Work. Lots of work. Pain. Lots of pain. The two seem to go together more and more often with every passing year.
It's been fifteen years of The Suck. At any point along the timeline of my service to The Suck you could have found me wanting to quit and yet here I am fifteen years later. How? Why? What? Or there're the alternates to this: Dammit! How the Fuck did this happen? Goddammit! Why the fuck did this happen? and Fucking goddammit sonofabitch! What the fuck happened?
I have a very bad and persistent case of tendonitis in my right elbow and my right knee is starting to show signs of wanting to secede from the rest of my body. At least I still have all of my hair and can ollie a curb and chew my own food. I'm not completely useless just yet. I had the elbow looked at today. It was humbling. A very pretty therapist massaged my forearm (I'm still not sure this was part of the treatment) while asking me questions about work. In the end, she wrapped my arm with a compression sock and applied kinesio tape from my wrist up to my bicep. I'm to stop trying to lift things with my right arm. I'm to stop having anything in my right arm. I am, in short, to stop thinking that I even have a right arm. It must rest. I must ice it throughout the day. I've already had two Cortisone shots, one more and then the only option is surgery. Whacky doctors.
I may be falling apart slowly but surely I am still nimble enough to dodge the wrench, pull the focus, collect the check, and go home to my hot wife and my kids. That's all you really need anyway.
Well, that and some good surf now and again and duck season.
Peace out, bitches.
Monday, April 1, 2013
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
For too long I've been parched of thirst and unable to quench it. Too long I've been starving to death and haven't died. I feel nothing. Not the wind on my face nor the spray of the sea. Nor the warmth of a woman's flesh.
It's 5:30 in the morning and I'm coming apart at the seams. This is not a good thing.
I'm in Spain for work but it feels like I've been kidnapped. We've been down for almost a week. Contracts have changed. Sponsors have dropped out. We have no one to shoot.
I've been trying to keep it together, filling the hours with yoga, weights, running, skateboarding, beer and cigarettes. It's not quite working as I'm beginning to feel the thin veil of sanity that I'm wearing begin to fray. It will tear soon. This is not a good thing.
I've come to realize that among my legion of character defects is the inability to do nothing. Some of the guys on the crew are content with drinking heavily and hitting on whatever woman is unfortunate enough to be near them. Others are diligently working the Interwebs trying to set up next month's jobs. No one is having a good time.
I no longer want to be here. This job is falling apart. I haven't been able to sleep for days now no matter how hard I break myself during the day. Beer? Over it. Smoking? Over it. Skateboarding? Almost over it. Sight seeing? We're not exactly here during the season where anything is actually open. Alicante has been interesting though but...
I'm not on a vacation. If I were on a vacation I'd have my kids here and my wife and I wouldn't be rambling at 5:30 in the morning. I'm here to work. If there's no work then why am I here?
The added fuck you bonus of the whole thing is that The Company is sure to try and renegotiate our contract to reflect a decline in my take home money due to all of our down days. I'm gone all month and I will have made less than had I stayed home? Fuck you. Send me back now.
In theory we have everything set so that in another day or two (please, blessed holy unicorn don't let it be two days!) we will grind straight through until it's time to leave. All I can think of right now is how much I want to be in my bed with Stretch and Ghost sleeping at our feet and the kids in their beds and what do you guys want to do tomorrow?
It's the down time that's fucking killing me. I can't take the nothing.
Peace out, bitches!
Friday, October 19, 2012
Suddenly someone'll say, like, plate, or shrimp, or plate o' shrimp out of the blue, no explanation. No point in lookin' for one, either. It's all part of a cosmic unconciousness.
(There are going to be quite a lot of references, or possibly one, to drunk driving through the streets of LA and I'm not at all interested in dealing with your problems with that. Read on or fuck off and know that I love you in the way that only a disgruntled old LA skate punk can "love" another human being. Mostly just fuck off and read on if you want.)
An old man walks down the street and finds himself in front of what once was a glorious jazz club. He blinks. He remembers. He sees himself as a goddamn golden god of the LA night life. He is a fucking king of the night and the city is his. He blinks again and he wonders if he can pry any of the plywood off the doors of this dilapidated building because if he can he will be young again.
An hour later he is standing in a cavernous room. He is dwarfed and old and grey and blind and probably mostly crazy but he is there. And there is where it's at.
