Nice Belt
It's the belt buckle that's sweeping the nation.
(thanks to Andrew, who found this!)
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It's the belt buckle that's sweeping the nation.
(thanks to Andrew, who found this!)
The original idea behind Just A Geek was to simply chronicle one year at WWdN. It was little more than a cut-n-paste job, intended to provide an "offline" version of this website. But the weblog entries looked weird on their own, so I wrote some "behind the scenes" narrative to tie them together, and and honest-to-goodness Journey emerged. Over the course of that year, I went from struggling actor, plagued by deamons of self-doubt to . . . well . . . Just A Geek, I guess. I'm up to page 70 on the current re-write (not bad for three days of work), and it's going pretty well, so far. I removed some really awful passive-voice stuff from my narrative, and I cleaned up some sections that have bothered me for months. There's still a long way for me to go, but I've cleared the first checkpoint.
The format of JAG is quite different from Dancing Barefoot. While Barefoot (heh. I LOVE calling it that!) is five short stories, Geek (double heh) is more of a documentary. While I've been working on JAG the past few days, I've given serious thought to re-writing the whole thing from the beginning, and making it less of a documentary, and more of a narrative. That would involve cutting up the weblog entries, though, and incorporating them into newly-written stuff . . . and would probably mean that the book wouldn't be done for another several months.
I ran that idea past my editor, Andrew, and he thought that it was just a delaying tactic, because I'm so terrified about releasing this second book. I think he's right, and for now I will leave the formatting alone, and focus on making it better.
I suffer from a tremendous lack of discipline, so if I'm ever going to finish this book, I have to give myself a very strict schedule and stick to it. I find that I can write for about three hours before I fall apart, so the schedule is currently: get up at 8, write until around 12, and spend two hours handling book orders and other administrative stuff for Monolith and WWdN. Then, before the kids get out of school, I "relax" by working on this apache server I've gotten to run on my desk over there. I even installed postnuke on it, and got it to work on the first try! I have no idea what I'll do with it . . . but it's there. Maybe I'll get to work on qmail next.
Oh, some readers have pointed out to me that the formatting on this page is wonky at certain resolutions, and you have to side-scroll. Side-scrolling makes the baby Jesus cry, but I can't figure out what I did to screw it up. If any of you htmlgods want to look at the source and point me to a solution, I'm sure a lot of people would thank you.
Update: I may have fixed it. Look at this. And in celebration of maybe fixxoring the stupid side-scrolling, I offer this.
I had such a great weekend! The kids were with their dad, so Anne and I got to have two "date nights" in a row.
Friday night, we went to old town for dinner at the recently-opened Pasadena Brewing Company. The service really needs work, but the food was awesome. I had this stuffed cheeseburger thing that was delicious. It's hard to improve upon the basic cheeseburger model, but they have done a fine job over there.
During the day onSaturday, I spent some time handling book orders, and mowed the lawn. I have reached the conclusion that I love mowing my lawn. I put on my iPod, and I really take my time. It's almost a meditation for me, to slowly push my lawnmower across the grass, as I cut my lawn to look like an outfield. Saturday night, Anne and I went out to Sixspace to see Shepard Fairey's new show "This is Your God," (it is AMAZING). We had to leave early, though, so we could make our dinner reservation at Amalfi, which is the new restaurant next door to ACME in Hollywood. After dinner, we went to the Bad Taste Show at ACME. I didn't write for this current show, but after watching it, I'm totally writing for the next one. It is filled with sketches that we're just not supposed to do: sketches that are really gross, heavily sexual, and incredibly offensive. If you're even the tiniest bit twisted, you'll love this show.
Sunday, we went to my brother's new house for dinner. It was crazy, man, to stand in Jeremy's living room, and think, My god. My little brother owns his own house! I'm really proud of him and his wife. They've made a fantastic life for themselves.
The Guinness joke made it to Fark, and the comments thread there is filled with some of the absolute best "a guy walks into a bar . . . " jokes of all time. It could quite possibly be the finest collection of bar-related humor on the Internet.
Here's one of my own, that I'm about to add to the list:
A guy sits alone at a bar, drinking his beer. From out of nowhere, he hears a voice say, "You look great, man! Have you lost weight?" He looks around, and confirms that the only other person in the bar is the bartender, who is all the way at the other end of the bar. He shrugs it off, and takes another drink of his beer.
"That's a really nice suit. It looks good on you," the voice says again.
The guy looks around, and before he can say anything, the voice says, "You have very nice eyes."
The guy freaks out, and shouts, "Hey, bartender! Come here!"
As the bartender arrives, the voice speaks again. "That's a nice haircut!"
"Who keeps talking to me?!" The guy asks the bartender.
"Oh, that?" The bartender says, "It's the peanuts. They're complimentary."
Thank you, folks. Try the fish.
And now, comedy:
The leaders of the big beer companies meet for a drink. The president of Budweiser orders a Bud, the CEO of Miller gets a Miller, the head of Coors orders a Coors, and so on. Until it's Arthur Guinness's turn. He orders a soda."Why didn't you order a Guinness?" everyone asks.
Guinness replies, "if you guys aren't having beer, then neither will I."
(Thanks to Leilani, who e-mailed this to me, and to Elana, who addressed me today as "Mr. I Love Guinness")
I just got back from Cirque Du Soleil. Some friends took Anne and I to see the current show, which is called "Varekai."
I guess there was some reality show about the making of this . . . installment? performance? spectacular?
Yeah. Let's go with Spectacular. Because that's what it is.
My god. These people are simply amazing. There was so much grace and beauty in this show, it was overwhelming. When the show was over tonight, and we walked back to the train to come home, I regretted all the times I could have seen the other Cirque shows when they were in Los Angeles, but decided to play GURPS or Magic or something else instead.
