the daunting task ahead and assure ourselves it's a ridiculous venture in the first place and we stop before we've even begun. However, if you don't love your art enough to sweat for it, do you really love it? If hard work is the thing keeping you from your goals, are you sure you want to choose something with such low odds of success? The arts are hard- and they should be! If it weren't difficult, there would be no struggle and if there were no struggle, there would be no art. "Following a pipe dream will lead you through the sewer." That's a quote I just made up, but it fit my point, so screw you. I'm keeping it.

Now, I don't mean to sound like a downer. In fact, I mean to sound like the exact opposite. An upper. Ritalin, let's say. I do believe that there is an element of magic in simply doing. There are so many reasons not to do something, but it's in the doing that you find yourself. Wait, that was confusing. Here's a real quote from a real person with real intellect:

"whatever you can dream 

or think you can do,

begin it.

boldness has genius,

power and magic in it."

-Goethe

I really believe that the universe bends to positive action. There are so many wonderful coincidences that occur around progress. I could meet a producer in a spaghetti shop and tell her that I'd make a great movie if only I were given the chance. I could also meet a producer at a taffy booth and tell her I've already made a wonderful short or written a wonderful script and would she look at it if I bought her some taffy. Which one of those me's has the better shot? The moral of this story is that spaghetti shops are a preposterous place to do business. There's sauce everywhere, ready to stain any contracts that might be drawn up. It just doesn't make sense.

Okay, I've prattled on and I haven't even begun to get to the point of this whole damned blog (that's an internet word. it means "well structured and edited article stemming from the professional minds of the interweb."). What I want to talk about is the show I went to see for the second time this past weekend. The official title may or may not be:

"The Loft Variety Hour

featuring

Naughty Nancy"

It is essentially a two-part show running in downtown Los Angeles. It is live theater that includes, but is not limited to: comedy, music, nudity, puppets, love, dancing, glow sticks and Telemundo. I would love to talk a bit about the group that put this show together, but I have wasted time with my extremely important introduction. I will provide you with a link (another internet invention that means, "portal to time.") that will lead you to their site at which they provide actual information:

http://loftensemble.com/variety_hour.html

Shame on all of us for not attending more theater and shame on all of us even more for not attending more original theater and yes, shame on us even the most for not attending original theater that is actually fluid. The first half of the show I'm currently yelling at you about is a wonderfully mad-cap comedy adventure. A group of actors dance, sing and play on stage, exuding such energy that it actually made me sweat through my shirt and into my seat (so if you go to the show, you can soak some of my old back sweat back into your pores). Part of what is so fun about the show is its fluidity. As with any live performance (music, theater, stripping), there are numerous adjustments that occur based on audience reactions, actor energy, pole slickness. With this particular variety show, there is something more. I saw this back in October when our president was a lame whitey and then again this past Sunday when our president was black. There were some new actors, new skits, new songs and new puppets. It was an exciting treat- not unlike some hispanic snacks that my white-boy palette finds frightening and sexual- and I dare you to experience it for yourself. While I fully support theater in the classic sense of performing a play, I can't tell you how cool it is to see something that has changed and will continue to change over time. It's a living thing. Pieces get cut, pieces get added. Where a performance of "True West" is always going to include lots and lots of toast, this variety show may have an Ohio Jones sketch one month and then a murderous pizza sketch another. 

-- Wow. Hold on. This blog is far, far too long by my standards and I still have a few brilliantly idiotic and disjointed things to say. What I'm going to do is talk briefly about the second half of the show and try to wrap this up. Are you ready? I don't care, I'm going either way. Plus, I have no way of knowing if you said, "Yes, I'm ready now, Andy," or, "Hold on just a second as I do this thing that I have to do before I continue reading."

The second half of the show is far different than the first. It is a one act featuring Christina Howard as the titular character, Naughty Nancy. Nancy is a prostitute living and working in the red light district in Amsterdam and we follow along as she discusses and lives a life that has worn her down. She's a fascinating character who reminded me far too much of an ex-girlfriend for me to discuss for too terribly long. Ms. Howard puts in an amazingly strong performance as a woman who won't allow herself too much pity, nor will she allow herself to walk away from this life. I'm likely butchering this as I try to explain the nuances of a piece that should be seen and not read about on a douche's blog. What I will say is that going from the wackiness of the first half to the progressively sobering and sad story of Nancy is a strong experience in itself. It is a rare opportunity to watch an ensemble give you two different flavors in the same evening and with such dedication that you can't help but feel just about every emotion in the rainbow. Naughty Nancy is the Yang to the Variety Hour's Yin. 

