Powder Burns and Ballistics Expertise
They say there is no catching up. Not on sleep. And maybe not on anything else. The further you get from the point of entry, the more sketchy the details become. So there's no hope for recapturing any of it. Sometimes this is the best you can do. And the "you" in that sentence is me.
Jessie is doing the Lottery shows at Improv Olympic. I went with Stacey to see her perform. Afterwards, we had a few drinks, stopped in at the Velvet Margarita, then went to the 101 Coffee Shop for whatever it was we had. For me, it was onion rings. They're great there. But I seldom hate myself more than when I eat anything. This is something that has become plain to me over time. There is never anything I eat that I don't end up thinking, "I didn't need that," about, once eaten. I think I'm convinced, in much the same way that I sometimes think you can live forever if you just decide to and really try, that eating is something we do out of weakness. I guess I secretly believe that you don't have to eat. Ever. Because whenever I do, I am disappointed in myself. It's weird.
We ran into Neil Flynn at the I.O., and I said hello and reminded him that he read a spec script for me last year, and he was very nice. Ewan MacIntosh (Keith from The Office) was in the house. Either to see the Armando show or Adsit and Pasquesi. I didn't say anything to him. Mostly because I would just end up telling him that he is sitting there in the scene when my favorite line is said, but it isn't him saying it, even though it's to have been his character who wrote it at first. It's the bit that ends in, "And under weaknesses, you've put 'eczema.'" Top notch. I love that scene. But telling him so would have done neither of us any good. Anyway, he's not as tall as I thought, which leads me to believe that everyone else in that show is terribly short.
I also ran into Jon Huck at the I.O. that night. Which was coincidental, as I had received his announcement about a party he was throwing on Thursday, and I had just emailed him to ask him if it would be weird for me to come, since we haven't yet met in person. And no sooner had he assured me that no such weirdness would be possible than we nearly collided with each other in the foyer of the I.O. Perfect.
Martín and I went to see the Doug Benson Interruption at M Bar. I enjoyed that. And we ran into Wayne Federman there, and that's always pleasing. I accused Wayne later that night of having left without saying goodbye, and he proved me wrong. And that led to a long chat about all sorts of things including a great joke of Milton Berle's at the expense of Fred Waring and a joke I inadvertently made up, inspired by mention of The Ray Conniff Singers. I know. That all sounds terribly gay. And old.
Tom and I went to see The Idiots, which I've been meaning to do for a while now. Brendon Small sat next to us for the first part of the show in order to do a bit from the audience that was funny and good. (Penn and) Teller was in the audience, too. But he was just there to watch. Tom introduced me to Kristen Herman. She is pretty, and she liked my shoes.
Tom and I had a few drinks at Good Luck Bar, which smelled shockingly of beer in the entrance area. And Tom hypothesized about what it would be like if Prince's Cream was my theme song, playing every time I entered a room, as it did at one point when I was returning from the bathroom.
A woman came over and asked each of us if we wanted to dance. She seemed to ask everyone in the room. And the one guy who accepted her offer looked like Heinrich Himmler in a baggy suit, and he started dancing it up crazy-like. His dance style was sort of rave-inspired. A sort of James Brown-ian footwork thing combined with arms straight at his sides the entire time. You just have no idea how weird it looked. And the girl who had wanted to dance just stood back and watched for a while.
I went to Jon Huck's party at Casita del Campo in Silverlake. What a turnout. Tom met me there. And later Dean joined us. And Michelle tried to make it but got lost. So after everything, Dean and I met her at the 101 Coffee Shop, where I had onion rings again, and I think I've decided I no longer need to have them ever again. I am like that with my passions sometimes. Don't be thrown by it. I am fickle after a fashion.
They were giving away free quesadillas at the Casita. We enjoyed them. And I really wanted to bum a cigarette off of Jerry Minor, but I was concerned that it might look as if I was hitting on him. And this entire transaction in my brain made me take note that Los Angeles is apparently turning me into a smoker. And made me resolve to put my cigarettes in my handbag before leaving the house next time.
Tom and I went to see Wayne Federman in this Un-Cabaret "Say the Word" thing at the Skirball Center. An icky place to have to go at 8 P.M. on a Friday night, to be sure. But it was worth the schlep.