The performers I saw tonight are some of the most talented on the planet. They can make anything -- even a fishing net -- beautiful. As a matter of fact, they make it so beautiful, the word beautiful doesn't come close to describing how beautiful it is.
If you get a chance to see this show, or "O" in Las Vegas (the only other Cirque show I've seen), sieze it. I promise you, you won't regret it.
UPDATE: So many people have written to me with their own tales of beauty, and their own Cirque experiences, I'm going to open comments on this entry, so that hopefully I won't be the only person who gets to share in their experiences.
Follwing up my "bad beat" story:
I guess it's been posted to USENet, which is just awesome, because now I know where all the alt.wesley.die.die.die people have been hiding for all these years.
Look, the point of that entry was NOT what a terrible player I am. I know I should have listened to the classic TJ Cloutier advice and moved all in or folded. I know I played the cards wrong. I know that I was trying to keep Ryan in the pot when I should have blown him out or gotten out myself.
Thank you. I know what a lousy card player I am, okay? If I was a better player, I'd be playing in a tournament, and not working on my book.
But the WHOLE POINT of that story was to share something about my relationship with my stepson -- a relationship that has been terribly strained over the years, thanks to some wonderful loyalty conflicts not created by me, alright? I absolutely adore both Ryan and Nolan, and the gap that has been placed between us makes me grieve every day. When we played that silly game of cards, Ryan moved to close that gap, and it meant more to me than hitting an inside straight on fifth street ever will. Even if it's at the final table.
So maybe I could just catch a little break here? Maybe try to look past the trees to see the forest?
Just A Geek has stared me in the face for months. It quietly sits here: ~/justageek/working/22augustrevisejustageek.sxw and dares me to open it and get back to work.
As you can see, I haven't had the courage to work on it since the 22nd of August . . . but I'm starting again today, and I won't stop until I'm done.
I'm so terrified of this book! I've given it a great deal of power over me, and I'm terrified that it won't be as good as I thought it was a year ago, and that it won't be as well-liked as Dancing Barefoot has been.
In all the interviews I've given, I've talked about the blessing and curse of the writing I do: on the one hand, it's just me, with no filters (not even a speelchek). What I write comes straight out of my heart -- mostly because writing honestly is much easier than making stuff up -- so when it touches someone, that gratitude they express goes right back into my heart. Of course, when someone savages it for not being cynical enough, or whatever . . . it goes right into the same place, with just as much weight as the praise.
The thing with Just A Geek is, it's a lot more work, and a lot more of that heart invested in it than Dancing Barefoot . . . so it's a much bigger risk (and potential reward, I suppose). So I've been terrified to work on it, and release it.
When I woke up this morning, I lay in bed and talked with myself about it. It's so close to being completed, it's like I've run 22 miles of a marathon. It's stupid not to finish it, and I've delayed it long enough.
Normally, I listen to Boingo when I write, but for some reason I felt like hearing Radiohead this morning, so I'm listening to The Bends, and now I'm going to get to work.
If everything goes according to plan, blogging will come to a virtual standstill while I finish this.
Heh. "Just" just started. Thom sang, "You do it to yourself, and that's what really hurts . . . you and no one else . . . you'll get no sympathy . . ."
I needed to hear that. Time to write.
I gave an interview to Millionaire Playboy (which is funny, because I am neither) about a week ago. The interview is up today.
Okay, I know I'm really late to the party on this . . . but I just bought Massive Attack's 100th Window from the iTunes Music Store.
Holy mother of monkeys. If you like obscure ambient like Global Communication or Earth to Infinity, you're going to love this record. It's deep and dark, but it's also moody and ethereal.
Of course, if you like obscure ambient like Global Communication or Earth to Infinity, you probably already have this record, because I am so late to the party on this one.
I play lots of poker with Ryan. While most parents would talk about Joe Namath, Wayne Gretzky, Bob Gibson and Jack Nicklaus with their children, I fill Ryan's head with tales of Amarillo Slim, Stu Unger, Doyle Brunson, and Johnny Moss. Most of our "stepfather and son" talks center around the wisdom of guys like Mike Caro, David Sklansky, TJ Cloutier, and Tony Holden. Ryan has a good grounding in the fundamentals of poker. Ryan knows how to be a tight-agressive player, so I usually play him that way.
Every poker book I've read (and I've read a lot of them) says that poker players can recall, down to the way the chips were stacked, memorable hands they've played. I can attest to this fact. They also say that a poker player can recall, in present-tense, exactly how certain hands went down. I can also attest to this fact . . .
We're on our fourth or fifth hand, playing a no-limit freeze out. I look at my hole cards and find that I've dealt myself the Big Slick: A-K, the second best starting hand in Hold 'Em.
Ryan checks, and I decide to limp in, hoping to get some action on this hand.
"Bet 10," I say.
Ryan doesn't even blink, and throws in a blue and three greens.
"Raise 75," he says. It's a huge raise this early in the game, and I think he's bluffing. Ryan hardly ever check-raises.
I put him on a king, maybe a little pair . . . I'm pretty sure that I can blow him out of this pot if I bet into him, let him know that I've got cards worth playing.
"Raise 25," I say, as I deliberately set one green chip in front of me, and flick it into the pot, followed quickly by three others.
"Call."
The flop is a rainbow: K, 10, 4. I look at my cards, and imagine that it hasn't helped me at all. I look at Ryan, but can't read him at all. The kid's got a good poker face.
He bets 10.
