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each bud must blossom and grow

Abby from OK writes:

Do you ever watch Inside the Actor's Studio with James Lipton on Bravo? Sure, the quality has gone down during recent months (Jay Leno?? Wha??), but it's still really interesting to see what Tom Cruise has to say about his 'craft.' Anyway, if you watch the show you know that right before the audience gets a chance to talk to the actor, Lipton asks The Questions™. I thought it would make a cool blog entry to answer them. They're not hard questions and they're actually better if they're rushed through.

I doubt I'll ever get a chance to have Mr. Lipton pose those questions to me, so I went ahead and answered them quickly, with no second-guessing. The answers you read here are the first things that came into my mind.

Okay, for this to work, you all pretend that you're hopeful acting students, and I'll pretend that I'm a Big Time Actor. Russ will play the part of James Lipton.

Go!

1. What is your favorite word?

Yes.

2. What is your least favorite word?

Edgy.

3. What turns you on?

Enlightenment.

4. What turns you off?

Ignorance.

5. What sound or noise do you love?

Splashing of waves on rocks.

6. What sound or noise do you hate?

Pontification.

7. What is your favorite curse word?

MotherFUCKER!

8. What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?

Sculptor.

9. What profession other than yours would absolutely not like to attempt?

Doctor.

10. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear god say when you arrive at the gates?

I've been waiting for you.

shipbuilding

I keep hearing about this new radio station, INDIE 103.1. It's supposed to be giving KROQ a run for its money, but we can't hear it in the 626. I haven't tuned in to regular radio, other than NPR or KFWB, since I got XM last year, but I had to go from the 626 out to the 310 last Wednesday, and I thought I'd listen to KROQ and INDIE, and write up a comparison of the two.

Since I'm writing this for blogging.la, I figured it would be extra "LA" of me to bring my iBook over to Starbucks to write it up. There are a half dozen people here with me, three of them also on laptops, one of them this totally insane homeless guy who I see wandering around this area all the time. A few weeks ago, Anne and I were walking out of a restaurant, and he yelled something at her about how he was too evil for her food.

I'm a little pissed that the homeless guy is filling an entire corner of the place with the stink of greasy hair and dirt, and he's also in the most comfortable chair, in the corner that gets the best sun, where I was hoping to sit today.

Then I sip my Sumatra, take a bite of my muffin, realize that my laptop cost more than this guy will see in a year, and sit in the familiarity of Liberal Guilt™.

Aimee Mann sings "Save Me," (the only thing about Magnoila that I didn't totally hate), two men (possibly lovers, or on their way to being ex-lovers) sit silently at a table between me and stinky homeless guy and stare into their lattes. One of them keeps looking at me, and it makes me self-conscious. Is he looking at me because he thinks he knows me? Because he's seen me on TV? Because, in my Kung Fu Records T-shirt, worn over my Hanes thermal shirt, Chuck Taylors and carefully mussed hair I look sexy and alluring? I self-consciously twist my wedding ring around my finger.

A few moments pass and they leave. It's weird. They both stand up at exactly the same moment, without a word, as if they've shared some silent communication that only lovers can understand. As they walk out the door, a woman storms in past them, yelling into her cell phone. " . . . oblem, Jerry! You have an obligation to --"

Everyone except Stinky looks up at her, and she lowers her voice. "Well, I'm not going to discuss this with you here!" she says, and slams the phone shut.

She forces a smile and walks to the counter, where she places an order in a quiet, barely-controlled voice that I can't hear.

Stinky coughs, which quickly turns into a violent hacking. A woman in line puts a protective arm around her young child, and tells him not to stare. Stinky gets up, and staggers outside. He doesn't return, and I think about moving to his / my chair, but the stink still hangs over that corner. I stay where I am. A man in a tweedy jacket, cotton shirt and bright blue tie sits down next to me, and starts working on a crossword puzzle from the paper. I click click clack on my iBook:

A white van pulled out ahead of me right before the 110. I grew up watching CHiPs, so white vans terrify me: each one contains a potential kidnapper, and at any moment, the back doors could explode open and release a motorcycle rider who will create, and then escape unharmed from, a 50 car pile up.

I write for close to 30 minutes before I look up, and realize that Tweedy Jacket has fallen asleep. His chin sits heavily upon his chest, and his hands are folded in his lap. Why did this guy come to Starbucks to fall asleep over his partially-completed Crossword?

I study him, trying to put together an interesting character background. Is he a salesman? Maybe from a nearby furniture store? Over here on his lunch break. He didn't make his sales quota last month, and February is his last chance to get some blue boxes filled in next to his name on the white board that surely hangs in some back room. Does he ever finish the crossword? Sometimes. It's a small victory for him, but one he relishes. Suddenly, his head POPS UP! He looks straight at me with sleep-clouded eyes. They are bright blue, and resigned. My own eyes dart down to his puzzle, and back to my own table. When I steal another glance, one hand cups his chin, while the other taps his pen.

A few minutes later, his digital watch chirps twice to mark the top of the hour. He looks down at it, sighs heavily, and carefully folds his puzzle. He puts it in a pocket inside his jacket, and slowly walks out the door.

I write for another twenty minutes before I get stuck. I can't recall how to spell "Yahtzee." Is it Yahtzee? Yachtzee? Yhatzee? I don't have T*Mobile, so I can't hit the Internet to find out. I'll have to trust my instincts: "Yahtzee" looks the least wrong, so I'll go with that:

"Where it's at! I've got two turntables and a microphone . . . "

Oh, I see that we're flashing back all the way to the halcyon days of 1996. This is my biggest complaint with KROQ's whole "Flashback" criteria: seven years old does not a flashback make, you guys. Does this mean that, when the summer rolls around, we'll be flashing back to the acoustic version of Staind's Outside?

I looked down at the radio, and saw that Fred on XM 44 was playing Joy Division's Twenty-four.

Yahtzee! ADVANTAGE: XM.

It's good that I don't have Internet here. Internet has been a HUGE distraction recently, and I haven't had the self-discipline to just focus, write, and turn it off. Fark, Metafilter, and Cursor beckon like Sirens.

A couple in their mid-30s sits down in Stinky's chair, which I realize now is a love seat. They exude sexual energy. They must be new to each other. There's no way they're having an affair -- they're far too brazen for that -- but they clearly can't wait to get their clothes off. I'm am violently jealous of their passion for one another, and it derails my ability to write.

I sit here and drink my coffee, which is getting cold and bitter(how appropriate). A Starbucks guy runs a sweeper across the floor around me, and beneath my feet.

"Are you a writer?" he asks.

"I hope so," I tell him. He sort of recoils from me, and I feel bad. It's not his fault that I haven't written anything in over a week. It's not his fault my sweet and kind 12 year-old stepson has been replaced with a surly, disrespectful podperson. It's not his fault that this couple's wonderful, supernova passion for each other is what I want and lack more than anything else on earth. Maybe it's the grey sky, the cold February day, or Stinky stinking up my chair . . . but I can't feel passion for anything these days. I am a man in his thirties, snapping at a boy in his twenties, because I used to be him.

"I mean . . . I'm trying. I've done some good stuff in the past, but right now I'm in a bit of a rut." I say.

"Oh, well, I hope you find your way out," he says, kindly. No harm, no foul.

We-Can't-Wait-To-Fuck get up. She's flushed, and he's grinning. They hurriedly gather up their cups, and slam dunk them into the trash on their way out.