I think I would have wanted to go out and have a grand time afterwards, but I was so drained from the week -- the days of which had consisted of me getting a lot of work done and completing (at long last) my submission for Nickelodeon, something I had been sort of dreading for weeks and which I was nearly set to just completely fuck off about. But I didn't fuck off. I got it done and in and over with. And I was amazed that I managed to, all things considered.
I was also submitting writing samples for a radio sketch show that I might like to write for, so it's hardly surprising that I was bled dry like only certain turnips can be by the time Friday night was coming to a close. Tom and I stopped off in West L.A. and got Chinese food, and he was pleased to learn he's been wrong all along about which year of the whatever he was. Those January and February birthdays have to be careful -- the lunar calendar is all complicated and shit.
I had workshop at 3. I parked in Hollywood at a meter with an L.A. D.O.T. hood over it and a sign reading that it was a temporary tow away, except for Saturday and Sunday. And I couldn't understand why no one was parking at these temporarily FREE meters. I was positive that I wouldn't get towed, given the signage, but I still hesitated. Such creatures of pack behavior are we. As much of an elitist as I often am, it did take me a few seconds to convince myself that, just because no one else in Los Angeles had yet figured out that it was safe to park here, that doesn't mean it isn't. Sure enough, when I returned to my car at 6, it was just where I left it. And I was sort of sorry I didn't have some big night of pub crawling planned. It's always slightly a shame to have to pull out of a sweet spot.
Dean and I had already had plans to see a movie, so I called him and we met up at the Arclight. And we saw The Aviator, and after that I had the car accident, which I wrote about in the previous post.
Once I got home, I was never really able to settle down. I thought about taking an Ambien, but I worried that it was already too late. I ended up not going into my bedroom until about 5 a.m. And I was awake until about 8:30 and then up at 10:18. So not much rest so far. And no naps either. I've been frazzled and shaky all day. Sort of like being high on something. Not quite in my skin.
And I woke up with some pain in my neck and back. And that has only gotten progressively worse. It's not excruciating or anything. Dull and nagging. And progressively worse, is the only part I worry about. I am tempted to roll my neck and crack it all back into place, but I'm also worried about doing that. I don't want to be found dead and paralyzed before I've had a chance to tidy up a bit.
I had a weird spate of dreaming in what little time I slept. I told a few people the details. Beulah wanted me to write it all down. She laughed at a lot of it. Maybe because she was featured. She laughed the hardest when I told her that this guy broke her little finger clean off. I was surprised by her reaction. I am even writing jokes in my dreams. And I'm sleeping shallowly enough to wake and write them down. It's a strange feeling. Sometimes I feel as if I am just always, always awake.
And sometimes I wonder why all this practice has not made me a better typist.
Sunday (That's today!)
I received many, many phone calls from concerned friends and family and offers for help if I should need it. And that was all very comforting. Even though I did eventually reach a point of not wanting to answer the phone, because the story is not interesting to tell for me anymore. I will need to do some embellishing the next time if I'm to enjoy it at all.
And in keeping with the theme of the importance of appreciating and preserving life, I watched Short Circuit. And it reminded me of a time a couple of years ago when I was on a date with a guy, and I had cause to say, "No disassemble!" and he had no idea what I meant. Even after I told him it was a reference to Short Circuit. And that was one on a long list of reasons by which I knew I should never go out with that guy again. Although I did. Like two more times, I think. But that's just because I am totally undedicated to the pursuit of happiness.
I peeled a pomelo this afternoon. It was delicious and sweet and so juicy as to make a drippy mess of my hands and wrists and early forearms. And it was not so luxurious and decadent as you might think, having watched movies such as The Blue Lagoon. It was a sticky mess, and I resented it. And there was too much of it, so I left a lot just sitting in the kitchen, drying out. The practicalities of living in nature are not welcoming to me. When I see someone in a movie like The Swiss Family Robinson greedily tearing their choppers into the flesh of, say, a mango, all I can think is how much of that mango fur would get stuck between their teeth and how I hope they have some facsimile of dental floss on hand. I also do not really like the idea of having sex on the beach, no matter how many times From Here to Eternity airs.
It would have been nice to not have had so much to worry about today. And that is one item on another sizeable list.