I take a second to wonder if he's slow-playing a pair of kings. I decide that he's on a draw, and try to bully him out of the pot again. Even if he calls, my pair is gonna hold up.
"Bet 50," I say. This time I take five blue chips and two reds, and push them into the pot in a stack.
"Call," he says, and splashes two greens and a blue.
The turn is the 9 of diamonds. Ryan checks, I bet another fifty, and he calls. We both have too much invested in this pot to get out now, and I'm certain this is going to teach Ryan a valuable lesson about overvaluing cards.
The River is another 4, and I have two pair.
Ryan bets one hundred, a stack of ten blue chips.
I think for a moment, just to make him squirm. I contemplate folding, though I have no intention of mucking this hand, and look at my stack chips. It's only the fourth of fifth hand we've played, and already the pot is bigger than both our stacks.
I check my cards one last time, and say, "Raise 50." I take my remaining two greens, and put them on top of a stack of blues. I set them in the pot right next to Ryan's.
"Call," he says, again without hesitation.
I turn over my A-K. "Two pair," I say.
He looks down at his short stack of chips, and says, "I got trips, Wil," as he turns over J-4.
"What?! You played J-4 when I hit you ahead of the flop like that?! What the hell were you thinking?!"
"I was thinking I may get lucky, Wil," he says, "Looks like I did."
He smirks, and starts stacking his chips.
"I can't believe you did that," I say, "I can't believe you stayed in until fifth street with a pair of fours."
"Me neither." He grins.
I know that I was a statistical favorite to win the hand, and I know that in the long run, I'll kill him if he stays in a hand until fifth street like that . . . but I don't care about the bad beat. Sitting here with him, trading barbs like a couple of cowboys in a saloon . . . that is why I like to play cards with him. Some parents play catch with their kids. I play poker with mine.
I pick up the cards, and slide them across the table to him.
"Do you have enough to keep playing, Wil? Or do you need a loan?"
"Shut up and deal, Kid."
You know, I have never been a drug user (other than alcohol, and then only in Guinness form. ;)
I don't know why I dodged this particular bullet that seems to have hit so many of my acting peers squarely between the eyes, but I'm glad I did. I often joke that I wasn't "cool" enough to hang out with that crowd (it sounds better when you can hear the sarcasm dripping off my words, trust me.)
Personally, I think a lot of our drug laws in America are incredibly stupid, and obviously ineffective. I think that a desire to appear "tough on crime" for "the children" is what drives the colossal failure that is the war on drugs, and I hope some courageous politicians will take some steps toward acknowledging this failure, and start treating addicts like the sick people they are, and maybe bring our drug laws here in America into step with the rest of the civilized world. As far as I can tell, prohibition just doesn't work, but education does.
And don't even get me started on the stupid "Just say no" campaign . . . how about we "Just say no" to idiot politicians who just want to appeal to a narrow bloc of voters without really doing anything to solve a major problem?
Sorry. This isn't intended to be a rant at all. The whole point of this post is to link you all to one of the funniest Fark Photoshop competitions I've ever seen: Photoshop your own anti-drug poster.
Cory Doctorow is a brilliant author. He's also one of the editors at bOINGbOING, and works for the Electronic Frontier Foundation, an organization that I value greatly, and encourage you all to join.
I guess I sort of know Cory, because we're both Disney weenies and privacy advocates. He also "called" my boxing match with Barney last year at DNA lounge. Cory e-mailed me this a call to action earlier today. To be honest, I was *stunned* when I saw the other people he'd sent it to . . . I'm in some very good company!
I figure that I spent enough time this summer pimpin' my book. Now I can try to raise awareness about a very important issue. Nothing less than the future of electronic voting (and all that implies for the democratic process) is at stake.
Read on . . .
IEEE members: save democracy from a broken standards-committee!
The IEEE, normally the sobersided epitome of integrity and accountability, has had one of its standards-committees jump the tracks. The people who are writing the IEEE standard for voting machines have been doing their best to rig their deliberative process to exclude input from non-vendors who want the standard to include performance metrics that will guard against electoral malfeasance. This is heavy stuff: the standard this committee produces will likely form the basis of the US goverment's voting-machine purchases (as well as those of governments abroad), and if there are holes in the standard today, they will be biting our democracies on the ass for decades. There's never been a clearer demonstration that "architecture is politics."
IEEE is better than this. If you're a member of the organization, please take a moment to read up on this disaster-in-the-making and then use the form at the EFF's action-center to write to the IEEE and ask them to investigate this -- before it's too late.
...instead of using this opportunity to create a performance standard, setting benchmarks for e-voting machines to meet with regards to testing the security, reliability, accessibility and accuracy of these machines, P1583 created a design standard, describing how electronic voting machines should be configured (and following the basic plans of most current electronic voting machines). Even more problematic, the standard fails to require or even recommend that voting machines be truly voter verified or verifiable, a security measure that has broad support within the computer security community.
To make matters worse, EFF has received reports of serious procedural problems with the P1538 and SCC 38 Committee processes, including shifting roadblocks placed in front of those who wish to participate and vote, and failure to follow basic procedural requirements. We've heard claims that the working group and committee leadership is largely controlled by representatives of the electronic voting machine vendor companies and others with vested interests.
If you've made it this far, and you're scratching your head a bit, read this. The Accordion Guy puts this into layman's terms MUCH better than I could.
UPDATE: Avast! I be a day early! Some scurvy bilgerat scutterd off w'me sextant! Tomorrow be t'day, but t'entry be in port a day early, ya dawgs. YARR!
Ahoy there, me WWdN mateys! Today be talk like a pirate day! In honoro'this grand occasion, I be writin' today in PIRATE! Yarr!