I crumple up my muffin bag, and free throw it into the trash can. It sails through the air, trailing crumbs, and hits the side. It skips into the corner, past the door. I pick it up, and see that We-Can't-Wait-To-Fuck are standing by his car. I know it's his because he's leaning against the driver's door, and she's pressed up against him. They're making out, right there in the parking lot, with the reckless abandon that blind passion brings to a couple.

Gods, I fucking hate them.

No I don't. I hate myself. I hate this rut. I need to warm up my coffee.

I give the Barista a dollar. She fills up my cup and drops two quarters into my hand. I use the tips of my fingers to flip them over: Vermont and Maryland. I drop them into the plexiglass tip box with a flourish, and return to my table.

I write for about 10 minutes, but it's forced. I've hit my Creative Wall for today, ten minutes short of my usual two hour cutoff. I save my work, close up my iBook, sit down in Stinky's chair. My chair.

My coffee tastes weak, bitter, and familiar.

elf shot the food!

It's a wonderful morning here in Casa Wheaton. The kids are at school Anne just left for work, and I've got 64 ounces of Fair Trade coffee to fuel a morning of hopefully productive work. Behind me, Riley is chasing dust motes around in shafts of early morning sunlight, and Ferris is trying to convince Riley that she should stop chasing the dust, and start chasing her. Scattered clouds ride the tail end of a Pacific storm up and over the San Gabriel Mountains. Mount Wilson had snow on it yesterday.

I'm almost done with my column for blogging.la, then I have to write up bit of Valentine's Day snark, for the cult of the one-eyed cat, so actual weblog-ish things are backing up (good thing I carry around a notebook with me everywhere -- it's actually a Nightmare Before Christmas diary, with a lock and everything, that my friend Martin gave me for Christmas, and the truth is I totally love it.) So in place of anything original and interesting, I direct you to an interview I did with a new site called tv-series.com a few days ago.

Okay. Bye.

fitter happier

I'm writing this in kate. In the terminal window below, konstruct is building kde 3.2. I don't quite know why, but there is something immensely satisfying about watching hundreds of lines of code (that I completely don't understand) scroll by. It's so much more "real" than just watching an LED blink on and off. Hooray. Go me.

This talk of computers raises a question: Is the Fedora Project's Core 1 release good enough to use on a daily basis? I'm still runing 9.0 with a ton of stuff in /usr/built/ and /home/wil/bin/ (So I guess I could call it the WheaTONIX version of 9.0 . . . 9.0.wHx? Seriously, I'm just killing myself this morning. Oh, afternoon. Sorry.)

intastella burst

I was out late last night, recording a commentary track for the upcoming DVD release of The Good Things, so I slept in until almost 8:45 this morning, when Riley exploded into my bedroom and onto my bed. Bad dog, but so cute and friendly. Or something.

The kids had already gone to school. I made oatmeal, and ate it at the dining room table. Anne sat across from me and sipped a cup of coffee.

"The kids are gone for three days," I said. "Can I have you all to myself until they get back?"

"Of course," she said.

"I'd like to start out the weekend by having a date tonight with my wife. Will you go on a date with me?"

"Sure," she said. "What did you have in mind?"

"I dunno . . . maybe we can go out to dinner and see a movie?"

"Good job, Romeo. Way to bring out the 'A' material. Bravo." Clap. Clap. Ah, the inner critic. I love him.

"I have a better idea," she said.

"Oh yeah? What?"

"How about . . . we stay home . . ."

In the distance, I heard music: wakka wakka wakka chikka bow wow wakka wakka chikka wakka

She smiled. "How about we order some food . . ."

" . . . that sounds good . . ." I said. wakka chikka wakka

She took a surprisingly sexy drink of her coffee. " . . . and we can make a fire in the fireplace . . . "

" . . . getting better . . . " chikka bow chikka chikka bow wow

She put her cup down, and leaned on her elbows. " . . . and we can stay up late . . ."

" . . . go on . . ." I said. chikka chikka chikka bow wow wow wow

She leaned across the table, close to me. " . . . and watch Family Guy on DVD . . . All. Night. Long."

"You are so fuckin' rad, baby. You rip." I said.

She smiled, and kissed the tip of my nose.

wakka wakka wakka chikka bow wow wakka wakka chikka wakka bow wow wakka wakka chikka bow chikka bow chikka bow

jackknifed juggernaut

OK Computer plays from my CDRW drive as I write this. I'm using Windowmaker, which I haven't touched since Red Hat 5.2. I ::heart:: wmaker. I forgot just how amazingly wonderful it is. I've got my iBook on my desk to my right, and I check it every 30 minutes or so for new e-mail.

I'm sure I paint a lovely image of computer geekery . . . but I'm booted into Knoppix 3.3, because somehow I hosed my login thingy (gdm, I think?) over the weekend. I'm pretty sure it has something to do with the kde 3.2 install I did, but I'm not exactly sure. All I know right now is that my /home partition is safe, as are all the Just A Geek and Dancing Barefoot files within said partition. I'm pretty confident that I can boot into runlevel 2 and fix it . . . but holy shit, man, I've been running Knoppix for . . .

knoppix@ttyp0[knoppix]$ uptime
23:05:52 up 11:05, 0 users, load average: 0.11, 0.30, 0.25

twenty-three hours eleven hours. (Yes, I realize what a total lameass I am. Here's my cap, my pocket protector, and my sliderule. But you can have my polyhedral dice when you pry them from my cold, dead hands . . . provided I fail my saving throw, of course), and it's awesome. Because I'm running Knoppix out of RAM, it's moving at transwarp speed. If you've even shown the tiniest hint of geekery in your life, you owe it to yourself to give Knoppix (or any LiveCD, really) a go.

So the burning question is: do I get to a free spin on my propeller cap because I'm doing this from a live CD, using my CDRW drive to play an audio CD, and seriously looking at Gentoo, (The idea of a linux distro that's optimized just for my machine is so alluring to me, and I've spent several hours looking at Gentoo's site tonight) or do I lose 5d12+10 nerd points for not spending the last 23 11 hours tracking down the problem and fixing it?

well tug my beard!

Public Service Announcement, Nerd-style:

The Wizards of the Coast stores, called The Gamekeeper here in Los Angeles, are all going out of business. Their stock is still pretty good, and everything is at least 40% off the cover.

So, if you're like me and you were waiting to get the D&D 3.5 corebooks, now would be a good time. If you're a poker nerd, you can also get clay chips there on the cheap, and if you've ever wanted to venture into games like Settlers of Catan or Diplomacy, they've got those as well. All 40% off.

Personally, I think most games are overpriced to begin with, so 40% off brings them right down to a very affordable and reasonable level.

Now go forth, and nerd-ify!

salty dog

A messenger just dropped off a script for Teen Titans! I get to be Aqualad again on Friday!! Yes!

\m/

If you feel a great disturbance in The Force Friday afternoon, don't worry. It's just me geeking out so hard, I turn into some sort of Galaxy Being. Everything will be back to normal on Saturday.

stupid cupid

I occasionally contribute to this fantastic online magazine called "The Cult of the One Eyed Cat." It's named after a real cat, who only has one eye, who once gave me half a look that chills me to this day.

This month's issue is all about Valentine's Day, so I wrote a snarky piece wherein I get frank about my true feelings for this annual tradition.

Here's a little bit to get you started:

Valentine's Day is upon us yet again, and husbands and boyfriends all over the country are trying to solve a fiendishly complex puzzle: what do we get our wives and girlfriends? If you're dating, are you dating long enough for roses? What if you're dating too long for roses? And what color? Should you get chocolates, because she's so sweet, or should you stay away from chocolates because she will freak about how it's going to make her fat?

