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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.
Part two of this story is here.
I get up, take a piss, and grab a Coke. My cell phone rings while I'm at the bar. It's my stepson, and he wants to know how I'm doing. I tell him about the 7-4, and he says, "Don't tilt, Wil."
"Too late," I say.
"Oh. That sucks. Well, don't worry about it. I'll see you when you get home. I love you."
"I love you, too." I say. We hang up.
For some reason, the conversation settles me down, and I return with new focus. I decide that I am the only person at this table who can beat me, even if the cards aren't helping me win.
I keep getting junk, so I throw away the next several hands. Mr. Lawyer busts out Mr. Magician and Mr. Webmaster. Mrs. Beautiful takes care of Mr. Agent's Assistant, and there are just five of us left at the table: Mr. Lawyer, Mrs. Funnypants, me, Mrs. Beautiful, and Mr. I'm In The Music Industry.
Finally, my cards start to come. I stick to my plan, and double through Mrs. Funnypants, the well-known comedienne. On the next hand, Mr. I'm In The Music Industry goes all-in against me with pocket tens. I've got a good chip lead on him, so I loosen up and call him with K-9. There's a king on the flop, it holds up, and I bust him out. It's the first time I've ever busted anyone out, and I feel like Howard Fucking Lederer. I sneak a look at Mr. Lawyer as I rake in the pot. He's busy shuffling his chips.
When the blinds are up to 50-100, I'm briefly the chip leader, and I tighten up again. Maybe it's not the best strategy, but . . . I'm the chip leader for the first time in my life, in my first real tournament. Where the hell is Shane?
Mr. Lawyer comes over the top of Mrs. Beautiful, all-in pre-flop. Mrs. Beautiful calls him before he's done pushing his chips in. It goes something like this:
Mr. Laywer: "I'm all i--"
Mrs. Beautiful: "Call."
Mr. Lawyer blanches, and turns over 8-9 clubs. Mrs. Beautiful flashes him a smile, and turns over KK.
"You do not have two kings!" Mr. Lawyer says. I wonder if that's his "I object!" voice.
"I'm pretty sure I do," she says. Overruled.
Mr. Lawyer stands up, and a vein throbs in his forehead. I could kiss Mrs. Beautiful right now.
He pairs his 8 on the flop, but that's it. Mrs. Beautiful sends Mr. Lawyer home.
He looks at me, and says, "I had to take my shot."
"Tough break," I say, "Guy."
Now it's his turn to shrug. "Next time. Next time."
I feel like a fucking rockstar for outlasting him.
When there are seven of us left, we take a break before we move to one table. The other players go to the bar, the bathroom, or just meander around the mostly-empty club. I walk outside and call Shane. He picks up on the first ring.
"Hey, Wil. What's up?"
"I'm at the Odessa. Where the hell are you?"
"Have you seen the news recently? I've been babysitting executives all week." He says.
"At ten o'clock on a Wednesday?"
"Yes. It's that bad. So how are you doing?"
"Better than I thought," I say. "I made it to the final table. The regulars wish your money was here."
He laughs.
"Maybe I'll play next time." I hear a voice in the background. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece, and says something back. "Look, I gotta go. Good luck."
"Thanks. Bye."
The door opens behind me, and one of the big Samoan guys raises his fist at me. I wince, until I realize that he's holding up his thumb, directing me back into the club.
"They're ready for you," he says, and walks back inside. I catch the door inches before it closes. It's incredibly heavy.
We sit down, and the cards come out. On the first hand, I bust out Mr. Circus Clown. A few hands later, I bust out Mr. Drunk Guy. Goddammit, this feels great! I work hard to keep my focus, and hope my hands don't tremble as I separate my chips into hundred dollar stacks.
The blinds go up to 100-200, and that takes care of Mrs. Funnypants, who was down to the felt when we moved. I try not to get too excited, but I'm currently one off the money. That's pretty damn cool, but there's a sobering reality: if I go out next, I have as much to show for my efforts as Mr. Lawyer, and I really fucking hate that guy.
Shortly after the blinds go up to 300-600, Mr. Director busts out Mr. I Won An Emmy, and I find myself in the money! I can't believe it!
I look at my stack: I have about 2200, I guess. Mrs. Beautiful is stacked . . . and is also the chip leader with over 4000. Mr. Director has about 1000 less than she does. He reaches into his jacket, and takes out a Camel cigarette.
"You can't smoke in here, sir," the dealer says.
"What?" Mr. Director says.
"It's against the law." The dealer says.
"We're in an illegal cardroom, and you're worried about me smoking?"
"Sorry." The dealer says. "House rules."
For a moment, I think Mr. Director is going to punch him, but he laughs.
"Fucking California," he says. We all laugh as he puts the cigarette behind his ear.
The laughter fades quickly. We all know that there is a substantial money difference between 2nd and 3rd place, so play is pretty tight. A raise before the flop is usually enough to steal the blinds. I take some chances, and grab one or two with marginal hands: 10-10, and K-7. I almost wish I would see 10-2 -- the Doyle Brunson -- so I could play it. What the hell is wrong with me?
This goes on for a while, until I look at my pocket cards and find AJ on the button. Mrs. Beautiful calls, Mr. Director checks, and I call. The flop comes J-4-7. The bet is checked to me, and I move all-in. Mrs. Beautiful looks at her cards, then to me. I take a deep breath, and look down at the board. I'm pretty sure I want at least one call, but it's still nerve-wracking. If I blow this, I go home with nothing.
She calls. It's about half her stack. Well, I got my wish . . . I think.
Mr. Director calls; it hardly makes a dent. Oh shit. Two callers? They've both got jacks. Please not a pair. Please not a pair.
Mrs beautiful turns over KJ diamonds. My hand involuntarily flies up to my chin, and pulls at the corners of my mouth.
Mr. Director turns over J9. I breathe for the first time in over a minute, stand up, and show my Ajax.
Here we go: the dealer turns a 6, and then a 3.
I won? I won! Wait . . . did I? Yes! Holy shit! I won!
I can't help it. I shout, "YES!" as I double (triple?) through, and drop Mrs. Beautiful to third. I hope I can hold on.
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.
Part two of this story is here.
Part three of this story is here.
"He's . . . babysitting."
"Babysitting?! Who?"
I tell her that I'm not sure. Mr. Director offers the name of a fairly prominent studio executive, well-known for his tantrums.
"I really don't know." I'm sort of glad I don't.
For the next several hands I get nothing but a bunch of small off-suit junk. The only pair I get is crabs, so I let Mr. director and Mrs. Beautiful beat up on each other while I lose enough in blinds to drop back to third. When the blinds go up to 500-1000, my short stack looks a lot shorter. I have just enough to cover one or two more blind bets, and I'm hoping for a miracle.
Mrs. Beautiful is on the button, Mr. Director is the small blind, and I'm the big blind. She calls. Mr. Director folds, and I look at my cards. There's my miracle: A-10 hearts. My heart thumps hard in my chest. If I remember what I've learned from Doyle Brunson correctly, these are good cards to play 3 handed. It's time to make my move.
I wrap my left hand around my small stacks of chips, and push them toward the center of the table.
"I'm all in." I know the words come out of my mouth, but they sound distant.
Mrs. Beautiful studies her pocket cards. "Call."
Visions of doubling up and making a strong run at second, or even first, begin to dance in my head.
I stand up, and turn over my cards. Mrs. Beautiful bites her lip, and turns over Siegfried and Roy.
Two. Fucking. Queens.
With a gentle smile, she says, "I'm sorry."
Oh fuck me.
The dealer knocks the table, slides the top card under the the muck, and deals out three cards. He spreads them out with a flourish, just like on TV. He flips them over and the flop is revealed: 9 hearts - 10 diamonds - 5 clubs. I make a pair, but her queens still beat me.