Since I was 14, I've had an annual passt'Disneyland. me best bucko Darin and I got our passes t'at t'same time, as Xmas gifts from his mom.
Throughout our teenage years, we wentt'Disneyland (or "t'kin'dom" as we called it in a desperate attemptt'sound cool) hundredso'times. In winter, we'd head downt'Anaheim late on Sunday afternoons, and stay until t'park closed at midnight. There's somethin' wonderful about Disneyland late at night when it's mostly empty. For me, that's when Disneyland feels t'most "magical." Shiver me timbers!
When I was about 18 or 19, I let me pass lapse, and didn't renew it until a coupleo'years ago. These days, Anne and I sneak down thar once or twice a month -- usually while t'sprogs be in school -- and I still get down thar with Darin from timet'time.
T'last time I was thar, while I was walkin' under what usedt'be t'People Mover, I looked at t'abandoned Submarine Lagoon, and noticed for t'first time that t'waterfalls were turned off . . . and realized that Tomorrowland sucks. Yarrr!
As I pondered t'change in Tomorrowland, and lamented t'losso'T'People Mover, Misisont'Mars, t'huge Arcade, and t'movin'o't'rocket ships downt't'ground, I felt sad . . . because Disneyland should be a place where time stands still, aye.
It should be a place that's more or less timeless, where an adult can reconnect to his childhood in a tactile way. I'm not suggestin' that Disneyland shouldn't take advantageo'new technologies and let t'park evolve in certain ways . . . look at how great t'Indiana Jones ride be . . . but by takin' just about everythin' I loved about Tomorrowland, and replacin' it with t'likeso't'Rocket Rods and Innoventions, Disney has effectively removed a childhood touchstone from me life! Yaaarr!!
T'one areao't'park that's almost exactly t'same way it was when I was a kid be New Orleans Square, so it's no surprise that me favorite rideso'all time be thar: T'Pirateso't'Caribbean, and T'Haunted Mansion.
I love Pirates so much, I be willin't'overlook Disney's stupid political-correct-izin'o't'ride a few years ago. And I'm such a Nightmare before Christmas geek, t'Haunted Holiday just makes t'mansion that much better for me, ya swabbies.
I think it's importantt'have some childhood touchstones, even if they be at amusement parks . . . when grown-up life gets me down, I can escape for a few hours down at T'Kin'dom. I can ride t'Mansion and recall t'three or four times I got t'couraget'ask a lasst'ride t'"make out" ride with me, even though I was always too nerdy and shyt'actually make out. I can ride Pirates and remember all t'times Darin and I rode it in a row, when we were tryin't'learn all t'dialogue. ("Shift your cargo,Ahoy!ie. Show 'em your larboard side . . . ")
I think that Disney could do somethin' really coolt'Tomorrowland, if they closed it down and revamped it, t'way they did with Fantasyland aft in t'80s. Can you imagine how cool it would be if they rebuilt itt'more-or-less resemble t'Tomorrowlando't'60s? A Tomorrowland that was flush with optimism and excitement? When t'Adventure into Innerspace terrified me, because I was certain that it wouldn't be ablet'restore met'me original size? When t'Missiont'Mars was so hokey . . . but that just made it more fun?
Hey, let me have me dreams, ya scurvy bilgerats!
There's a great big beautiful tomorrow, shinin' at t'endo'every day . . . a pirate's life for meeeee!"
I mentioned before I left for the Dodger game that I'd hosed my audioblog . . . turns out my cell phone just wasn't sending the right DTMF tones.
Stupid cell phone. Anyone know where to get one of those cool Verizon camera phones on the cheap? I gotta replace mine.
Anyhow, I sort of fulfilled a childhood dream at the game . . . I called half of an inning! It's the top of the 5th, and the Dodgers are trailing 2-0. The first ten seconds or so of this are all garbled (thank you busted cell phone) but the rest it entertaining. To me, at least.
There's a stupid post, and a post-game post here.
I mowed the lawn yesterday afternoon for the first time in since June.
Now, you have to understand something about my lawn: I love my lawn. I'm talking sing-songs-to-it-at-night love. I've invested a few thousand dollars in it, and about fifteen tons of heart and soul. There's a lot of sweat, too, but thinking about all that sweat pooled around on the grass is just gross, so I'm not going to talk about the sweat.
It's not easy for me to let just anybody care for it, but this summer, since we were going to be gone so much, we hired this "gardener," guy that some of our neighbors use to mow it and make sure the lawn was taken care of. A really nice guy, but more of a "mow and blow" guy than anything else.
Well.
The gardener mowed my lawn . . . and the results blow. Over summer, my lawn got cut way too short, caught a fungus, got sunburned in the middle, and ugly spots of St. Augustine are currently popping up through the formerly pristine Marathon II.
So the gardener has been demoted to just the back yard, which has been in various stages of death and weed infestation since we moved in, anyway, and I'm currently nursing my beloved front lawn back to health.
It was surprisingly soothing and satisfying to take care of the lawn myself. In the past, I've always felt like it was a major chore . . . but yesterday, it was different. I put on my iPod, and listened to The Smiths while I cut it in a cool diagonal, pseudo-outfield pattern. The smell of freshly-cut grass always reminds me of growing up, and the iPod provided me with some much-needed isolation while I worked.
About halfway through the job, "Big Mouth Strikes Again" came on, and it reminded me of my awesome Route 66 road trip to Tulsa with Anne. I remember listening to Fred and singing that song with her in Texas or New Mexico or something.
That trip . . . it really was the best trip ever. When I organize all the pictures we took (look for them to be added to the gallery in a few days), I hope I can dramatize the whole trip and make it a story. Something for Dancing Barefoot II: Electric Boogaloo.