The stakes are incredibly high. If we work out the Rube Goldberg machine that is the female psyche, we may just get that once-a-year blowjob . . . but if we fail to read the tea leaves correctly, we end up spending the evening alone in the bedroom with ESPN Classics while she watches Lifetime in the living room and talks on the phone with her bitter single friend who hates us.

You can read the rest of my story, and some other stories that are much better than mine, at The Cult of the One Eyed Cat

Comments from the wife, version 3.0

A year and a half ago, Wil and I participated in the Avon 3 day breast cancer walk. We didn't know anyone with breast cancer. We just wanted to help raise money for research and be part of the walk-a thon. It was by far the most incredible experience of our lives. Between the two of us, we raised over $17,000. We always knew we'd do something like this again.

What I didn't realize, was that I would be doing something like this because one of my very close friends, Kris, would be diagnosed with acute myelogenous leukemia. My 45 year old friend, a wife, a mother of two, an active, loved member of the community, was just diagnosed with a life threatening disease.

Kris went to the doctor just before Labor Day weekend to pick up some antibiotics before heading out of town with her family. She hadn't been feeling well and just assumed it was some kind of infection. The doctor wanted to do a blood test just to make sure everything was alright. After the weekend, she was called by her doctor to come in immediately, and to bring her husband because something was wrong with her blood. A bone marrow test confirmed the doctor's suspicion. Leukemia. She received the news and was told to be at the hospital by the end of the day to spend a month doing chemotherapy.

After the month of treatment, and two separate week long treatments, along with several blood and platelet transfusions, Kris is in remission. Her doctor at City of Hope Cancer Hospital wants to do a stem cell transplant on her now because she's doing so well. This gives her a better chance of the leukemia not returning.

For the week prior to her stay at City of Hope, Kris was taking anti-seizure medication and going to her doctor to do chemotherapy tests before beginning her intensive treatment. When she begins her stay on February 13, she will be doing several days of chemotherapy followed by several days of full body radiation therapy. Then they will transplant the stem cells they harvested from her (she was not a match with her brother, children, or the National Donor Registry). This option gives her a better chance of her body not rejecting the transplant. Then the slow recovery begins.

It has been the most difficult thing in the world to see Kris go through this. She is a very strong person and I have no doubt this will just be another one of life's obstacles she hurdles right over. But to feel so helpless at doing anything for her has been the hardest part.

Which is why Wil and I decided we would be part of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society's marathon. We will be walking 26.2 miles in San Diego this June to help raise money for a cure. Since we can't donate our blood (not the right type) we can at least donate our feet. Our goal is to raise $25,000. A very small percentage of the daily funding needed for research.

Kris is so happy we are doing this in her honor. She already plans on being at the finish line with us so we can all celebrate this huge victory.

Here's a link to our Team In Training Homepage. Please visit it, and help us reach our goal. Kris, along with thousands of other people dealing with this disease, need our help and encouragement.

Wil here, with a final thought: We kicked massive ass in the Avon 3 Day, and raised over 17,000 dollars in about six months. My stats tell me that about half a million different people read this site each month. Even more read it through various forms of syndication. Can you imagine how much we could do if you all kicked in a dollar, or two dollars? If every person who visits this site were to collect change and stuff for a day, and sponsor us for that amount, we would, together, contribute over ONE MILLION DOLLARS to help fund research that could save Kris's life.

Think about the power you have. Isn't it wonderful?

jukebox breakdown

Google News has this nifty feature that lets you subscribe to news alerts. You tell Google what to watch for, and when those key words are found, it will send you an e-mail alert. I use it to watch for "Jenna Jameson declares love for Wil Wheaton." While it hasn't found that particular story just yet, it lets me know when my name appears on one of the news sources Google crawls.

A few days ago, I got a Google News alert that linked me to an article called "Wil Wheaton is a Dick" that was posted to Alternet.

The article, as it turns out, has little to do with whether I'm a dick or not, and has much more to do with how annoying Orkut is. However, being called a dick in a major publication stung a bit (actually, it stung a LOT) so I sent an e-mail to the article's author:

From: Wil Wheaton
Date: Tue Feb 10, 2004 1:55:01 PM America/Los_Angeles
To: wilhatesme@techsploitation.com
Subject: Ouch

Hey Annalee,

I don't know if you care, but your story at Alternet really hurt my feelings. I didn't survive Star Trek by having really thin skin . . . but I read Alternet almost daily, and there's nothing worse than getting dumped on by the people you admire. Why didn't you e-mail me and ask for a comment? Why didn't you make an effort to get MY side of things? It's not like my e-mail address is a big secret.

I can't tell you how much your story is going to hurt my ability to get work during this pilot season. When I go out for a pilot, if I get past the first cut, the network, producers, or casting people will search for me on Google News -- you know, to see if I'm getting any publicity and all that -- and the first thing they're going to see is "Wil Wheaton is a Dick." Who knows . . . maybe they'll think I'm some sort of Bad Boy, and we can all have a laugh while we punch out photographers at a party at the Playboy mansion . . . but I doubt it.

You hit on something really true in your story: Orkut sucks. I hate those stupid "I want to meet people online" things, and Orkut doesn't offer any easy way for people to opt-out of the invites and the whole damn system. Once one well-meaning friend sends you an invite, the mail from Orkut never stops. I made a stupid profile just to get Orkut off my damn back. (Yeah, I know . . . blah blah procmail blah blah . . . but my webhost won't give me write permission to the home directory, so no .procmailrc for me right now.)

Well, I thought I made it clear in my profile thingy that I wasn't that interested in "hanging out online" (oh, to have that kind of free time again!) or "making friends" (Sorry, but I can count my friends on one hand, and that's the way I like it.) I'm busy trying to support my family by writing those books about something or other that you mentioned. I got tired of total strangers sending me hate mail because I didn't add them as friends on a service that I don't want to be a part of anyway. I figured that since everyone calls me a dick for not wanting to spend my life on Orkut seeing how many little stars and happy faces I can accumulate, I'd go ahead and put it in my profile. As a joke. And I think it's far ruder to ignore someone, or even write a spiteful nationally syndicated column about them, than is it to honestly look at it and say, "Well, I don't know you, so you're not my friend. No harm no foul."

I'm sorry you think I'm a dick, and even sorrier that you chose to make that the title of your story.

Sincerely,

Wil Wheaton

Here's my entire Orkut profile thingy:

I'm just this guy, you know?

Honestly, I'm not all that interested in "hanging out" or "meeting people" . . . I'm more concerned that some jackass will pretend to be me on this service, and then I'd have to break some legs.

But I'd sing a nice song while I did it, because, at heart, I'm a really nice guy.

Practically, this means I probably won't add many people as friends. It's nothing personal. It just means that I'm a dick.

I fully expected to get another Google News alert, linking me to a story called "Wil Wheaton is a Crybaby with No Sense of Humor" but I got an e-mail instead:

From: Annalee Newitz
Date: Tue Feb 10, 2004 2:35:57 PM America/Los_Angeles
To: Wil Wheaton
Subject: Ack!

Hey Wil, I'm so sorry! If I'd thought my column would genuinely hurt your feelings, I wouldn't have written it in that way. After I saw your Orkut profile, where you said "I'm a dick," I figured you'd think it was funny. We even had a long go-round about this at work with the copy editors, and agreed it was OK for me to say you were a dick because I was just quoting from your profile. Again, I was trying to be silly, not mean. In reality, as you may already know, I'm a giant fan of yours -- I'm planning to review your O'Reilly books; I love your blog; and I adored your sweet geekitude in the role of Wesley Crusher!