I'm not good enough at math to know what my odds are, but I know that I'm looking at twelve outs -- twelve cards out of forty-something that can make my hand: eight hearts put me one off a flush, (One of Mrs. Beautiful's queens is a heart, but my ace beats her if we make it) one of the two tens makes trips, and either ace would give me two pair. I'm not out . . . yet.
The dealer burns and turns . . . a red deuce . . . is it hearts of diamonds? It's a heart! The lowly two of hearts. It's the most beautiful card I've seen tonight. Eleven cards left now in this deck that can keep me in this game.
The busted out players who have stuck around to drink surround us like railbirds. A wave of excitement ripples through them.
"Come on, Wil!" Yells Mr. Drunk Guy.
Ever since I played my first game of Hold'em in high school, and learned about the World Series of Poker sometime during my junior year, I've entertained notions of playing in the big one. But every time I go to Vegas, I look into those poker rooms, and lose my nerve. Before tonight, I've never had the balls to play in anything bigger than a home game with friends . . . I doubt I'll ever play in the WSOP, but the way I feel right now, I could be at the final table, staring across the felt at Johnny Chan.
I take a deep breath, and grab the back of my chair tightly, I don't have to look at my knuckles to know that they're white. Here comes fifth street, and the whole thing is in slow motion: the dealer knocks three times with one knuckle, grabs the red-backed corner of the top card, his thumb covering the little Bicycle cherub, and burns it away. Was that one of my outs? I'll never know. His hand rests atop the deck, and it feels like an eternity before the river is revealed . . .
. . and it's the queen of clubs. I go out in third place.
Mrs. Beautiful stands up and hugs me. She smells good. Mr. Director shakes my hand, and tells me that I played well. Mr. Drunk Guy tells me how much he loves me.
I am slow to pick up my jacket. I'm conflicted: in the haze of elimination, I wonder if I made a mistake moving all-in, but I've just finished third in my first-ever real money tournament! Before I can walk away from the table, the next hand is dealt. Mr. Director, who has an almost 2-1 chip lead on Mrs. Beautiful even after she wiped me out, says, "Let's finish this," and puts her all-in.
She calls. He's got a pair of jacks, she's got K-Q.
"What are the odds? If I wasn't here, I wouldn't believe it."
The flop is A spades - Q spades - 4 clubs. Mrs. Beautiful leans forward, and looks intensely at the board. Mr. Director stands up, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
A king (clubs) comes on fourth street, and Mrs. Beautiful takes the lead in the hand with two pair. The excitement level from the fourteen or so people who are in the club rivals the poker room at Binion's.
Mr. Director and Mrs. Beautiful look at each other. She is chewing furiously on her bottom lip, and it's incredibly sexy. I wish I was in this hand.
The dealer knocks the table, burns the top card, and the jack of hearts -- one of my outs, one hand too late -- comes down the river. Mr. Director makes three of a kind, and wins it all on a suck out.
I can't tell who's more stunned between them. Mrs. Beautiful reaches across the table and shakes his hand. I look down at the green felt table: nine cards turned up, the rest of the pack spread out next to the dealer. A mountain of chips. I wish I had a camera. This would make a great book cover.
When I look up, they're both cashing out. The railbirds have wandered away, and music starts to fill the room. The dealer scoops the chips into a bag, and the felt top is carried away under one very large Samoan arm.
I look at my watch: it's after midnight. Since Sean and I worked together on Toy Soldiers, our careers have taken wildly different paths, and each time I look at this innocent timepiece, I feel a twinge of sadness and regret. Occasionally jealousy. I wear it because it was a generous gift. It's also a reminder. I watch the second hand sweep slowly around past the 8, and for the first time in ages, I don't feel like a loser. I feel good. Maybe I'll finally get up the nerve to call Sean. Maybe I'll ask him over to play cards. I pick up my coat, and go collect my money.
The girl at the bar counts out a stack of bills. Blue eyes. Pale skin. Jet black hair down her back. Goddamn.
"You've never played here before." She says.
"Nope. I didn't even know this place existed until two weeks ago."
"You should come in on a weekend night. It gets crazy in here."
"Plato's Retreat crazy?" I ask.
She gives me a blank look. I realize that she can't be older than 22.
"It was a 70s sex club in New York," I say. "Not that I went there when I was eight, or anything."
"Oh." She smiles. "Well, it gets crazy in here." She hands me my money. "Your finish gets you a free seat at the next game in two weeks." There's a very subtle flirtation. I wonder for the briefest second if it's me or the cash I am stuffing into my pocket.
"Oh? Cool. I'll be back then."
"And don't forget the weekend." She takes out a shiny black business card with "Odessa" stamped on the back in red ink, and writes "Jessie" on it. "This will get you in." She smiles, puts it in my hand, and holds on a little too long.
I'm enjoying this entirely too much. "I usually spend the weekends with my wife and stepkids," I say, "but I'll hold onto this."
"You do that." She says. "You want anything for the road?"
Do I.
"A bottle of water would be great," I say.
She turns around and reaches down into a box against the back of the bar. Her shirt lifts up, and reveals a tattoo of ribbon, tied into a bow, just above the top of her black and red --
I really need to get out of here.
"Here you go." She says.
"Thanks. Bye." I take the bottle, and walk to the door. Mr. Webmaster is waiting for me.
"Hey, you played really well." He says.
"Thanks. Too bad I got clobbered by those fucking queens."
"It happens. Can I ask you a question?"
Oh good. He wants me to introduce him to the agent I don't have.
"Sure."
"Why didn't you play on Celebrity Poker Showdown?"
"Because I'm not a celebrity," I say. "At least, not in the way it matters to Bravo."
"Aw, fuck them. You can play here whenever you want."
"Thanks, man. I appreciate that."
"Just bring Shane and his money next time."
I laugh and shake his hand.
"Will do."
I walk out the door, and discover a long line of hipsters down the alley, behind a velvet rope. They have no idea about the game. The Odessa keeps a good poker face.
Calling all Teen Titans fans!
This weekend's new episode "Winner Take All," airs at 9PM on Cartoon Network, and features everyone's favorite underwater-fish-talking-guy, Aqualad!
I can't recall if I wrote about this, or if I just talked about it with some friends, but I am incredibly proud of the work I've done on Teen Titans, and I am so grateful that I get to be part of it.
The last time I was over there, when I was walking from my car to the studio, someone called out to me, "Hey! Aqualad!" and the biggest smile filled my face. It was quite a contrast: when someone calls out, "Hey! Wesley!" I sort of look at the ground and wish I was invisible . . . but when this unseen person called me "Aqualad" my heart jumped, and I looked around to see who said it.
You know, I could probably sell my soul and work all the time on shitty low budget genre films that nobody cares about. I could probably make a decent living doing it, too. I mean, you'd tune in if I was on some late night erotic thriller, right?
Wait. Don't answer that. As a matter of fact, let's forget I ever brought that up. (Although . . . it would be nice to see Lisa Boyle up close and in person.)
Uhhh . . . let's forget I said that, too, okay?
The point is, I care about the work that I do, and if I can help it, I don't want to contribute to the stinking pile of garbage that passes for popular entertainment these days.
When I get to be part of something that's consistently good, something that I can be totally proud of, and heartily endorse, I feel like I'm doing something worthwhile. It's just awesome that I can tell people to watch Teen Titans without any of the standard disclaimers that have accompanied just about everything I've acted in over the last few years.
Now, if I can just get Las Vegas, The West Wing, Arrested Development, and Family Guy to give me a chance . . .
Seriously. Tune in on Saturday. Teen Titans is superfuckingcool.
Holy crap.
I have an actual Audition tomorrow, for a pilot!
This show sounds hilarious, and right up my alley: It's about a married couple in their early 30s, and how they reconcile their punk rock past with their pottery barn present.