Heh.
When I came inside, I went to listen to the audio blog, so I could jog my memory . . . and I discovered that it's gone, and I can't login to my blogger account or my audblog account! I wasn't 100% thrilled with the stuff I produced . . . but I miss it, now.
Dammit.
Ferris wants to eat. Ha! Not for another 25 minutes, baby! I'm MAD with Aplha Male power!!
*cackle*
I get to go to the Dodger game with my mom and dad tonight. Not only that, but I get to sit just two rows above the Dodger Dugout! So if you're watching the game on TV, you may catch a glimpse of my smilin' mug (or crying, if the Dodgers stay true to form).
UPDATE: Alert WWdN reader Mugsy just pointed out that the audioblog is still there. It must have been a network error when I tried to access it. Now if I can just get into my audioblog . . . :)
This is one of the funniest blogs I've ever read.
Por Ejemplo:
Thursday, September 11, 2003
Lullabuy
by Jessica DelfinoThis is the lullabuy my mother used to sing to me when I was a little girl.
Slow tempo in C
You should go to sleep right now
You should go to sleep right now
Close your eyes and rest your head
I'll tuck your body into bed
Be glad that you are young right now
because It just gets worse from here
Take some time and read this site. She's a brilliant writer.
Last weekend, I spent the bulk of Saturday at my friend Sean and Caryn's gallery, where I volunteered at a show called "Cruel and Unusual", benefitting the West Memphis Three . There were tons of volunteers, and we formed different "teams". The teams started out with official-sounding names like Team Parking Lot and Team Set Up The Tables.
It only took a few hours for new, more humorous teams to form, like Team I'm Going To Take A Leak, and Team Move The Trash Can From Here To Over There. I was a member of the ad-hoc Team Caution Tape, who were responsible for, you guessed it, hanging up yellow caution tape to keep the guests away from a dangerous-but-inviting construction site.
For a brief time I was on Team Keep The Papparazzi Out Of The Gallery, but we decided pretty quickly that it was far too ironic, and I ended up on Team Drink, where I discovered the boundless love that is Vitamin Water. Holy mother of crap about the Vitamin Water, man. This stuff is awesome. I drank so much of it, I got the radioactive pee.
There were several Big Time Celebrities scheduled to speak, including Jello Biafra and Winona Ryder, but I had to leave before they took the stage, because Anne and I were meeting John Kovalic and his wife Judith at this tikki-esque restaurant in Glendale called Damons.
John Kovalic was in town with his wonderful wife Judith, and their friends Letitia her husband Markus. We met up with them for dinner at this Tikki-esque restaurant in Glendale called Damons, where we had Mai Tais and steaks. Anne and I had a great time with them, and they've all been given a permanent spot on our extremely short list of Good People.
This weekend, Anne was out of town with her best friend, so it was just me and the dogs. I called some of my friends and tried to organize a poker night.
"Hey, It's Wil. Anne's out of town, and I'm just hanging here with a couple of bitches. You wanna come play cards?"
Sadly, everyone already had other plans. So I spent the entire weekend reading comic books and watching DVDs.
Update: I can't believe I didn't mention anything about the Improv show! I promise you that it's not related in any way to my threat to kill my mind with beer.
I had a very good time, the audience seemed to really enjoy it, and the other improvisers were all very kind and talented. It wasn't the best show I've ever been in, but it wasn't the worst, by far. I could have done some things differently, like leaving a scene where I clearly wasn't needed, and maybe not "driving" another scene too hard, but that's just Monday morning New Choicing.
Afterward, I went next door to the new Amalfi restaurant, and hung out with some of my pals from ACME. I made it home around 2 a.m., but the adrenaline from the show (And the Bawls I drank before the show) kept me awake until almost 5. Three hours is all it took for me to figure out that I am the WORST NCAA College Game Day player in history. I am so bad, in fact, that when the computer kicked my ass for the 10th time in a row, a graphic of a hillbilly with no thumbs popped up, and he said "Hey! Eh bit eh ken beet y'all!" Shortly after that, I realized that it was probably time to go to sleep.
Did you get all the way through this without hearing Loverboy in your head? If so, you're one up on me.
Note: I wrote this earlier this morning, but decided not to post it. It was really written for my dad, anyway.
I sent it to my him, and he called me a few minutes ago and said, "You should really put that on your website." My mom shouted her agreement (from the kitchen, if I recognized the echo correctly.)
Since I spent most of my teenage years telling my parents off, I try to listen to them now, so I'm behaving myself, and publishing this, at their request.
Jeebus.
I just heard that Johnny Cash and John Ritter have died.
When I was 13, my parents took me and my siblings in their RV up to Yellowstone, through Nevada and Utah. It took three weeks, and we stopped at just about every national park along the way. On this trip, my dad brought a Johnny Cash tape, and he played it like crazy. One of the songs on that tape was Ring of Fire. That Johnny Cash tape was the only thing he played that I'd remove my walkman (and Iron Maiden) to hear.
The thing was, just from the sound of his voice, I knew Johnny Cash was the kind of guy who didn't take shit from anyone. If you saw him, and you knew what was good for you, you just didn't fuck with Johnny Cash. My friend Mykal met him a few years ago, though, and said that he just overflowed with kindness and appreciation for his fans.
While I was reading about Johnny Cash, an e-mail arrived that told me John Ritter had died, too. He was only 54.
My dad is only 54. 54 just doesn't seem that old to me. It's certainly not an age when we start thinking about people dying, I can tell you that.
My dad used to play little league with John Ritter.