If anything, my column makes *me* look like a big loser and a dick for being so whiny about you not being my friend on Orkut. And if producers are going to Google on you, I think it will only add to your glamour that columnists are describing you as a cultural hero and geek Bad Boy. :)

Please forgive me and take my work in the goofy spirit it was intended -- you are most definitely *not* a dick, and I am just a dorky fangirl who wanted your blue-haired photo in her list of Orkut friends. So don't be sad, and don't waste any more energy thinking about this stuff, because you need to finish up those O'Reilly books so I can review them!

And yes, Orkut does suck. That was really the point of my column. Sorry again. I feel like a dick.

Yours, Annalee

I think the main thrust of her article is dead-on: I hate those social networking things, and I especially hate how Orkut doesn't offer a "leave me alone, I don't want to play with your football" opt-out option in the tons of e-mails they send invitees. And the way people take it personally when they're not added as friends? It's like someone showed up unannounced at your house, and then got pissed when you didn't invite them in for dinner. It's like grade school: "Do you like me check []YES or []NO and write back okay? Stay Sweet and Smile Sexy, Surfer Style!"

And there's no easy way to get out of it, as far as I can tell. I wasted lots of time trying to find some "leave me alone" option in the profile thingy, but I couldn't find it. Eventually, I found that I have to send an e-mail to the admin, and tell them to delete my account. Seems sort of like the Simpsons: [Spotlight clicks on as a eerily soothing voice says:] "Uh, you're free to leave at any time . . . but we'd just like to know why."

In retrospect, I guess I'm flattered that I made it into any headline, and I suppose there's something to be said about how there is no such thing as bad publicity. Maybe if I'd been in the clutches of a laughing jag when I got the news alert, I would have immediately seen the humor that I now see is clearly there. Maybe I'm just a big pussy who needs to get two for flinching. But I thought it was really cool of Annalee to write me back. I didn't think she would, and I certainly didn't think she'd apologize. If we were members of some online social networking thing, I'd totally want to be her friend, and I'd give her five smiley faces, five stars, and three unicorns.

experience the warmth

I was in the middle of a very strange dream, when Anne woke me up this morning. I was at the Concert for the Masses, but the Rose Bowl looked just like the Hollywood Bowl, and the backstage area was like Cal State LA. I was being chased by some guy who was a cross between Henry Rollins, Juggernaut, and The Thing.

Needless to say, even though today was a sleep in day for me, I was happy to be pulled away from that little bit of subconscious weirdness!

It was about 6.15 when she shook me awake.

"Wil! I just checked our donation page, and we're over 2,000 dollars!"

"That's great, honey," I said, and rolled over.

"Wil! It hasn't even been 24 hours! Kris is going to be so excited!!"

"That's awesome!" I said, and pulled the covers over my head.

Around 7, she was back.

Shake, shake, shake. "Wil! Wil!"

"Muhfrght?"

"I just looked again, and it's over 2500!" She had the excitement that I've seen in Ryan and Nolan on Christmas morning.

I don't really know the best way to put it into words, but Anne is shaken to her very soul by Kris being sick. It's more than the very real possibility of us losing a dear and loved friend . . . it's a glimpse of our own mortality, and a very tangible reminder of how fragile our lives really are.

This walk is more than just raising money for research and care. It's giving us a small way to help out our friend in her hour of need, it's a way for all of you who read my lame website to be part of something that's bigger than all of us. I know that this is also giving Kris something tangible to hold on to -- it's amazing moral support, you guys.

For international and privacy-concerned readers, I will set up a PayPal page where you can donate whatever you want. Your donations will go to me, and I'll turn them right over to the Team in Training people. I wish there was some way to make me not be the middle man (I think that's asking you all to put a little bit too much trust and faith in someone you don't even know) but I don't think there is. Maybe the TNT people will see how many folks are interested in using PayPal, and they'll make PayPal an option for donations.

I just looked at our Team in Training Homepage, and right now we're just over four thousand dollars!!!!

We kicked major ass in 2002, and I'm sure we're going to blow that away in 2004.

Comments from the wife, version 3.1

On Friday, February 13th, I went to visit Kris at home before she and her husband made the trip to City of Hope where she would begin her treatment. I brought her a few things to help pass the time during her stay and just wanted another chance to be with her before she started feeling awful again.

I was sad when I left because although her spirits were high, I could tell she was really nervous and scared about going in. I came home and did a few things around the house before picking the kids up from school. About an hour after I picked up the kids, Nolan wanted to go to a friend's house. His friend lives kind of far, but there was no way I was taking the freeway on a Friday, especially on a holiday weekend. So we were taking side streets when Kris called my cell phone.

"We've been sitting in terrible traffic and just got off the freeway to take sidestreets to the hospital." she said. "So I wanted to call you and thank you again for everything you guys are doing with the marathon and all the fundraising. I can't believe it's already over $2,000!"

I couldn't believe it either. "It's so awesome that there are so many people willing to help." I said. We made small talk. I think it was good for both of us. I asked her how she was doing; She's really scared and doesn't want go in.

"This is the best time to do this. You have great doctors that are going to help you get better." I tried to sound strong but I was scared too. We continued to talk as I pulled up to a red light at an intersection.

"Hey! You just passed me!" I announced. So Nolan and I followed her for a couple of miles until we had to turn, and she had to head into the hospital driveway. As we pulled up next to them, I hung up and blew her a kiss and told her to take care of herself and I'd see her on Monday. Tears filled my eyes as we drove off.

Earlier today Kris called my cell phone. "What are the donations at?" she sounded terrible, yet there was excitement in her voice.

"About $8,000!" I proudly informed her. She couldn't believe it. I asked her how she was doing. She said she did great all weekend with her chemo, but woke up this morning feeling really sick. They were going to give her something for the nausea which would also make her sleep but she really wanted to know how we were doing. I love that she has this to keep her going. I told her to get some sleep and I'd come by at the end of the day.

I printed out all the comments written about her and our marathon. I couldn't wait for her to see all the great things everyone said. I also brought flyers we made about the marathon because she wanted to give them to her visitors to help with the fundraising.

As I raced up to the hospital doors (only 10 minutes left in visiting hours) Kris's husband was standing outside talking with some friends. He walked me into her room. I was so surprised to see her sitting up, chatting with the nurses and looking great. The anti-nausea medication and the nap did wonders. She was feeling much better. I was so excited to tell her the donations are almost
$10,000! We chatted as they removed her empty chemo bag. Kris said it's been two hours on, four hours off, all day. One more before midnight. Then 7am tomorrow morning she begins the first radiation treatment. Three a day for the next three days. She told me how she was up crying all night because she was so upset that they taped padding to the rails of the bed.

"They say it's for the seizures that can happen once the radiation starts. I can't believe I'm going to have seizures" she said. But she said the nurse told her not everyone has them. I tried to comfort her by telling her she probably won't have them. After all, she's taking anti-seizure medicine. I don't think I convinced either one of us very well.

I hugged her and told her I'd see her tomorrow. Her husband walked me out. "Thank you so much for everything you and Wil are doing. It gives her something to look forward to. Something to hold on to. It's just so amazing that so many people are donating" I told him that we were so glad we could do this and we would donate platelets next week after her transplant.

"She'll be so happy to get that from you. It takes a few hours though," he explained.

I don't care. As long as I can help.

52 seaview

Quoth Professor Farnsworth, "Great News, everybody!"

Uhh, I mean "Good news, everyone!" (I lose 1d4 geek points, but get +1 for trying to quote from memory, and not cheating by using Google, so *roll, roll* 1d4-1=3. Oh, of course I roll the highest possible when it's a penalty. whatever)

I just found out that O'Reilly will have Dancing Barefoot in stores on March 4th!! I'm not sure what sort of media ORA has planned, but I'll be sure to update WWdN readers when I know. I hope they'll put together some in-stores, like the ones I did with Monolith Press last summer.