Funniest thing: I'm not reading for the husband with the punk rock past . . . I'm reading for the part of his new neighbor . . . who is an uptight conservative, whose idea of a good time is discussing the latest mid-sized SUV.
Talk about playing against type!
I'll post full details of my audition on Monday (short version: I had fun, and made them laugh a whole bunch, but I don't know if I'm what they are looking for), but I just saw something in the Mysterious Future at Slashdot, and this is too insanely cool to wait:
Peter Jackson Will Direct "The Hobbit"!!!111one one one bang one
According to this news item, there's some question about who will distribute the film, but Peter Jackson has the rights to direct it, and wants to make it feel just like the Lord of the Rings trilogy.
NEW YORK (AP) - Peter Jackson won't be returning to the Shire any time soon. The Oscar-winning director is planning to film "The Hobbit," the prequel to "The Lord of the Rings," trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien, but two studios must first fight over legal rights to the film.Jackson said New Line Cinema has the rights to make the movie, but MGM has the rights to distribute it.
"I guess MGM's lawyers and New Line's lawyers are going to have a huge amount of fun over the next few years trying to work it all out," he told reporters recently in Los Angeles, according to AP Radio. "I'm obviously busy for a couple of years on 'King Kong' so those lawyers can just go at it for a long time."
Here is my first Open Letter to Peter Jackson, written with tongue planted firmly in cheek:
Dear Mr. Jackson,
Please let me be part of "The Hobbit."
Please. Please. Please. Please. I will totally be your best friend.
Sincerely,
Wil Wheaton
PS- Please please please please. Thank you.
Darin and I stood in Old Town, on the corner of DeLacy and Green. It was a magnificent night: eighty degrees, clear skies, the slightest breeze stirring the young leaves on the trees behind us.
The whole area was packed with people who were taking advantage of the unseasonably warm March evening: families and young couples crowded the sidewalks, as a nearly-full moon slowly climbed the Eastern sky.
"Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?" I said.
"Getting the tires changed on my Jeep."
"Want to get together and have a cigar? I haven't had a smoke in months, and I'd like to celebrate the release of my book."
"Sure. How's the afternoon sound?"
"Perfect! I'll write in the morning, and then we can goof off later in the day."
We jumped out of the way as several little kids flew around us, their bemused parents half a block behind them.
"Do you have any cigars?" He said.
"No, the last few in my humidor are all crispy and old."
"Well, why don't we go into that shop across the street, get a couple, and smoke them by my pool?" He said.
"I think that's the best idea I've ever heard."
We crossed the street, and walked into the shop. Four guys sat on overstuffed leather chairs and watched the basketball game on a flat screen TV. A cloud of delicious blue smoke hung heavily in the room.
I breathed deeply as we passed through it and entered the walk-in humidor: 70 degrees and 70 percent humidity never felt so wonderful.
"You like the Avos?" Darin said.
I shook my head. "No, I think they're grossly overpriced."
"Griffins?"
"Never had one."
The door opened, and the young clerk, straight from the pages of Details magazine, walked in.
"Can I help you gentlemen?" He said. He wasn't quite condescending, but he was heading that way.
I looked at the Davidoffs and Arturo Fuentes. I lingered over a bunch of Romeo y Julietas. Number One, Number Three, Number Four . . . but no Number Two.
"Do you have any Number Twos?" I asked.
He looked down at the boxes and said, "No, I don't think we do."
He clicked his tongue several times and challenged me. "Why do you want the number two? Why not the number three?"
Oh, there's the condescending.
"When I bought my first box of cigars, it was R&J number two," I said, "so that's what I like to smoke."
He looked at me.
"What about the Avos?"
Darin laughed.
"I'm not a big fan of them," I said. I started to feel like I was dealing with a car salesman.
"Well, what about this one here?" He picked up a Churchill-sized cigar in a natural wrapper. Of course it was the most expensive cigar in the store.
"This one is very popular with the ladies," he began.
"Wait." I said.
Well, I think I said it. Maybe it was the Guinness I had with dinner.
"Are you trying to sell me a girlie cigar?"
He looked puzzled, and said, "Oh no, I mean that this is a nice, light cigar, and --"
"And it's perfect for little bitches like me, right?"
"Well, sir, what I mean is --"
"Is that I'm a sissy little bitch who likes wussy cigars with his lemondrop martinis and Sex In The City DVDs?"
Darin laughed again, and I joined him. "I'm just fuckin' with you, man," I said, "I'll just have an 8-5-8."
The clerk looked like he'd just found out the gun wasn't loaded after all.
"I think it's a cosmopolitan that goes with Sex In The City," he said.
"Oh? Well, I hear there's a cigar in here that's perfect for you."
He laughed. "I'll ring you guys up when you're ready."
I just got hellabusy, so I know that if I wait until I have the time and focus to write all about my audition I'll never do it, so I'll just hit some of the highlights, because I think there are 10 readers scattered across the 'net who really want to know:
- I haven't gotten any feedback, so I don't know what they thought. Usually, if they like what I did, I get a call the same day, or (at the latest,) the next working day. It's been two days, and I haven't heard anything, so I am pretty sure they didn't like what I did, or found someone else who they like more.
- The character description was "uptight conservative," but the script seemed to contradict that. My take on this guy is that he was just a tool. He was trying really hard to be cool, and overcompensated like crazy. He calls everyone "dude," "bro" and "hombre," and gets really excited to put on his Creed CD . . . which I thought was extremely funny. I played him very big. Maybe a little TOO big. Normally, if they are interested in me, I'll get a little direction if I go too big or not big enough, but I didn't get any of that. Which means I was right-on, or I was so far off it wasn't worth their time.
- I had a really good time. Everyone in the room was actually quite nice, except for the guy who was really put out that I didn't bring in a resume (I thought they already had one,) and they all laughed very hard at all my ad-libs. There's a difference between "laugh track" laughter, and genuine "oh wow! I wasn't expecting that and it amused me" laughter, and I felt like there was much more of the latter than the former.
- I got to see my friend Maureen there. Seeing people I like when I'm on auditions is always a good time.
- Unless I am totally off, I made a good impression on the casting people, which means they'll consider me again for other roles.
Sorry that it's not the cool narrative style I wanted to use for the report, but I gotta work on Just A Geek so I can turn it in by the end of the month.
It rules the MOST that so many people shared encouragement and stuff, and I wish I had something more definitive to report . . . but this not-knowing is a BIG part of being an actor, so you get to share that with me instead. I'll post more details when I have them. :)
Yesterday, I taped another Best Week Ever, which will air this Friday. I had a wonderful time. I made myself laugh, and I made everyone else at the taping laugh. I really hope that I get to be a more regular part of that show, because it's so much fun.
But check out This totally cool thing that happened in the parking garage when I was waiting for the elevator:
I gave my ID to the security guard and told him I was going to tape Best Week Ever. While he signed me in, the elevator doors opened, and a really cute girl walked out. (I only mention that she was really cute because . . . let's face it, I'm a guy, and guys notice these things.)
She looked right at me and said, "I love your website." She said it simply, and matter-of-factly,
I felt like I'd just won a million dollars, man. I didn't even know what to say, so I just said, "Thank you so much!"
She walked past me and the security guard, and disappeared into the garage.
I felt like I was in this bubble of joy, where the rest of the world didn't exist. She didn't say that she liked this movie I did twenty years ago, or this TV show that I did fifteen years ago. She didn't even say "You know, I don't think Python sucked that bad . . ." She said that she loved my website, this thing that I'm doing now. Like I mentioned last week, I haven't done much in the acting world over the last few years that I'm proud of . . . but I'm very proud of my website.
Is it okay to say that? I don't want to come off as a dick, and I'm keenly aware of the Pride coming before the Fall . . . but I really do like what I've been able to do here.