I haven't seen John Ritter in person in over ten years, but I felt like I had a sort of connection to him, because he knew my dad, and we'd done some charity things together back when I was a celebrity and did those sort of things.
But I have to be honest here. When I heard about these two men passing, the first thing I thought was, "Oh shit. My dad's gonna die someday," and of course all the thoughts that go along with that.
It seems like we always take time to say hi to our moms, and we always take time to tell our moms we love them.
I'm taking this time right now to tell my dad that I love him. I don't say it enough.
I love you, dad.
I'm doing Improv tonight at ACME. If you're in Hollywood (or within reasonable driving distance) and you wanna see the comedy stylings of one Wil Wheaton and his good friend J. Keith vanStraaten, you should come out and see us.
Or not. I don't care. I'm not the boss of you.
I haven't performed since we did the EarnestBorg9 show at the Grand Slam Convention in Pasadena a few months ago . . . so I'm a little bit nervous. I've been playing warm-up games with myself all morning.
(Did I just admit to playing with myself?)
NEW CHOICE!
(Did I leave the coffee pot on?)
NEW CHOICE!
(If I ran down the street in just my robe, how far would I get before somone called the cops?)
NEW CHOICE!
(That fucking gardener is out there trying to kill my lawn again. I'll sic the gnome on him! That'll fix him good!)
. . .
Yeah, so I have to go release the Gnomes, and keep practicing. I hope I get funny by 10PM.
I'm working on a couple of writing projects right now, including Just A Geek, so my mind tends to wander quite a bit, as it looks for inspiration and trys to fix the things I can't seem to fix when I'm *actively* writing.
Wednesday night, as I drove home, my mind wandered. I'm stuck in a rewrite, and I think I need to cut about 45 pages out of the middle of JAG. My mind was working on this, and weighing some alternate solutions when it said, "Hey, Wil."
"What?" I said.
"You haven't written in your weblog in a few days."
"So? I've been busy. And you should be working on fixing JAG now."
"Well, you should write more often. You were happier when you wrote daily. More relaxed, too. There's an SUV in your blind spot. Slow down."
I looked over my shoulder and saw a white Lincoln Navigator. If I could just figure out how to use my mind's mysterious powers . . . I could go to Vegas, and get rich! I'd live in the Rain Man suite! I'd have hoo--
"We can't afford to go to Vegas right now," it said. "Listen: Tomorrow is September 11th."
"Holy shit. It is? Already?"
"Yeah. If you weren't News Fasting, you'd know. You should see how everyone is exploiting it, too. It's really disgusting."
"What do you want me to do about it?"
"Do something on your site, fucker. Write something to remind everyone about how we all came together on this planet in the aftermath of September 11th. And leave out all that stuff about the Bush Administration exploiting those victims for political gain. Everyone knows about that. Just honor the victims and their families. You can get in your cute little political opinion another time."
It was a good idea, and that didn't surprise me at all. My mind is full of good ideas. It was this mind, after all, that told me, "Dude, that girl Anne is hot." It was this mind that gave me such brilliant turns of phrase as "The happy shit dance is the dance that's sweeping the nation." It is this mind that has said to me, countless times, "No more Guinness, Wil. It's time to go home. And drink a glass of water when you get there."
I have learned to listen to my mind.
"You're right," I said, "Let's do something that reminds people of the one thing we have in common, no matter where we are: we're all humans on this planet. That should be the legacy of September 11th. Life is fragile, and fleeting, and precious, and wonderful. Maybe the best way to honor the memories of those who died, and to respect the loss of those who survived them, would be to remind everyone of our basic humanity."
"Good idea," my mind said, "that's a great way to move toward peace an-- HOLY SHIT! CHECK OUT THE MILF IN THE CARPOOL LANE!"
I did. She was.
"I'll do a flash animation. It'll be cool," I said.
I described some concepts, asked my mind to file them away until we got home, and focused on the freeway. Which was moving along at a terrifying 5 miles per hour.
"This traffic sucks," said my mind, "I'm going to Disneyland."
And it was gone again.
When I got home, I realized that I don't own any flash authoring tools . . . but I know someone who does. I shot off an e-mail to Roughy:
I know it's really late, but I want to do something to honor the victims of September 11th. It's a flash animation that will replace my index tomorrow.I think it's pretty easy, and shouldn't take too long. Check it out:
Okay.
The whole screen is black.
In the center, the word "Liberal" fades in. After a second, the word "Not" fades in, right in front of it.
Then, they both fade out.
Then, the word "Conservative" . . . same thing.
Then, "American"
The next come faster:
Then "Canadian" "Italian" "Muslim" "Man" "Woman" "Child" "Rich" "Poor" "Gay" "Straight" "CEO" "Janitor" always with the word "Not" just ahead of them.
Finally, some other words come by so fast, they blur together, and make a white block. That block sits there for a seoncod, and the word "HUMAN" fills it. The word "not" doesn't happen, this time.
It fades out, and then "in memory of the victims of 9.11.01"
And beneath THAT "May Peace Prevail On Earth."
That's it.
What do you think?
Roughy thought it was a good idea, but it was late, and we needed to make it shorter. I thought that shorter was better, because it would be simpler, and more elegant.
We IMed and e-mailed and called each other names, and about two hours after I sent the e-mail, Roughy sent me the final file.
I'll be honest: I was very moved by it. It was even better than my mind and I had envisioned it. I tried to show it to my mind, but it was busy working out the difference between "Ketchup" and "Catsup."
I put it on the site, and went to bed.
I had been asleep for about 15 minutes when my mind woke me up. "Ketchup is just better than Catsup," it said, "that's all there is to it. Maybe Catsup has more vinegar or something."
"That's great, I'm thrilled that you woke me up for that. Good night."