Many of you have asked if I'll be at Creation's Grand Slam convention in Pasadena next month. I wasn't sure, so I called Adam Malin at Creation earlier today.

We had a very nice conversation, and Adam invited me to come to the show! The final details are yet to be worked out, but I'll be there to read from and sign Dancing Barefoot, geek out at stuff, and be part of fandom, which is always fun for me. Don't tell anyone, but I may also have a super-secret project to debut, as well.

Also, after the fantastic success of Earnest Borg9's performance at Grand Slam last year, Adam Malin asked me if we would bring our show to Las Vegas in July. Right now, we have a "handshake" deal to appear. I just have to make sure the scheduling works out for everyone else in EB9. Heh. I love calling it "EB9" because it sounds like some sort of spiffy code. Sadly, it's just further evidence of my explosive geekery.

When I know more details about all these things, I'll post them here.

Oh, and this entry's title comes from a really fun band called The Wag. If the Beatles and the Cowsils got it on backstage at Ed Sullivan, The Wag would totally be their love child.

it never rains under my umbrella

We are on full-on STORMWATCH!!!11 here in Los Angeles, which is perfect because today was the first day in ages when I actually had to drive down into Hollywood during rush hour.

All those jokes about how bad people drive when it rains in LA? They're funny because they're true. I'd just like to take a moment, and give "The Finger" to the entire city.

. . .

Okay. I feel much better. Thank you. :)

the trekkie calls the LARPer geek

Ever wonder where you fall on the Geek Heirarchy?

Find out here!

breath of life

If everything goes according to plan, Ryan, Nolan and I will embark on a new and wonderful phase of our lives together this evening. We will grab some root beers, sit at our dining room table, and I will take them on their very first dungeon crawl.

We have spent the last week or so creating characters, discussing the rules, and building excitement for tonight's adventure. I have been staying up an extra hour or two each night after the kids go to bed, pouring over websites and my core rule books, simulating combats and creating NPCs. I'm pretty nervous, because I'm DMing an adventure for the first time since The Isle of Dread in 6th grade. And back then, I managed to kill everyone in the party pretty quickly, and never got to sit behind the screen again.

(For those of you keeping score at home, that would be about 19 years ago -- Holy crap. Ninteen years ago? I've really been feeling older lately, and writing that number really put a crick in my neck. When did 31 become old? I know it's not, but . . . damn.)

Anyhow, last night, Nolan and Anne were in the kitchen cutting his hair. I was at the dining room table reviewing Cleric spells, while I listened to The Two Towers soundtrack. Ryan came out of his room, and sat down across from me.

"Watcha doing?" he said.

"Just refreshing my memory. It's been --" I paused. "Well, it's been a really long time since I played ran a campaign, and I want . . . "

(I want you to think I'm cool. I want to do something special for you. I want to share something with you guys that isn't sports-related, so your dad can't take it over and force me out of it.)

"I want to make sure you guys have a good time," I said. "It's important to me."

"I'm so excited!" he said.

"Me too."

He absentmindedly rolled some d20s I'd scattered across the table.

"Can I roll up an extra character, just for fun?" he said.

"Is your homework finished?"

"Yeah. Everything's done, and I worked ahead in Biology."

"Really?"

He nodded.

"Dude. That's super-responsible. I'm proud of you."

He smiled. "So can I?

"Sure," I said. "The dice bags are on my desk."

He got up, and walked over to my office. My desk, normally buried under computer books and writing journals, is currently coverd with gaming books: GURPS, Mutants and Masterminds, Car Wars, too many Cheapass games to count, and -- of course -- a stack of D&D books ten feet tall.

"It's 4d6, right?" he called out.

"Yep, 4d6. And you --"

" -- throw away the lowest roll." we said in unison.

"Ryan, I . . . "

(I love it when that happens.)

"I have an extra character sheet here that you can use." I said.

"Okay."

I went back to my books. A moment later, Ryan returned. Four six-sided dice dropped from his hand and rolled across the table.

"Since you're the DM, will you watch my rolls?"

"You bet! This is . . . "

(This is something I'll remember for the rest of my life.)

"This is really fun."

He picked up the dice, and threw them: 2 - 4 - 5 - 1

"Eleven?! Oh man!" he said.

"Hey, eleven isn't a bad roll at all." I noticed something familiar about the dice. Two of them were black, with red numbers. There was a skull where the one would have been.

"Hey, I have dice just like those in --" my heart stopped. I jumped up, and ran into my office.

There it was, in the cool blue glow of my monitor, atop my Freedom City sourcebook: an open bag of dice. My bag of dice. The black one, with the red pyramid from the Bavarian Illuminati on it. A clear d10, and two brilliant blue d12s sat near its open top. Its drawstring was cast carelessly across the side of the book, dangerously close to my Zen fountain.

Ryan slowly walked into the room.

"Is something wrong?" He said.

"You . . . you touched my dice!" I said. I felt a little woozy.

"Well . . . yeah." he said.

"No. Ryan, you . . . "

(You are about to see your stepdad as the old gamer geek he really is. The gamer geek I hope you'll be one day . . . heh. This is actually kind of cool.)

"You can't ever touch my dice." I said, patiently.

"Uhh . . . aren't they all 'your dice'?"

"Technically, yes, but these here, in this bag, they're the ones I've played with since I was in high school."

He furrowed his brow and looked at me for a moment, while I put my dice back into my bag. A white d8 with worn off blue numbers, the clear d10 with white numbers, a green d6 that's really a poker dice . . .

"When I was younger, these dice . . . "

(These dice were some of the most important things in my life. Well. I have some perspective now.)

"These dice were a big part of my life." I said.

I held the bag in my hand and looked at him. For the first time in eight years, I saw some of myself reflected back.

"You know what? It's not that big a deal. I'd just rather you use some other dice." I said.

"So do I get to re-roll that eleven since I used . . ." he lowered his head, and spoke in a grave voice: "The Forbidden Dice?" He smiled.

We laughed together.

"Eleven is a good roll, Ryan." I said.

"I know, but twelve gets me plus one."

"Okay. You can re-roll. But if you get a lower roll, you have to keep it."

I tossed him my green bag, and he dug out 4d6.

"Deal." He said.

We walked back into the dining room and sat back down at the table. Ryan threw 4d6: 2 - 5 - 2 - 1

"Nine?! Oh man!"

"I bet that eleven is looking pretty good now, isn't it?" I said.

"Shut up." he laughed.

He collected the dice, held them thoughtfully for a second, and said, "Wil, I'm sorry I used your dice. I just thought that bag was really cool."

"It's okay Ryan. Someday . . . "

(Someday, I'll give that bag, and all the dice in it, to you.)

"Someday, you'll have your own dice, and your own dice bag, and you'll understand."

He threw 4d6: 6 - 6 - 4 - 4

"Sixteen! Rock!" he threw the goat.

On a 3x5 card, he wrote a one and a six beneath his nine.

"Ryan, I . . ."

(I love you more than you'll ever know. Thank you for sharing these moments with me.)

"I can't wait to play with you guys tomorrow night."

invisible sun

Several months ago, I sat in a pub with a good friend of mine who had just found out his wife was pregnant. We hoisted pints of Guinness and ate vinegar-soaked chips covered with salt. Ah, the reckless abandon of celebration.

"I can't believe I'm going to be a father! I'm equal parts terrified and excited." He said.