It is an impressive duality that this group lays before you. I feel as if it is perhaps your duty as an artist struggling and/or succeeding in Los Angeles to see other artists throwing their genius at a wall and seeing what sticks. They put in the all-important perspiration after the inspiration came and they invite you to witness their creation. To see other artists put in the work might perhaps inspire you to put in the work for your creation living somewhere in your brain. Go see it, then be inspired and create your own genius and then show that to the world and give me a 5% cut for giving you the inspiration to be inspired in the first place.

"I never did anything worth doing by accident, nor did any of my inventions come by accident. They came by work." - TnA Edison

Come on, be serious, Andy.

I have been putting off a task that I shouldn't be putting off. I have a serious blog inside me, I swear, but I just don't seem to want to let it out. After all, isn't a "serious blog" an oxymoron? It is a contradiction in terms if ever I saw one. Given, I have a tendency to bend a few too many things into some sort of joke. Without laughter there's just... a space that I have little interest exploring. I have trouble craving anything without a smirk. It's not that I can't take anything seriously. I can and I do. Its just... Even now I can feel my own interest waning. Why analyze it at all? The point is, I feel like a toolbox trying to put any deep, dark thoughts into the form of 'blog'.

However...

I have a serious blog inside me, and I know it. It's a great big serious blog with feelings and emotions and blah, blah, blah. I had a life adventure recently and I'm scared I will forget it. It seems to me the only way to make sure I remember it is to talk about it or write about it. The problem is, whenever I start to talk about it, my voice cracks and I no longer want to be wherever I am. I skirt around the issue, diminishing its importance to me and look to move on as quickly as possible. Writing about it is not out of the question. Perhaps a journal entry or something? But there are people I want to know about this. I want to share this and I am not a strong sharer. In fact, in almost every way, I'm a fairly terrible sharer. I just want to lay it down and see what happens, but when I think of someone reading about it, reading about anything serious I may have typed onto an internet page, it makes me cringe. Maybe I'm too old? Maybe I feel like a fourteen year old girl scribbling poetry into my goth-y blog... 

"Oh assblankets!" I exclaimed in frustration. I just want to write a story about my experience taking care of my grandfather in his last days, but I haven't mustered the mustard. It's been over a month and I'm sure there are already details that have slipped through the disturbingly large cracks in my brain, never to be seen or heard from again. That's what I want to avoid. I want to type the details out so that I can look back at something I did that was actually good. I don't do so many good things in my life and I don't want to dismiss it the way I dismiss anything I fear can be later viewed as pretentious. I want to talk about the fears I had while by my grandfather's side. I want to talk about the awkwardly humorous moments, the experience of sitting with a man floating toward death who had accomplished so many things in life, traveled the world, survived a concentration camp, sang in a world renowned choir, been a surgeon in a community that embraced him as a celebrity... 

I haven't spoken much to anyone about my father and he's almost two years gone and now I can feel myself not wanting to share anything about my grandfather. It's as though--

Wait a minute! Is this blog a bit on the serious side all of a sudden? Did I ramble and rumble my way into a serious blog? Is that how the transition is made? Am I a goth-emo kid now? Do I want everyone around me to know how sad I am? I feel dirty. Filthy and dirty. And not in the sexy way.

Thunder-Face Alley

I'm out of Los Angeles for a spell. Where am I? I can't say, but using my mind-camera, I've snapped a quick pic of me in action in the most secret of secret places. Click on the picture and examine the adventure!

Me & My Mustache

My Mustache and I...

My mustache and I are more powerful together than we are apart.

My mustache and I have met briefly several times over the past several years, but really connected for the first time this last week on the set of a Matt Damon, Steven Soderberg movie.

My mustache proves people wrong with confident and gentle jabs of love.

My mustache and I are going to work toward an NBA Championship for the Boston Celtics while sitting in the midst of Mordor (Los Angeles).

My mustache and I welcome you to touch my mustache.