My whole life I wanted to write, but I never did because I thought I was supposed to be an actor. But every morning, I get up, drink way too much coffee, and spend the next three or four hours doing what I love: I work on Just A Geek, or I write something for my website, or something for ACME . . . most of the stuff I write I don't even publish. I just do it so I write every day . . . and it rules. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's utter crap, most of the time it's just sort of there . . . but it's mine, and when that girl said that she loved my website, I felt like I could own the joy her comments brought me, because what you read here is really me. I'm not playing a character, or trying to make a shitty script into something worth watching . . . I'm creating images and recreating scenes from my life, without a director or a producer or a studio getting between what I want to create and what the audience gets to see.
If I stare at this much longer, I'm going to lose my nerve and not publish it, so I'll just say: If I wasn't writing, I'd be a nervous wreck right now, waiting for feedback from that audition, and freaking out about why they aren't calling back . . . but I've got other stuff going on now.
A few days ago, I bought the 2004 Writer's Market, because I'm going to face my fears of rejection and see if some magazines or anthologies are interested in publishing some of my stories. I never would have even dreamed about doing that last year, but you guys who read this site have given me so much support and encouragement, and O'Reilly is so excited about Dancing Barefoot, it seems like the risk is justified. I don't want to get too excited about stuff that hasn't happened yet, but I'm happy right now.
I guess that's what this post is about: I'm really happy right now. It feels like some of the risks I've taken in the last few years are starting to pay off, and I wanted to share that with anyone who reads WWdN, because without you guys, none of this would be happening.
Note from Wil: You can read Anne's Previous Entries here and here.
For the past couple of weeks, I've been on an emotional and physical roller coaster. Several times I have wanted to write about how Kris is doing, but there just hasn't been time. The day after my last post I went to see Kris at City of Hope to check on her after her stem cell transplant and meet a friend to donate platelets together.
I walked into Kris's room just minutes after she received her transplant. I had no idea how it was done. But it's just like receiving a blood transfusion. And for some reason, it smells like garlic through your skin. So I walked into a room that smelled like she just enjoyed Chinese food for lunch. Although I like the smell of Chinese food, I'd been fighting off a huge headache all day so it was a little unsettling.
The stem cells they harvested from Kris had been frozen until she finished her chemo and radiation and was ready to receive the transfusion. Then they do a "flash defrost" and donate them back to her. They were able to get two bags of cells from her so that's what they gave back. They were still a little cold and lowered her body temperature one degree and gave her a huge headache, along with a big wave of nausea. But she made it through. Next was the anticipated sickness and pain she was told she would experience because of all the chemo and radiation she got. It was all done so fast that her body wouldn't catch up to it for a few days. Well, it definitely did.
She spent the past two weeks dealing with major stomach and intestinal issues. Her mouth, throat, stomach and intestines were full of open sores. Her tongue looked like it had been badly burned; almost like parts of it were missing. She could barely open her mouth to talk. She was losing the hair she had been growing back. It was terrible to see her going through all this. But she remained optimistic. Always asking me how our training was going. How the donations were. Making plans to come to San Diego to see us cross the finish line.
While Kris was dealing with all this, I wanted to continue to do everything I could to help. I went in to donate platelets to her the day of her transfusion. Unfortunately, my huge headache stood in the way of them wanting to do it. They told me that if I already didn't feel that well, I'd only feel worse afterwards, so I should just reschedule. I was really disappointed, but I was feeling a bit nauseaus because of my headache, so that was probably the best decision. I rescheduled for that Wednesday.
I was very excited to show up for my appointment. My headache was gone and I was feeling great. They took blood from my left arm to make sure my iron level was alright, then hooked me up on my right arm. If you've never done this before, (that would be me) the needle is attached to a tube that's split in half. The blood comes out in one tube, goes through a machine to separate the platelets, then goes back into you in the other tube. It's amazing to me that they've figured out how to do this. Kris said this is the same way they got her stem cells. I asked the nurse why they can't just do the same thing to separate the cancer out of the blood. She said it really is amazing how far they've come in research, but at the same time be so limited. I told her we were doing this marathon to raise money for research. She thought it was a great idea and that stem cell research really needed more attention. I agreed.
I got started donating platelets, even asking the nurse to take my picture for the website. But about 15 minutes into it, my vein wasn't too happy with the pressure of the blood coming back in. It was causing a big lump and the needle had to be removed. They would try on my left arm. They had commented after my blood test that I was a great candidate for donating platelets (average count is 150 to 350, mine was 358). Unfortuately, those great platelets were making it impossible for them to go back into my left arm vein for anything. So again, I had to reschedule. But it had to be at least five days away because I would have big time bruising (boy were they right about that!). My next try would have me hooked up with both arms. One side to take the blood, the other side to receive it back. I was bummed, but determined to help Kris, so I came back five days later.
Again, I showed up. Excited to help, a little nervous that it wouldn't work. But I figured it would all be fine. I filled out the wierd questionairre again ("have you had sex with a man who's had sex with another drug using man since 1977?" What? Yea, I was in second grade in 1977. But I know they have to be cautious.). The nurses recognized me because now I was on round three. They hooked me up on my right arm to receive the blood back. Then, they hooked up my left arm to take the blood. Everything was good! Veins were looking great! Just start the machine!
Immediately, the machine beeped: "access point pressure low".
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"It means the machine is having a hard time sucking the blood from your vein." She called another nurse over to fidget with the needle and see if it would change. It beeped again. She moved the needle around again. More beeping. She decided to pull the needle part way out and re-stick my vein. Well, the first four times she did this, it was alright, but after the fifth and sixth time, it was really hurting. I didn't want to complain. After all, what's a little bruising compared to what Kris is going through?
"Your veins just don't want to do this." the nurse said. "It's more common in women than men. You just can't donate platelets. Sorry." She sent me on my way with an icepack for the HUGE lump and bruise I would grow over the next hour. So again, vein failure.
Fortunately, my friend Amy, who I met through this whole marathon experience, has successfully donated platelets, and had several friends do the same. So even though it didn't come directly from me, Kris still got her much needed platelets. Thanks Amy!
So I've been walking like crazy (when it's not raining), and visiting Kris as much as possible. I talked to Kris on the phone Monday since I couldn't get in to see her. She said they had taken her off of one of her medications, and may take her off another one on Tuesday. The thing is, Kris has been hooked up to a million tubes and bags. Actually, more like eight or so. So weaning her off all those things was a good sign. Her white cell count was going up. That meant she was able to fight off infection. She was really worried about getting pneumonia. (Her friend went through the same ordeal a year and a half ago. She even donated platelets for him. He made it through all of his treatment and his transplant. Unfortunately, he got chemical pneumonia from the radiation and died.) She made sure she got lung plates to cover her lungs during her radiation. So I'm sure that won't be a problem for her. She said her doctor was hoping to have her home by the weekend! I was so excited for her, and very motivated. I walked fifteen miles over the past two days, constantly thinking about how great it will be for Kris to be home.
I was out running errands today when I called Kris's cell phone. She always leaves it on, right next to her bed. It rang and rang, then the voice mail picked up.
"It's me. I'm out running errands and I wanted to come by and visit. Just wanted to call and make sure you're feeling ok before I come in. Call me back!"
Kris has been feeling pretty pukey, so I didn't want to show up if that was going on. She has wanted me to call her first in case she wasn't up for visitors.
About five minutes later, my phone rang. It was Kris.
"I didn't answer my phone because I was talking to my doctor." She said.
"Oh? And what does your doctor have to say?" I asked.
"He said I can go home at 4:00!"
"Today?" I yelled. "Oh my god! I can't believe you can go home!!"
Her white count was up. She was off all her medication. No more pukey. She was ready to go home.