"That sounds about right," I said. "How's Jennifer doing?"

"She's great. We've wanted this for a long time."

"I'm really happy for you. You're going to be a great father."

Someone put Cream's "Badge" on the jukebox. We ordered two more pints.

"You've been doing this for a few years," he said, "and you seem like a pretty good father --"

"Stepfather," I corrected him.

"Whatever. You're a father-figure."

"I'm more like a backup quarterback who can get pulled from the game at any time, but go ahead."

"If you could only give one bit of advice to me, what would it be? What's the most important thing?"

Now it was my turn to take a long drink. And then another.

"Forty-two," I said, and we both laughed.

"I don't know, man. there are so many things . . . I guess you shouldn't be afraid to make some mistakes, and ask other parents for advice . . ."

I trailed off, and thought for a second, about all the other parents I've been around since Ryan and Nolan came into my life.

"Don't try to be your kid's best friend. It's the single biggest mistake parents make. Love them, play with them, let them know how much they mean to you, but be their parent. They can make friends, but they can't make parents. That's your job."

I took another drink.

"And one night, you're going to put your sweet, loving, adorable child to bed, and when she wakes up . . . "

"She'll be a teenager." He said gravely.

"Yep. Teenagers are how the gods punish you for having sex."

We giggled, then we laughed, then we sat in silence. I thought about all the things we'd done together since we were teenagers, about the ways our lives have changed since then.

"And, for fuck's sake, don't let your kid scream in restaurants."

"I'm way ahead of you on that one." He said.

That scene replayed itself in my mind on Thursday afternoon when Nolan called me from Anne's cell phone.

They had a few things to do before they came home, and Nolan was worried about all the homework he needed to do.

"I have a fifty-two word vocabulary test tomorrow, and I have a math challenge," he said. "But I really want to play Dungeons & Dragons."

"Time to put on the parent hat." I thought.

"Well, Nolan, I really want to play, too. But homework comes first. I don't want you racing through your work to go play with a friend, and I certainly don't want you to race through your homework to play with me."

"But when can we play?" He said. "I'm not with you guys this weekend."

"We'll play next week," I said. "I'll use the weekend to study the DM's guide even more."

Secretly, I was more than a little relieved. Among the three of us, I bet I'm the most excited to play, but I don't feel 100% prepared. I can use a few more hours of study, and a few more simulated battles. I want this game to be awesome for them, so they'll want to play again.

"Will you help me study for my test?"

"You bet."

"Okay! Well, I'll see you when we get home."

"Okay. Tell your mom to drive safely."

"I will. I love you."

Even though he's twelve, Nolan is quick to tell me he loves me, never shies away from holding my hand when we go places together, and always gives me long, warm hugs goodbye, even when we're at his school.

"I love you too, Nolan." I said. I really, really do.

Moments after I hung of the phone, it rang again.

"Wil? It's Ryan."

"Hey Ryan. What's up?"

"Are we still playing D&D tonight?"

"Well . . . "

"Because I have way too much homework."

I told him about Nolan's test, and the ensuing delay of game.

"Oh, that's a relief." He said. "Okay, I have to go. See you in a while."

"Okay. I love you."

"Love you too," he said.

I hung up the phone, and sat there, alone at my dining room table. D&D maps and books surrounded me. Ferris and Riley slept at my feet.

"Not bad for a backup QB," I thought. "I think this kid has some promise."

Comments from the wife, version 3.2

Before you read this, check out Comments from the Wife version 3.0 and version 3.1.

We went to visit Kris in the hospital today. Her spirits were up and she looked great. She spent the week doing her radiation treatments and did her final chemo on Saturday. Today was a day of rest as far as any treatment goes. Tomorrow is the big day. Transplant day. I will be donating platelets to her tomorrow as she will need a great deal of these after her transplant. Kris wrote something down that she wanted me to post for her. So this is from Kris.

A note of thanks to all

To each one of you: for every dollar, for every good wish and prayer and especially for monkey mojo, I say a great big thank you.

Anne brings me your comments regularly and no matter what my day has been like, I read them. I sometimes laugh, always cry and am touched by how remarkable human kindness can be.

You are great to support me and our cause for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Wow! Over $12,000! I am truly amazed. All blood cancer patients will benefit from this.

Anne and Wil are incredible friends and not just because of this. My wish back to all of you is that you may find true friendship and love in your lives and stay healthy and happy. I am so blessed to have these two in my corner-I hope they know how much I love them.

I'm doing alright. Radiation has kicked my butt -- but I kick harder! Monday is transplant day. I am determined to beat this. I will see my children grown and I will grow old with my husband!

Again, thanks to all . . .

Sincerely from the heart,
Kris

A Note from Wil: We're about halfway to our first milestone of $25,000, and it's only been ten days! Thank you all for your support.

\m/

On the way home from school today, Nolan and I were listening to Ethel on XM 47.

A band that I am not familiar with, called "The Distillers", did their rock and roll thing. It was pretty cool, so I turned it up, and took advantage of the break in our storm to open all the windows and the sunroof.

"Is that person singing a boy or a girl?" Nolan said.

"I'm not sure. Why?" I said.

"I saw this video, and I can't tell if it's a boy or a girl." He said.

"That's what Rock and Roll is all about, Nolan."

lowercase west thomas

I have become disenchanted with the license issues over at Text America. I'm sure they're really good guys and all, but I sort of want to hold on to the commercial rights for my images, so starting today, I'm moving my camera blog (for fuck's sake, does everything have to be called a "something blog?") from there over to Buzznet. They have, among other things, a really nifty Creative Commons license generator, and I think that's just swell.

Thanks to exciting script technology, the space immediately beneath will forever hold the four most recent images in my Buzznet Gallery. You must have Javascript enabled to see the fun.

lake tanganyika, where the crocodiles swim

I had a nice long conversation with my editor at O'Reilly this morning. We talked about many things, but the conversation was very exciting for three reasons:

1. It was the first time we've spoken since I signed my contracts and became an Official O'Reilly Author™.


2. We talked about the upcoming release of Dancing Barefoot, and I got a firsthand taste of how excited O'Reilly & Associates is about my book. It's one thing to hear those thoughts during contract talks . . . it's something else entirely to hear them after they pwn you.


3. I got a real, full-on, 100% official deadline for Just A Geek! This means that my deadlines are no longer self-imposed. I work very well under pressure, and I already did more today than I have in the last three weeks. Because I have a deadline, I have a pretty good idea when JAG will come out, but I don't think I can release that information just yet.

I am truly excited about Just A Geek . . . but I'm also terrified of it. I hope that some good blogs dovetail out of the rewrite experience in the next six weeks.

I'm sure I will eat these words sooner or later, but for today at least, I feel like a real writer, and I like that quite a bit.

train in vain

I've been sitting here at the dining room table, simulating D&D combats (hordes of Kobolds and Goblins are going up against some NPCs: a fighter, a wizard and a rogue) so I can get my head around the mechanics of d20 combat, and also work out the way I think those monsters would fight . . . so far, the kobolds are cowardly, and prefer to run away and use their light crossbows, and the goblins really like to try and flank the good guys. There's been quite a bit of grappling, too.

It's so much fun, I just now realized that it's almost one in the morning, and I feel like it's eight! It prolly doesn't help that I drank a mug of Earl Grey around six, and I've been listening to The Get Up Kids for the last hour or so.

I would have gone to sleep earlier, too, if it wasn't for you meddling Get Up Kids and your Four Minute Mile!! Mrrr! Nyaah! Gaa!

Well.