"Uhh . . .yeah. See, I'm really not into sleeping tonight," it said, "let's go play Xbox."
"Dude. I have to get up at 6 to get the kids to school. We'll play Xbox after I drop them off." I rolled over and hoped that Anne wouldn't hear me.
"Uhm . . . no. We're getting out of bed, now." I felt a strange antsyness in my legs, just behind my knees. No amount of tossing and turning could get me confortable. When my mind sets my mind to things, there's no point trying to argue.
"I hate you, mind. Remind me to kill you with some beer this weekend."
"Yeah, I'll be sure to do that," he said.
I got out of bed, and walked into the living room.
"Before we play Xbox, I'm going to check e-mail," I said, "so shut up for a minute."
There were already some notes in my Inbox, which thanked me for my tribute, and I'd like to share some excerpts with you all today.
Subject: Never forgotten.
Bless you.I am proud to be an American. It's one of the few labels I gladly accept. I love my home, and I'd gladly die in service of my country and count it as the best death I could ever hope or ask for.
But the importance of being human overrides all things, even love of country. There's a difference between being proud of one's homeland and allowing that pride to dehumanize others.
I save human lives. It shouldn't and doesn't matter what country, race, religion, whatever that life is.
Though at the same time, I'm not going to lie. I believe in war, and that's a whole other sticky moral subject.
I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for remembering the people that died. Too many people are trying to forget or even downplay what is a personal tragedy for so many. But thank you as well for putting things in the right perspective, with the importance of being human.
In memory of my 355 brothers and sisters:
343 Firefighters
12 ParamedicsThat was what mattered to them as well, I think.
Here are a couple other e-mails:
"I don't know why such an obvious conclusion seems to escape so many people in this world." . . . "I felt somehow out of place mourning again for the fellow human beings that we lost that day. When I went to your site this morning . . . I didn't feel quite so alone anymore. Thank you."
This one just came in as I was typing up this entry. It's the last one:
Thanks, Wil, for the most tasteful tribute today. I almost cried when I went to your site (as I do daily) and saw the message.When I moved back to Winnipeg (from Toronto) last year, one of my first temp. jobs was with a Federal government office, working for the head nurse in charge of nurses in northern Manitoba (mainly for Aboriginal communities) and they had lost Christine Egan, a nurse in their department, the only person from Winnipeg to die at the WTC (she was visiting her brother's office on the 105th floor). They had a memorial fund at the front desk to raise money for a northern Manitoban student who wanted to study nursing. I found her business cards when I was filing, and even though of course I did not know her, it was still upsetting.
I guess we all have our stories, don't we? But it proves we are all connected.
Peace.
I just realized, as I typed this, that sharing those e-mails may come off as patting myself on the back. That's not my intention at all. This isn't about me. I just wanted to share that there are other people out there in Internetland who feel the common thread of humanity that we all share. It made me feel less alone, less isolated, and less afraid.
We are all connected on this planet. Let's try to remember that, okay?
I know many of you read WWdN via RSS or come here directly by bookmark.
Please take a look at http://www.wilwheaton.net/91103.html today.
Thanks.
Wil
The whole house has gone to sleep. Ferris and Riley are behind me, snuggled up back to back near the coffee table. The back door is open, and the dull roar of the freeway is my constant companion. A solitary fan sits in the doorway, and pulls cool night air into the room.
I always take great comfort in the silence of a slumbering house.
I'm listening to Dark At The End Of The Tunnel, which is the soundtrack to writing Just A Geek.
But I'm not writing. I'm looking at websites all about Urban Exploration. See, this guy who does UE e-mailed me earlier tonight and told me that WWdN is considered "similar" to his site by Google.
Uhm . . . oookay. I told him that I think the exploring he does is much cooler than what I do here, but whatever. His e-mail has spurred the sort of intriguing, fun, educational late-night-link-following that makes Tabbed Browsing the Killer App of the moment.
In the past few hours, I've been down forgotten tunnels, and explored abandoned hospitals and asylums (a big bonus, since I read the new Arkham Asylum from DC this afternoon). I've stood silent in shadows and crouched behind trees to elude security. I've run like hell to get away from police. I've visited those places that we pass every single day, but I've seen the secrets they will only reveal to the bold.
Is this reality?
Jesus, this music makes me long for another place. Another time. Working on Just A Geek is harder now than ever, because I'm getting closer to completion, and that terrifying prospect of sending it out into the wilderness of readers, Dancing Barefoot has done (and continues to do) better than I ever dreamed . . . I have put a lot of pressure on myself to follow it up with something good, and JAG isn't quite there, yet. I'm getting closer, but it's just beyond my grasp. It's frustrating, to say the least. It's also hard because, for all the sadness and frustration I experienced when I was struggling through the "gotta make it as an actor" years (I have to relive that time to write the book, you see), it's nothing compared to what we're going through now. How I'd love to run down one of these dark tunnels, and never come back . . . just keep exploring forever.
If you peel away the skin, is there anybody there?
I don't know.
Is there anybody in there, in this self-inflicted tomb?
I'm going to bed.
She put her head on his shoulder. Her tears soaked his T-shirt, her sobs shook the bed.
"I hate that things are like this," she said.
"Me too," he said. He wasn't able to cry. He desperately wanted to, but the tears wouldn't come.
"It's so unfair. We've done nothing to deserve this." She clutched his arms.
"I know," he said.
"Why won't he stop?" She said.
"Because he can't." He paused. "Because he won't."
They held each other tightly. A small fan did little to move the hot air around the room. In the distance, a train's whistle sounded.
"I love you," she said. She meant it. Did he know?