"Does Taylor know?" I asked. (that's her son).
"NO! I called you as soon as the doctor left!"
She made it.
She's going home.
I am so happy. So happy I went out and walked two more miles.
I called her at home a few minutes ago. The radiation caused blisters on her hands and feet. It hurts her feet to walk. But she's walking in her own house.
All the great emails and mojo worked. Her positive outlook definitely got her through this much quicker than I ever thought. I can't wait to go see her at home tomorrow.
Thank you so much for all of your support. I know it made all the difference!
If you just felt a huge disturbance in The Force, that was me checking my e-mail and sending out an Akira-like Neo-Tokyo-destroying mental explosion of joy.
This is really happening!
For Immediate Release
For more information, a review copy, cover art, or an interview with
the author, contact:
Kathryn Barrett (707) 827-7094 or kathrynb@oreilly.com
Geek + Blogger + Actor = Author Wil Wheaton
O'Reilly Releases "Dancing Barefoot"Sebastopol, CA--Not all geeks are into sci-fi, and not all sci-fi fans are geeks, but there's enough of a crossover to explain the appeal of Wil Wheaton -- self-proclaimed geek, blogger, and former ensign Wesley Crusher on "Star Trek: The Next Generation." Even non-sci-fi fans have been drawn to the candid, highly personal, and occasionally opinionated account of his life that Wheaton offers on his blog at www.wilwheaton.net. The reason? While it's true that in the grand scheme of things, the reflections and musings of the typical blogger-geek-actor-turned-book-author are not expected to be momentous, Wheaton writes with an honesty and disarming humanity that resonates with geeks and non-geeks alike.
In his book "Dancing Barefoot" (O'Reilly, US $14.95), Wheaton offers a collection of five short but true stories about life in the so-called space age. Based on pieces first published in his blog, the stories in "Dancing Barefoot" chronicle a teen TV star's journey to maturity and self-acceptance. Far from the usual celebrity tell-all, the book is a vivid account of one man's version of that universal story--the search for self. If you've ever fallen in love, wondered what goes on behind the scenes at a Star Trek convention, or thought hard about the meaning of life, you'll find a kindred soul in the pages of "Dancing Barefoot." In the process of uncovering his true geek self, Wil Wheaton speaks to the inner geek in all of us.
Like many authors, Wheaton hadn't considered writing a book until the idea was suggested to him, and even then he resisted. As he explains, "I sort of know Dan Perkins, who draws 'This Modern World.' I linked to one of his brilliant comics on my web site, and he emailed me about it. We exchanged several notes over a few months, and one day he said, 'You ought to write a book about your experiences.'
"I never considered myself a writer, and told him that. Dan pointed out that I'd been writing for my weblog almost daily. This fact sat in my brain for a long time, and I did everything I could to ignore it." In spite of his intentions, many visitors to his site encouraged Wheaton to write a book, and the suggestion became harder to disregard. He finally decided to collect a year's worth of blog entries from WWdN (Wil Wheaton dot Net) and publish it. "I figured I'd sell ten, maybe even fifteen of them at a Star Trek convention or something," says Wheaton.
"I cut and pasted the web site for a few days, and then wrote some behind the scenes stuff to tie all the weblog ideas together, narrative-style," Wheaton recalls. "In my head, I heard some strange voice -- it was like Danny Stern's 'Wonder Years' VO meets the 'Behind the Music' guy.
"I worked on that for about a week, and I had about 50,000 words. I realized that there was sort of a character arc in there, where 'Wil' went on this quest to cast off Wesley Crusher and find out exactly who he was. A few weeks later, I had several hundred thousand words, and it was looking like a freakin' phone book. My friend Andrew said, 'Don't put all your best work in your first book.' It was very good advice, and I cut out a bunch of stories that I liked, but weren't central to the story. Those stories became 'Dancing Barefoot.'"
The five stories in "Dancing Barefoot" are:
Houses in Motion--Memories fill the emptiness left within a childhood
home, and saying goodbye brings them to life.Ready Or Not Here I Come--A game of hide-n-seek with the kids works as a
time machine, taking Wil on a tour of the hiding and seeking of years gone by.Inferno--Two fifteen-year-olds pass in the night leaving behind pleasant
memories and a perfumed Car Wars Deluxe Edition Box Set.We Close Our Eyes--A few beautiful moments spent dancing in the rain.
The Saga of SpongeBob VegasPants--A story of love, hate, laughter, and the
acceptance of all things Trek.First self-published by Wheaton in May 2003, available only on the Internet and in select independent bookstores, "Dancing Barefoot" quickly sold out of its first run of 3,000. Wheaton's next, longer work, "Just a Geek" will be released in early summer 2004.
Praise for "Dancing Barefoot":
"I just put down Dancing Barefoot. Simply put, it was terrific. If you are a fan of Wil's Weblog, WWdN, then you will love this book. It's only 117 pages from cover to cover, but it is definitely worth getting...I really want to talk about the stories a lot more, but I think it would be cruel to take away anyone's chance to read it for themselves. I give the weblog 4 spuds out of 4. Enjoy!"
--Mitch Malone, BananasOnToast.org, December 2003
http://www.bananasontoast.org/archives/000124.htmlFurther reviews can be found at:
http://www.oreilly.com/catalog/barefoot/reviews.htmlAdditional Resources:
For more information about the book, including table of contents, index,
author bio, and samples, see:
http://www.oreilly.com/catalog/barefoot/For a cover graphic in JPEG format, go to:
ftp://ftp.ora.com/pub/graphics/book_covers/hi-res/0596006748.jpgDancing Barefoot
Wil Wheaton
ISBN 0-596-00674-8, 115 pages, $14.95 US, $21.95 CA
order@oreilly.com
1-800-998-9938
1-707-827-7000
http://www.oreilly.comAbout O'Reilly
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Tonight, I'm giving a talk to the San Gabriel Valley Linux User's Group about weblogging. I'm focusing my talk on Movable Type (because that's what I use) and Six Apart's fantastic hosted service, TypePad.
I'm doing some homework, and I just came across this gallery of really beautiful pictures in someone's blog.
I thought, "Wow. That's really cool. I bet WWdN would like that."
So there you go.
Que la paz prevalezca en la tierra.
(image and link via boingboing)
This morning over breakfast, I said to my wife, "Happy π day!"
"Happy pie day? What the hell are you talking about?"
"No, not 'pie'," I said. "'π'."
"Not 'pie,' but 'pie.'" She was clearly not amused. "Isn't it a little early to be drinking?"
"Anne, look at the date on the calendar."
"Yes it's march 14th, and you're going to watch WrestleMania dos equis* with your brother." She frowned. "Are you trying to tell me that you're taking a pie to Jeremy's house? Because if you expect me to make you a pie . . ."
"No, I don't expect you to make me a pie." I said, well into that area where you've explained the joke so much, it's never going to be funny.
"Today is March fourteenth. That makes it 3.14 on the calendar. 3.14 is also known as π."
She blinked a few times.
"Oh. It's π day."
"Yes!" I said. "And at 1:59 pm, it will be even more π day. Isn't that cool!?"
She took a long, thoughtful drink from her coffee mug, carefully set it down and said, "You are such a nerd."
Yesterday, I had more fun watching Wrestlemania dos equis than I thought possible. I haven't followed WWE since it was WWF, but thanks to some Cliffs notes from my brother, I was able to pick up right where I left off.
The whole show was surprisingly exciting, with the notable exception of the Goldberg vs. Brock Lesner match, which was quite possibly the most boring match I've ever seen in my life. And I used to watch WCW, so that's saying something.
I still remember watching Wrestlemania uno, while my 90 pound, 11 year-old body quaked with Hulkamania, so there was some nostalgia value wrapped up in yesterday's event, too.