I'm about to drag myself off to bed, and for some reason, Ferris's extremely loud snoring reminded me that I didn't mention this earlier today:

I've seen a bunch of fake Wil Wheaton autographs on eBay in the last week or so. (Well, not really a bunch. More like four. But still, one fake is one too many, you know?) While I'm flattered that someone thinks I'm worth faking, that sort of sucks for collectors.

And hey, if someone's gonna buy some CDs for selling my signature, it may as well be me, right? Who's with me?!

*chirp*
*chirp*

Oh, I see how it is. Whatever, man. You used to be cool.

Anyway, here's the link to my pictures, if anyone's interested. If not . . . well, crap. eBay just made a few bucks off of me. Dang!

And as a general rule, if you're a WWdN reader, and you're thinking of buying something allegedly signed by me on eBay, you're always welcome (and encouraged) to send me a note so I can verify the authenticity, or lack thereof.

keep my hands by my side

I just finished my two hours of Just A Geek rewrites for today, and I am so emotionally drained I think I'm going to fall over.

Because JAG is based entirely on my real life, and the foundation for the book is the WWdN weblog, I have to revisit some very painful times in the retelling.

For those familiar with The Hero's Journey, I'm somewhere around the Resurrection portion of The Road Back, which took place around the end of April, 2002. The title of the chapter is The Bottom, and it's all about how the shitty entertainment industry and my repeated failures as an actor threatened to really destroy me as a husband, son, and father. I use a lot of weblog entries to share the story, but the real inner thoughts haven't ever been vocalized to a large audience, and it's sort of extremely scary to be so nakedly honest about one of the worst times in my life.

I knew that I'd hit my wall today when I was looking at a paragraph and thought, "I really need to dramatize this, and turn it from dispassionate narration into a scene . . . but I just don't have the emotional energy do it now."

this ocean will not be grasped

I wrote this hours ago, and I've debated whether or not I should post it. This is an incredibly divisive issue, and I'm sure that I will end up on more of those stupid boycott lists because of this, and that's probably not the smartest business move, considering that I have a book coming out in less than two weeks . . . but I have to stand up for my beliefs, so here it is:

When I heard that George W. Bush had called for an amendment to the Constitution that would effectively codify homosexuals as second-class citizens, I recalled something Howard Dean said recently:

In 1968, Richard Nixon won the White House. He did it in a shameful way--by dividing Americans against one another, stirring up racial prejudices, and bringing out the worst in people.

They called it the "Southern Strategy," and the Republicans have been using it ever since. Nixon pioneered it, and Ronald Reagan perfected it, using phrases like "racial quotas" and "welfare queens" to convince white Americans that minorities were to blame for all of America's problems.

The Republican Party would never win elections if they came out and said their core agenda was about selling America piece by piece to their campaign contributors and making sure that wealth and power is concentrated in the hands of a few. To distract people from their real agenda, they run elections based on race, dividing us, instead of uniting us . . .

Dean was right. Just read that again, and replace "racial prejudices" with "sexual prejudices."

I hate it when I agree with politicians, but John Kerry said what I thought as soon as I heard the news:

"This president can't talk about jobs. He can't talk about health care. He can't talk about a foreign policy which has driven away allies and weakened the United States, so he is looking for a wedge issue to divide the American people."

Personally, I don't think the government should be involved in marriage in any way. I believe that marriage is between two people who love each other, who wish to make a commitment to stay together through good times and bad. I suppose that it can also be between those people and whatever god they choose to worship, but even then . . . wouldn't it be stupid for the government to tell couples which god can bless their marriage? And who cares what sex they are?

An interesting thing has happened since San Francisco started granting marriage licenses to same-sex couples: my marriage is just fine!

That's right. Even though there are thousands of gay and lesbian couples affirming their love for and commitment to each other, my marriage -- my affirmation of love and commitment to Anne -- isn't threatened at all. As a matter of fact, the only people who can really "threaten" my marriage are . . . well . . . the two of us.

And this brings me to the first thing that's so profoundly upsetting about this entire issue: it's not about marriage, it's not about love, it's not about family, it's not about commitment. It's about hating homosexuals. It's about treating homosexuals as if they are second-class citizens. It's about dividing this country into those who support discrimination, and those who don't. It's about Karl Rove updating The Southern Strategy.

It comes as no surprise to me that, as part of that strategy, George W. Bush wants to take the Constitution, a document that is supposed to limit government and guarantee freedoms to all Americans, away from millions of our fellow citizens who are homosexual. I didn't buy the "I'm a uniter, not a divider, compassionate conservative" bullshit during the 2000 campaign, and this is just another example of Mr. Bush revealing his true colors. And this argument that it's a response to "activist judges?" That's a huge load of crap too. Mr. Bush has a lot of nerve talking about "activist judges," considering that he owes his presidency to five of them.

Ultra-Conservative writer Andrew Sullivan said it best, I think:

The president launched a war today against the civil rights of gay citizens and their families. And just as importantly, he launched a war to defile the most sacred document in the land. Rather than allow the contentious and difficult issue of equal marriage rights to be fought over in the states, rather than let politics and the law take their course, rather than keep the Constitution out of the culture wars, this president wants to drag the very founding document into his re-election campaign. He is proposing to remove civil rights from one group of American citizens - and do so in the Constitution itself. The message could not be plainer: these citizens do not fully belong in America. Their relationships must be stigmatized in the very Constitution itself. The document that should be uniting the country will now be used to divide it, to single out a group of people for discrimination itself, and to do so for narrow electoral purposes. Not since the horrifying legacy of Constitutional racial discrimination in this country has such a goal been even thought of, let alone pursued. Those of us who supported this president in 2000, who have backed him whole-heartedly during the war, who have endured scorn from our peers as a result, who trusted that this president was indeed a uniter rather than a divider, now know the truth.

Yes, I am shocked that I agree with Andrew Sullivan about anything, but that just illustrates how insane this idea is, and how it transcends political ideology.

Now, I have no doubt that this effort will fail. I believe that it will ultimately backfire on the Bush Administration, and contribute to his defeat in November. The United States just isn't the Theocracy that Mr. Bush wants to create.

There is a wonderful opportunity here, though, that I haven't heard anyone talk about, yet: we are now forced, as a nation, to acknowledge and confront the widespread discrimination against gays and lesbians, and I believe that Americans will unite against segregation now, just as we did during the Civil Rights movement.

I believe in America. I believe in the Bill of Rights, and the founding principals of this nation. I believe that goodness, compassion, and tolerance will triumph over hatred, bigotry, and ignorance.

And I am proud to stand up for these beliefs, whatever the consequences.

lying in odessa - part one

A couple of weeks ago, I played in a no-limit hold-em tournament.

There were sixteen players at two tables. It was a freezeout, with the top three finishers taking home money. I had never played in a real money tournament before, and this was my first chance to test out the teachings of Doyle Brunson, Mike Caro, David Sklansky, and Lee Jones that I've spent so many hours studying.

The club is on the eastern edge of Hollywood, in a pretty seedy area where the cops are too busy busting crackheads to bother a poker game. To get in, you walk down an alley, and knock on the door with the big red bar painted horizontally across the middle. Most of the people who play here are in the entertainment industry, so it's appropriate that it's something out of a movie.

I show the doorman a business card with the club's address written on the back, and he lets me in. I'm here to play in a no-limit hold-em tournament. It's the first time I've ever played in an illegal game. It's the first time I've played outside of a friendly home game. It's the first time I've ever played for money.

I buy in, get 600 in tournament chips, and my table assignment: I'm seat six at table two. We don't start for about ten minutes, so I get a bitters and soda from the bar, and try to act like I belong here.