"I love you too," he said. He meant it. Was it enough?
They lay there, silent, atop the covers, until sleep claimed them both.
In the darkness beyond their walls, the Bogeyman stirred.
Some good advice, just sent to me by my mom.
I love you, mom. :)
Tip: Mental Clarity: Taking a News FastBeen feeling stressed out after watching or reading the news lately? A "news fast" - avoiding news on the television, newspaper or the Internet for a few days or even a week - may be in order. It is a good way to gauge how you react to and process news, and how the news affects you. If a news fast seems outlandish, consider the following:
* Both local and national network news have increased their emphasis on crime, even as U.S. crime rates continue to decline. This is particularly true of local news.
* Studies show that violence, death and other negative images can provoke changes in mood and aggravate anxiety, sadness and depression.
* Feelings of depression and sadness can lead to a negative view of your own life. Perceiving the world as violent, unsafe and hostile can have negative effects on your body, as well. By taking a news fast, you can develop a more conscious relationship with the media - and promote greater mental calm within yourself. When you spend more time in harmonious mental states, your body will function better, and anxiety and overstimulation may be minimized.
Most of the day today, I've been fighting off a brutal headache. (I feel like there's a knife in my left eye . . . but I've been listening to Miles Davis do 'Round About Midnight while I sit in an empty and otherwise quiet house. There are mighty thunderheads building above the San Gabriel mountains right now, sitting in a deep blue sky. It's really beautiful.
Ferris is sitting on the floor behind me right now. It's over 100 in my house (gotta love not having any air conditioning) so she's panting loudly. About once a minute, her panting is interrupted by a little yelp, or a grunt, or some other noise to grab my attention.
When I turn around, she cocks her head to the side, and thumps her tail like crazy on the floor. She hasn't moved in almost 15 mnutes. She's just sitting there, giving up love for her master.
I wonder how long it'll take for that to be quoted out of context?
I adore Ferris. She's smart, obedient, friendly . . . but most of all, she's just happy.
Typical conversation:
Me: Ferris?
Ferris: thump . . . thump . . . thump.
Me: What are you doing?
Ferris: thumpthumpthumpthump!
Me: Wanna go for a walk?
Ferris: thumpthumpthumpthumpthump!
She jumps up, runs circles around the room, races to the cabinet where I keep her leash, opens the cabinet with her nose, and drags the leash to me. And she never stops wagging her tail. This dog will eventually wag her tail right off her body, I'm sure.
In an effort to get my seratonin levels back up, and hopefully remove this anvil from my chest, I am doing my very best to focus on the postive things that I've encountered in the past few days. Here are a couple:
I gotta go. I'm going to Hollywood to give an interview to CBS for Up To The Minute. I guess I'm talking about blogging. Maybe I'll wear The Shirt.
Winston Churchill said, "When you're going through Hell, keep going." It's good advice.
The inbox is filled to overflowing with encouragement, support, a couple of really old interviews I gave when I was a 14 year-old dork, and some good advice.
I just wanted to take a moment and say thank you. It's really cool that so many people . . . well . . . care.
For the last month, (and most of summer, I think) this site has sucked. It has sucked hard. I can't write for shit, and when I have written, it's been . . . well, shit.
I've always made an effort to be honest on this site. Regardless of how embarrassed or humiliated, sad or elated I may be about things . . . I've always written honestly, and directly.
Here's the deal. Honestly.
Without going into gory details, Paramount soundly and massively fucked me on TNG residuals this quarter. The result? The gap between anticipated and realized income is enormous and I've been struggling all summer long to close it.
The best way to close that gap, and provide for my family, I figured, was with book sales. To drive book sales, I've had to be in "publicity mode" for most of the summer. The simple truth is, I fucking hate publicity. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. Because I hate it so much, I suck at it. It's so hard for me to get on the phone and talk my self, my site, and my book up . . . but it's really important. I have learned from other authors and publishers that the only time books sell is when their authors work really hard to promote them.
So that's what I've been doing . . . and this site has suffered because of it. This site has basically become one never-ending chant of bullshit about my book, and the stuff I've been doing to promote it.
Quoth Homer Simpson, "BORING."
Don't get me wrong. I'm very proud of it, and readers keep telling me that they like it . . . but I'm tired of talking about it. I'm sick to death of being in "publicity mode." It's not that I'm ungrateful or anything. I want to be clear about that. The joy that's come with the unexpected success was amazing . . . tempered, of course, by my massive fuck up of two days worth of orders, and the horrible delays that so many people had to endure because of it.
There's other stuff going on too. Really bad stuff that I really can't talk about right now . . . but it's totally sucking the joy and laughter (and all of our money) right out of my life. Until it goes away, each day is a major struggle. I've also had my privacy severely violated recently, and it's made me question whether I want to share any details about my life on this site at all.
So I know that this site has sucked. I know that there hasn't been anything worth reading in a very long time . . . and I bet readers have moved on to other things. If you're one of the few who have stuck around all summer, thank you.
Honestly: I'm really unhappy, scared, and frustrated right now.
I've just read this, and it seems like a big old whine-fest. That's not my intention. I just want to explain some stuff. And since WWdN is just me, without any media filters . . . what you see is what you get.
I'm sure there's some humor in this, somewhere . . . but the BBC is OFF again.
I guess there's some breaking news about the bali bombings, and that's actually more important than Goth day and the Governor's recall here in California.
Heh. I'm uh . . . really chagrined.
So no go.
Maybe I'll actually have time to write a worthwhile weblog entry now. It's long overdue.
The BBC Interview that wasn't . . . is!
Tune in to Radio 5 for Up All Night at about 8:40 PDT tonight. Info is below.