An incomplete list of highlights for me, in no particular order:
- Return of the Classic Undertaker. That new, "I'm on Harley" Undertaker was the suckiest bunch of sucks that ever sucked.
- Three words: Evening. Gown. Match.
- That "Dragon" Cruiserweight guy who kept falling down. That was priceless comedy.
- Bobby The
BrainWeasel Heenan an Mean Gene doing something behind the green door with Mona. That was hilarious. - The Triple-Threat title match -- one of the best PPV matches I've ever seen. Not quite sure if I'd rank it with the '98 SS Hell in a Cell, but still pretty damn fun to watch.
- Spending four hours with my brother, totally acting like dorks, and cheering like we believed it was real.
Everyone involved with WWE should be very proud of themselves. The commentators, the writers, Vince McMahon, and especially the performers put on a fantastically entertaining event. Now I'm sort of excited for Backlash.
The Dancing Barefoot publicity explosion officially begins today!
Well, tonight, to be more specific.
At 7PM PST, I'm going to be on a show called The David Lawrence Show to talk about
. . . acting, screaming Japanese girls, writing, screaming German girls, blogging, wedded bliss, belligerent Klingon fans, improv at ACME, Star Trek, open source and more; we take your calls at 1-888-488-DAVID, your emails at david@onlinetonight.net and instant messages at screen name Lawrence on America Online on anything you want to talk about.
You can listen live online, but it looks like they make you sign up for this bitpass thing. The good part is I think it costs 25 cents to listen for an hour. The bad part is, you have to sign up for this bitpass thing.
Update: Ana points out in the comments that KBNP in Portland simulcasts the show live, and they have a stream at their site that you can listen to. It's annoying .wmv format, but it's free. If anyone else finds other live stations, leave it in the comments, won't you? You'll be glad you did.
Update Two: Electric Boogaloo: David Lawrence himself says:
Some listening notes: we're heard live in 55 markets, including Phoenix, Boston, Detroit, Phildelphia, Portland, Denver, Dallas, Minneapolis, Jacksonville and more, and we're on both satellite radio networks (on XM, we're on Extreme XM, Channel 152, and on Sirius, we're on Talk Central, Stream 144)Wil's hour will also be repeated on both satellite channels (and on several of our stations that carry the first hour repeated) at 10p PT.
You can also listen, for free, online to the streams of several of our radio affiliates. Most people listen to KBNP in Portland, Oregon - www.kbnp.com. The BitPass is there only for downloading the show after the fact, and it's 25c for the 9 meg MP3 file for Wil's hour, and 50c for the 30 meg file of the whole 3 hour show.
BitPass rocks, by the way. They've really made micropayments (and macropayments, actually) a snap.
The toll free number to call in with questions at 7p PT is 888-488-DAVID (888-488-3284), and the lines fill up quickly when I announce the number, so set a reminder, and we'll see you tonight!
The show is also broadcast live into a few radio markets. Check the site for details.
Tune in, if you can. It would be sofakingcool if WWdN readers called in tonight.
The David Lawrence Show was quite possibly the greatest 3 hour radio interview I've ever done. Seriously. It was AWESOME.
David and Lili did an outstanding job of making me feel welcome. I felt like David and I had fantastic give and take, and he'd actually read my book! All the other shows I do have a pretty high standard to live up to, now.
David asked me if I'd come back another time, so we can talk about other stuff, and I agreed. I think we could have some awesome conversations.
When I drove home, I checked XM 152, and my interview was being rebroadcast. It was very weird to hear myself just a few hours ago, because I could still visualize the studio, but I'd already forgotten what I said -- that's a great thing, because when I can't remember what I talked about, or I can't clearly remember what happened during any sort of performance, it means that I was totally focused and "in the moment," as Meisner would say.
This was the first official O'Reilly-version interview to support Dancing Barefoot, and it could not have gone any better. Thank you, David Lawrence, for putting me at ease, and guiding me though an amazing interview. I can't wait to do it again.
And thank you also to everyone who tuned in, or sent IMs and e-mails, and stuff. Thank you for continuing to be part of this amazing . . . thing.
Programming note: If you're in Seattle, you can hear me on the Bob Harris Rivers* Show on KZOK 102.5 radio at 8:40 tomorrow morning (That's Tuesday)
*Too much Lost In Translation. Sorry, Bob.
UPDATE: As of 0725 PST on March 16, Dancing Barefoot is ranked 480 at Amazon.com.
Holy.
Crap.
Of all the books they carry, it's at 480. It was in the 3,000 area just a couple of days ago.
This is just amazing, and I'm positive that my appearance on the David Lawrence Show last night contributed to this.
And on that "It's better together" thing? It's "better" with Neverwhere!!! NEVERWHERE!!
ROCK! \m/
Good advice from Iggy, via Tao of Poker:
My three little low-limit online tips:
- Other players bad play will make me far more money than my fancy or brilliant plays.
- The guy that leads with a bet on the turn after not betting previously, typically has a big hand.
- Folding costs me nothing pre-flop. If it's a close decision, I can't go far wrong by folding.
If you're as big a fan of Homestarrunner as I am, you're anxiously awaiting Strong Bad E-mail number 100.
Yesterday at TotalFark (the best 5 bucks you'll spend in any month), I found the Not The 100th Email.
UPDATE: Mars pointed out that The Real ahundred e-mail was just released.
On a scale of 1 to 10, I give it Totally Awesome.
Check it out, then celebrate with a Kick The Cheat The Cheat plush toy.
There are few things I look forward to as much as working on Teen Titans. It's fun, it's relatively easy, and it's incredibly satisfying. I've had such a great time doing it, and I had such a great time when I voiced several characters for the Xbox port of Crimson Skies, I've been making a sacrifice to the voice over gods nighty, and wishing for more VO work.
Today, I get my wish. (Which is a good thing, because all those frozen weasels were getting expensive.)Walt Disney Television Animation came to my voice over agent last week, and requested me for a new show they're doing called -- get this -- Super Robot Monkey Team Hyperforce Go!
It reads like a crazy anime-styled show for younger kids, and I get to play "Skurg" the evil leader of a Soturix 7, who wears armor of bone.
Heh. It's going to be a lot of fun.
In Dancing Barefoot news, I watched it climb Amazon's charts yesterday, peaking at 188 (!) around midnight when I went to bed. I hear that it went all the way up to 177 after I went to bed. Right now, it's at 210, with an average review of 4.5 stars!!! I am deeply grateful to everyone who has made this happen.
I've got a Saint Patrick's Day story up at the old Cult of the One Eyed Cat
Here's a taste:
I was well into my fifth Guinness when I saw the leprechaun. He sat at the edge of the bar, gazing sadly at something in his wee hand.I looked around the pub. Nobody else seemed to notice him, so I casually stood up, held onto the bar for balance, and moved to the seat next to him.
"Excuse me," I said, "but are you a leprechaun?
He quickly closed his wee hand into a wee fist, and looked up at me. In a wee voice he said, "Aye, laddie. Me name's O'Malley."
I looked around again. It was only ten in the morning, so the only other people in the bar were three professional drunks and the barkeep, who was watching Arsenal beat the crap out of Blackburn on the TV.
"Can anyone else see you?" I said.
He sighed a wee sigh. "There used to be a time when the whole world could see me. But now, I'm only visible to people who are drinking Guinness."
BUT! Before you read mine, you simply must read Kathleen's How to Survive a Pub Crawl with Real Irishmen:
St. Patrick's Day is almost upon us. It's a glorious holiday, filled with song, dance, green beer, and even greener vomit. Many of you have plans to celebrate this fantastic holiday by driving the snakes out of Ireland, or wearing a shamrock to signify your solidarity with the Irish people. Or, like most of us, you're planning to get so drunk that you forget you have opposable thumbs.But if you're up for a real challenge, something that will require you to gather all the strength, courage, and liver fortitude you can muster, we've got you covered. We give you: the guide to surviving a pub crawl with real Irishmen.