"You play poker, right?" my friend said to me a few weeks earlier, as we waited for the subway.

"Yeah. You have a game?" I said. I've been looking for something similar to The Tuesday Night Game ever since I read Big Deal.

"Sort of. You ever heard of the Odessa Room?"

I shook my head. "I'm spectacularly uncool, Shane, and I live in suburbia. What's the Odessa Room?"

"It's an honest-to-goodness speakeasy in Hollywood. Twice a month they have poker tournaments."

"What are the stakes?"

"You can afford it. Why don't you come with me next Wednesday?"

"Because I'm not good enough to play for money."

"You ever played for money?"

"No."

"Then how do you know?"

"I appreciate the invite, but my wife would kill me if I played cards for money."

He took out his business card, and wrote down the address.

"Think about it. If you change your mind, I'll see you there. Show this card at the door."

With a blast of warm, humid air, the Wilshire / Western train pulled into the station. Shane got into the car.

"Of course, if you'd rather, you can just give me 100 bucks and cut out the formality of playing." He said as the doors closed.

I laughed and flipped him the bird. He gave it back as the train pulled away.

I turned his card over in my hand. His office at Walt Disney Studios on one side, the address to an illegal poker game on the other.

Sometimes, I love this town.

The Odessa is really just a bar, and its illegal nature means its unknown owners have forgone the interior decorating that would make it truly cinematic; the only thing of real value is a sound system that rivals any Sunset Strip night club. Three well-worn area rugs cover most of the cold cement floor. The indirect lighting is provided by those halogen uplights that were popular in the 80s. Twelve of them line one wall, and create a pretty good mood. Large cathedral-like candles sit in sconces that are nailed to the other walls. There are several enormous Samoan bouncers watching over all of us.

Everything is portable, including the bar. When I lean against it, it rolls back a few inches.

"Watch it," the bartender says. His tone tells me that this happens all the time . . . when fuckin' new guys like me show up.

"Sorry."

I swallow hard. I think about leaving, but my money is already spent. Better not lose my nerve now. For the first time since I decided to come here, I wonder if the club's name has anything to do with the Russian mafia. Then I wonder how many of these Samoan guys have guns. What am I doing here? And where the hell is Shane?

lying in odessa - part two

Note: readers who are unfamiliar with hold-em rules can find them at ultimate bet dot com. Readers who are unfamiliar with poker terminology may want to read This glossary from CNN first. Or don't. I'm not the boss of you.

Part one of this story is here.

The game starts at 8. My watch -- a gift from Sean Astin when we were promoting Toy Soldiers in Japan -- says it's 7:55. The tables are starting to fill up, so I ask the bartender for a glass of water. I take it, tip him a dollar, and head for my table.

The blinds start out at 5-10, and double every 30 minutes. I have studied my Sklansky and Jones faithfully for the last ten days or so, and I have what I think is a solid game plan: Play extremely tight, but aggressive. Only premium hands, no chasing, and no raising before the flop unless I'm sitting on AA or AK. For the first two levels, whenever I have something worth playing, I'll skip sandbagging and just bet into the raisers. No free cards, just survive. I thought it was a good strategy, and I hoped that my opponents wouldn't catch on that I was only in the pot when I had the nuts. I figured that if I wasn't the first one out, I'd be happy.

My seat is the only empty one at Table Two. I put my coat over the back of my chair, stack my chips, and sit down. Everyone at my table seems to know each other. They're the regulars, I guess, and I've read enough to know that I'm already at a disadvantage.

The table looks like this:

Seat One: Mr. Lawyer.
Seat Two: Mr. Magician.
Seat Three: Mr. Agent's Assistant.
Seat Four: Mrs. Funnypants.
Seat Five: Mr. Webmaster.
Seat Six: Mr. First Time Player.
Seat Seven: Mrs. Beautiful.
Seat Eight: Mr. I'm In The Music Industry.

When we cut for the deal, Mr. Lawyer gets the ace of spades. I draw the two of clubs. I hope it's not an omen.

We play a few hands, but my cards are shit, and I don't get into any pots. It's okay, I'll be patient. Stick to the plan.

For a game in Hollywood, there's precious little coffehousing, until Mr. Lawyer says to me, "Hey guy, aren't you an actor?"

I hate that question, because I always have to answer, "I used to be."

"Whaddaya mean, 'used to be?'" Says the guy to my right. He's a Webmaster from Long Beach who could have saved an hour on the freeway and played at the Bicycle, but I find out later that he comes here because he's a starfucker.

"I haven't done any acting in a long time. I'm a writer now." This answer doesn't seem to satisfy them, so I say, "I only act when something really great comes along."

("That is, before my agents dropped me a year ago. Where the hell is Shane?")

"What show do you write for?" Says Mr. Agent's Assistant.

"Oh, I don't work in the Industry. I write books."

A knowing look passes among them. "You published?" He says.

"Yeah." I don't want to talk about myself any more. I look down at my cards and find more rags. I study them like they're suited connectors and start counting my checks.

"How'd you find out about this game?" Mr. Agent's Assistant says.

The bet comes to me. I give my rags another look, and throw them away.

"I'm a friend of Shane's."

They all laugh, and I find out that Shane is the deadest of dead money. Everyone likes him, but they like his poor play even more.

"I hope you play better than he does, guy," says Mr. Lawyer.

I shrug my shoulders. I am beginning to hate Mr. Lawyer. First of all, he's a lawyer. Second of all, he keeps calling me "guy." Finally, I know that he's stealing blinds, but I'm not going to move on him because I'm sticking to my plan.

Later: I'm four seats behind the big blind. There's a raise and a couple of callers. I throw away 9-2 off suit, and the flop comes 9-2-x. Fourth street is a deuce, and the river is an ace. I'm pretty sure I made the right play . . . I would have been out of my mind to play 9-2 off-suit, especially with a raise before the flop, but Mr. I'm In The Music Industry wins it with AQ. Would have been nice to take it down, but I'm sticking to the plan.

I don't see anything worth playing until the blinds are up to 25-50. I hold AJs in the big blind. Mrs. Beautiful folds behind me, Mr. Lawyer raises, and everyone else folds around to Mr. Webmaster, who calls from the small blind. All I can think about is Mr. Lawyer stealing the blinds, and calling me "guy." I'm gonna sandbag this guy. I call. The flop is a rainbow: 5-8-J. Mr Lawyer checks, Mr. Webmaster checks, I bet 50. Mr. Lawyer raises me 50. I think for a second that he may be holding a jack, but I can't stop thinking about that 9-2 I threw away, and I'm looking at top pair with a fucking bullet kicker, so I raise 200. He calls immediately, and Mr. Webmaster folds. Oh shit.

The turn is a blank, and the river is a 6. I look at the board: 5-8-J-x-6. I wonder to myself if he's playing 7-4.

I think, "How in the WORLD can you call 200 on a draw, with four outs? There's no way. No way at all. If he played 7-4, I'm dead, but I've got about half my stack in this pot . . ."

I'm first to act, and I think I'll check raise. He checks back . . . and flips over 7-fucking-4.

"What the hell are you doing playing 7-4?!" I say.

"I guess I'm taking a whole bunch of your money, guy." Mr. Lawyer says, and he does.

"The first thing we do is kill all the lawyers," I think, and I realize that I've been on tilt since I sat down. I'm pissed at myself for not playing that hand wisely. I did everything wrong, because I let this fucking lawyer get under my skin.

I should have moved all-in on the flop . . . right?

I'm not sure.

The only thing I am sure of right now is that I played that hand like shit.

I'm better than this.

I'm not a fish.

Where the fuck is Shane?