Oh, and I just want to add one editorial comment for everyone out drinking today: putting green dye into Corona doesn't make it IRISH, you fokkin' bastards. Hoist a pint of Guinness, or get the hell out of my bar.
Poker Blogger Grubette (inventor the The Hammer Challenge) sent me this informative and hilarious breakdown of poker players as Star Trek aliens:
Alien race #1: The Klingons. Even people who don't like Star Trek have heard of the Klingons, those ferocious warriors whose foreheads grew considerably lumpier in the interim between the original Star Trek show and Next Generation.The Klingons represent the ultimate in aggression and courage, two traits that grow more and more important to success the higher you go up the poker ladder (that is, as the opposition grows tougher or the stakes get higher). The Klingon saying, "Today is a good day to die," doesn't mean they have a death wish. It means that they aren't going to let the fear of death interfere with their best efforts as a warrior.
As a poker player, you're constantly faced with situations that generate fear: surprises, famous opponents, the huge payoffs that get close as you advance far into a big tournament, and more. How you face that fear will have a lot to say about how successful you become. You can't play poker scared. You can't be worried that your opponent always has the best possible hand, or that a Famous Player is so much better than you that you have no chance.
He also covers Betazoids, Romulans, Vulcans . . . even the Borg make an appearance.
Anne worked late tonight, and I was too lazy to cook dinner, so I took the kids to a local hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint where we all love to eat. Especially when it means an opportunity to get away from "all that stupid healthfood" I like to cook (according to Nolan).
Ryan told me about a debate he had in school about media, and how media influences people, especially children. I realize that I'm not the most impartial observer here, but I was very impressed with the clarity of his arguments, and his responses to my challenges. In the end, we decided that media is a big influence in kid's lives, but so are their parents (or at least, they should be.)
Nolan tuned us out most of dinner, and watched the NCAA tournament on a TV that hangs in the back of the restaurant, but he did add, "I think that kids want to be cool, and they see these people on MTV, like Outkast and Britney Spears, and the kids see how much attention they are getting, so they want to be like them. So the kids can think they're cool."
Like I said, I'm not the most impartial observer here, but I was impressed again by the depth of his thinking.
On the way to the car after dinner, Ryan said, "Hey, Wil, can we go . . . somewhere?"
"Somewhere? What do you mean?"
"I mean, anywhere that's not home. I just want to hang out."
"Yeah," Nolan said, "I want to just hang out, too."
I thought for a second about where we could go to just hang out. Before I could answer, Ryan said, "Hey! Why don't we go home and play D&D?!"
I winced. "Oh man, I would love to do that, but I have been working so much, I haven't had time to finish the adventure. I'll work on it over the weekend, I promise."
"Are you working a lot, now?" Nolan asked.
"Yeah, I guess I am." The answer surprised me. "I'm on a deadline for Just A Geek, and I'm doing publicity for Dancing Barefoot . Plus, I got a job writing a monthly column for a magazine, and a bi-monthly column for another one."
"Wow. That's a lot of work," he said.
I smiled. "Yeah, it is, isn't it?! I didn't realize that. Plus, this animation thing seems to be picking up."
"That's cool," Nolan said, as we all piled into my car. "Does that mean we get to put air conditioning in our house?"
We've suffered through five brutal summers without A/C, and every time we think we're going to get it, something unexpected comes up, and we buy a 15 dollar fan instead.
"Yeah. I think it does. We'll have to see what the royalties are next quarter." I pulled away from the curb.
"So . . . can we go do something? Ryan said.
"Yes. Yes we can." I said.
"Oh! What?!" He said.
"Yeah! What?!" Nolan said.
"We can . . ." I paused dramatically, "Go to," another pause, "the carwash!"
In unison, they said, "Oh man!"
I laughed. "C'mon! It'll be an event. I haven't washed my car in two months."
Before they could say anything, I dug up the most saccharine voice I could muster and said, "I really want you guys to be part of this."
We all laughed, and turned up XM. It was Rush played "Limelight" on Top Tracks.
"What the hel-- er, heck is this?" Ryan said.
I affected a gasp. "Ryan, it's RUSH! Your mom hates Rush, so whenever she's not in the car, I crank it up."
And I did. I cranked it up, and sang:
"Living in the limelight
The universal dream
For those who wish to seem
Those who wish to be
Must put aside the alienation,
Get on with the fascination,
The real relation,
The underlying theme."
Then there was much air guitar, and drumming on my dashboard.
In a dry voice, Ryan said, "Yeah, you see, this sort of undermines your whole, 'your parents influence you' thing that you said at dinner."
I held up a finger, finished a drum solo, and turned the radio down.
"What do you mean?" I said.
"I mean . . ." he paused. I looked over at him and saw his brow furrow. "I mean, kids at school tell me I'm funny, and my teachers tell me I'm a good writer. I obviously get that from you."
He said it with total nonchalance, like it was just an accepted fact.
It took every ounce of self-control I have in my body and soul to not burst into tears. Ryan's never told me that he gets anything from me. For most of our life together, there's been an unspoken distance, a gap that I didn't open, but could only be closed by him. In that moment, Ryan built a bridge. I don't know how long it will stay there, but I intend to cross it every chance I get.
"Wil?"
"What?"
"Did you hear me?"
Of course, I was off in the magic land of Stepparentia, and I did not.
"Sorry, I was . . . thinking about something," I said. "Tell me again."
"I said that I obviously get my musical tastes from my mom. Except for the emo stuff that you like, and Cake." He frowned. "Okay, so maybe I just get my 80s musical tastes from my mom." He frowned again. "Okay, what I mean is, I have gotten a lot of influences from both of you."
From both of you.
I nodded my head, and swallowed around the lump in my throat. "I think I get it."
"Hey, when this song is over, can I put in a CD?" He said.
"Yeah! Put in a CD!" Nolan said.
I looked back at him in the rearview mirror. "Sorry, Wil," he said, "but Rush sucks."
I chuckled. "You are totally your mother's son."
The song ended, and Ryan put Comfort Eagle into the CD player. He skipped ahead to the title track, and the three of us sang along together.
"He is in the music business
He is calling you DUDE!"
We pulled into the Chevron station where the carwash is located.
"I'll be right back, you guys." I hopped out of the car, and ran in to buy my ticket.
I wish I could hear the attendant tell the story of the guy who came in tonight and wiped tears from his eyes while he ordered "The Works."
I had the best time ever when I recorded Super Robot Monkey Team Hyper Force Go.
I got there a few minutes ahead of my call, because it's the first time I've ever worked for Walt Disney Feature Animation, and there was a ton of paperwork to fill out.
Filling out the forms was a challenge, because I kept losing my focus when I'd hear the voice of Brain, as in "Pinky and the" come out of the guy sitting across from me. Then there was the jaw-droopingly beautiful Tia Carrere, who positively floated into the lobby to work on Lilo and Stitch.
The fact is, the lobby at that studio was filled with a "who's who" of voice talent, and I was just stunned that I got to be around them.
I got my forms filled out, signed in for the session, and sat there, breathing deeply and repeating to myself, over and over again, "Don't go fanboy. Don't go fanboy. Don't go fanboy. Don't go fanboy."
By the time I was called into my session, I was (more or less) calmed down. Well, as calm as one would expect, given the circumstances.
I walked down a long hallway, and into the recording studio. It looked just like you'd expect: Two engineers sat at a huge desk covered with dials and faders, a producer sat on a small couch, and another producer sat near him at a table covered with pages from the script, character drawings, and a sweating can of Diet Coke. The whole room is dominated by a large glass window that looks into the sound booth, which is empty except for a music stand, headphones, and microphone.
When I walked in, I shook hands with the producers, who introduced me to the actor who had just finished. You wouldn't know his name, but you'd sure know his voice! He said to me, "It's great to meet you! I've been seeing your name all over town."
"In a good way?" I said.
"Yeah! You're on voice sheets all over the place. What have you been working on?"
"Well, I'm Aqualad on Teen Titans . . . "
He snapped his fingers. "Yes! That's it! I was just over there. Man, they love you!"
I had to bite down on my lip to prevent a Howard Dean Scream from escaping. I smiled, and hoped nobody noticed my trembling hands.
"That is so cool!"
One of the producers said, "Did you see the Master of Games episode that was just on?"
"Oh, you mean the one where Aqualad gets punked by Speedy?" I said with a laugh. "No, I was out at a show the night it was on. But I think they're sending me a tape."
He laughed along with me. "That was my episode."
Uh-oh. Did I just piss him off?
I tried to save it with a joke. "Why you gotta be hating on Aqualad?"
"It was part of setting up Speedy," he said, "but I tried to make Aqualad as scary and tough and cool as possible."
"Rock." I said, and threw a little, mini-goat by my waist. I noticed that my pinky was still shaking, so I put it down quickly.
"Well, I've got to get out of here," the actor said. "It was great to meet you!"
"You too," I said.
The producer called me over to his table, and showed me the character sketches. He gave me a run down on the show, and then he said, "I really like your voice, so just do whatever you want to do with this."
"Really? Cool!!"
"Yeah. When Disney asked me who I wanted to play this role, I told them to get you, because I knew you as Aqualad."
This is where I would have done a backflip, just like Todd Bridges on Diff'rent Strokes, if I was able to do that sort of thing. See, until he said that, I didn't know why I'd gotten this job. I thought it may have been because I used to be on Star Trek, or because I was a minor celebrity, or something like that. Those are okay reasons to get a job, I guess, but he just told me that I earned this job because of my work on Teen Titans,and that's the greatest feeling in the world.
"Gosh, thanks, man. That's so cool! I hope I don't disappoint you."
The session director, a young woman who immediately puts me at ease, tells me that they're ready, so I walk into the booth.
When the door closes behind me, it's like I'm standing in the Cone of Silence. The only sound I hear besides the ringing in my ears is the excited pounding in my heart. On the other side of the glass, I watch the director press a button on top of what looks like a garage door opener. Her mouth moves as she looks at her script. A moment passes, and she looks up at me, expectantly.
I realize that, in my excitement, I've forgotten to put on my headphones. Whoops.
"I guess I can hear you better with these on," I say with a laugh, and they laugh back.
The producer and director talk a little bit about the character, and give me incredible creative freedom to play around with different voices.
This is the most amazing thing in the world. I can feel their confidence in me, and it creates twice as much confidence in myself. I feel like I can do no wrong, so I clench my hands into fists, grit my teeth, tense up my whole body, and deliver some lines into the mic in this voice that I think sounds kind of cool.
"Hold on, Wil." She says, and turns to the producer. Her thumb slips off the "talk" button, and all now I can see them talking, but I can't hear a thing they're saying. Judging by their body language, they're happy. There's a lot of nodding and smiling.
Wow. This rules!
I watch as the director nods vigorously, and thumbs the "talk" button. "That's fantastic, Wil," she says, "Let's record this."
What? I hit it on my first try? Really?! Cool!
This is the same thing that happens when I work on Titans: all the people involved, from the producers to the director to the actors, are super supportive, and encourage a creative environment, so I feel comfortable taking huge risks and playing characters that I'd never try on my own. I know it probably seems like it would always be like this, and maybe it is in the voice over world, but for the past several years, the bulk of my on-camera "acting" has been in auditions where that supportive, creative environment simply doesn't exist.
We roll tape, and start recording. After most of my lines, I watch through the glass as the producers and the director talk with each other. I can tell that they're happy with what I'm doing, and my spirits just soar. I totally haven't let them down, and a few times, the producer talks to me himself. "That's just awesome, Wil," he says, "That was really, really cool."
Man, I wish I could do that backflip. This is really fun.
I only have 17 lines in this show, plus some crowd voices, a few random kids, and stuff like that, so I'm finished in less than an hour. When I take my headphones off, and step back into the Cone of Silence, I understand why so many people work so hard to make it into the voice acting world, and how lucky I am to be here.
When I walk out of the recording booth, one of the producers, who has been sitting on the far side of the room with a sketchpad, (either looking at character models to see if the voice I'm doing matches up, or sketching character models based on my voice -- I'm not sure) jumps up and meets me at the door. He extends his hand, and tells me how much he liked what I did, and says, several times, "We're going to have you back. We're going to work with you again."
I try to remain professional, but I can't completely contain my enthusiasm. I tell them how much fun I had, and that I hope to come back for more shows in the future. They all assure me that I will.
I'm almost finished with my first *real* rewrite of Just A Geek. I'm right up to just about the end, when I found out that I got cut from Nemesis, and how I dealt with it. After that, there's really just two brief chapters to clean up (mostly cutting a LOT of stuff out, plus some minor rewriting) before I write a whole new chapter that talks about Dancing Barefoot, and some of the stuff that's happened since I finished the first draft of Just A Geek over a year ago.
It looks like I'm going to make my April 2 deadline! w00t!
So. I am a little fuzzy on some stuff, and I've been reading lots of old comment threads, to help jog my memory. I noticed a TON of comment spam in some of the old stuff, so I was manually deleting some things . . . and I just now came across an entry that I started, marked as a "draft" and never finished.
I have no idea what story I was going to tell here, but I thought it was kind of cool. An "unfinished symphony," if I may be so bold.
It looks like I wrote this on June 21, 2002, at 11PM. It's untitled.
Growing up, we never had very much.We were poor white trash from The Valley, but my parents never let us know that. They never once made us aware of precisely how little we had, or how many sacrifices they must have made just to give my brother, sister and me birthday and Christmas presents.
I lived in a small and very unassuming house in the northeastern San Fernando valley community called Sunland/Tujunga. Back in the late 70s and early to mid 80s, our claim to fame was being a regular location for the hit TV series CHiPs.
Around 1982, one of the numerous times CHiPs was filming in our neighborhood, the kid next door (Steven, who was always putting his hand in his pants) rode his Huffy over The Big Hill, went over to the set, and returned with autographed photos of Larry "John Baker" Wilcox and Erik "Ponch" Estrada. Steven's sister Tina was a few years older than we were and she was quite taken with Ponch. So I sold my autographed picture of Ponch to her for 5 bucks.
I guess 5 bucks had become synonymous with real wealth in my young mind, since it was the value of my precious Death Star, and I felt great pride shaking down Tina, extorting 5 glorious dollars from her in exchange for the picture that I didn't care about having, anyway.
That 5 bucks went into a fund, which eventually was used to purchase an Atari 2600 at KMART. It came with Combat and 2 joystick controllers, and Invisible Tank Pong with the most walls remains one of my favorite games to this day.
I tell you this because I've just been hit with a painfully lucid memory of being 10 years old, sitting on the shag carpeting of our family's den in Sunland, playing that Atari 2600.
That memory was brought on when I was sitting here, just an hour ago, playing Circus Atari on an Atari 2600 emulator.
I loved Circus Atari, but we didn't have it, because playing it required the purchase of paddle controllers, which my parents just couldn't afford.
But Kent Purser, one of The Cool Kids, had Circus Atari, and I always hoped for the casual invitation to come to his house on the weekend, and play it with him...
Maybe I was going to talk about Atari? Or how I never fit in with the cool kids? I can't recall if I was invited to Kent's house or not. I *do* remember an invite to this kid Steven's house to watch Jaws on Beta, where the Cool Kids a