The tables and chairs are covered in dusty white linens. The cheap carpet is worn thin and hard and desperate by the waitstaff's countless rounds. Chandeliers once glorious and stunning are strung into macabre beauty by generations of spider webs. The old man, however, is happy and lost in his memories of big bands as a teen and bebop as a man.
I drive through Los Angeles late at night, after work of course as I'm a family man now, and think about the crevices of this city and my mind. They are entwined. My favorite thing to do while drunk-esque and winding my way home is to listen to the soundtrack to "Repo Man." It's perfect for this type of work, really.
The opening track should be a primer for BEING in LA. Not living here. Not visiting. BEING. Being in LA is a daunting task for most people and I think that's because most people lack the creative juice to BE here. Now. Right now. Wherever you are and whatever you are doing in LA you must, at all times BE here. It's hard, I know, and you came here feeling so entitled to be here so really it should be easier.
But it's not.
That's why LA is my favorite. Sure, native born, remember what what with the who who back in the day. OG, triple OG, gangsta whatnot and so on. Fuck me. I'm just a guy who was lucky enough to be born here so I know nothing but I BE. In LA.
So, I was driving drunk-esque through LA and listening to "Repo Man" and feeling like a king. Why? How? Are you sure that's safe, what, with the two kids and the mortgage and the wife and the career? Go fuck yourself for asking. We do this here more than anyone wants to admit but we're quite good at it so... Anyone who tells you this doesn't happen amongst "polite" society here probably doesn't think matronly women didn't earn their Mardi Gra beads the old fashioned way. Go figure.
When you drive through LA listening to "El Clavo y la Cruz" by The Plugz you realize that you rule, that you get it, that you are LA. I say this because I've loved this song forever and it is LA. Don't believe me? Go listen.
Don't get it? I understand.
There was a point to this but I've lost the thread. No. That's not true. I've hit the point where the beers and tequila are making me not give a shit about explaining this to you.
You get it or you don't at this point. Go watch "Repo Man" right now and watch it knowing that it's a quintessential LA movie, right up there with "Chinatown." Or don't. We don't care. We're all going to fall into the Pacific or Angelina's vampire cleavage so fuck us, right?
Point: I love LA and I love watching the bent obsessions of the legions of star fuckers get dashed upon the rocks of reality in LA.
And I think it's time to get a new job as working in Hollywood for the last 14 years has killed me.
Peace out, bitches!
An old man walks down the street and finds himself in front of what once was a glorious jazz club. He blinks. He remembers. He sees himself as a goddamn golden god of the LA night life. He is a fucking king of the night and the city is his. He blinks again and he wonders if he can pry any of the plywood off the doors of this dilapidated building because if he can he will be young again.
An hour later he is standing in a cavernous room. He is dwarfed and old and grey and blind and probably mostly crazy but he is there. And there is where it's at.
The tables and chairs are covered in dusty white linens. The cheap carpet is worn thin and hard and desperate by the waitstaff's countless rounds. Chandeliers once glorious and stunning are strung into macabre beauty by generations of spider webs. The old man, however, is happy and lost in his memories of big bands as a teen and bebop as a man.
I drive through Los Angeles late at night, after work of course as I'm a family man now, and think about the crevices of this city and my mind. They are entwined. My favorite thing to do while drunk-esque and winding my way home is to listen to the soundtrack to "Repo Man." It's perfect for this type of work, really.
The opening track should be a primer for BEING in LA. Not living here. Not visiting. BEING. Being in LA is a daunting task for most people and I think that's because most people lack the creative juice to BE here. Now. Right now. Wherever you are and whatever you are doing in LA you must, at all times BE here. It's hard, I know, and you came here feeling so entitled to be here so really it should be easier.
But it's not.
That's why LA is my favorite. Sure, native born, remember what what with the who who back in the day. OG, triple OG, gangsta whatnot and so on. Fuck me. I'm just a guy who was lucky enough to be born here so I know nothing but I BE. In LA.
So, I was driving drunk-esque through LA and listening to "Repo Man" and feeling like a king. Why? How? Are you sure that's safe, what, with the two kids and the mortgage and the wife and the career? Go fuck yourself for asking. We do this here more than anyone wants to admit but we're quite good at it so... Anyone who tells you this doesn't happen amongst "polite" society here probably doesn't think matronly women didn't earn their Mardi Gra beads the old fashioned way. Go figure.
When you drive through LA listening to "El Clavo y la Cruz" by The Plugz you realize that you rule, that you get it, that you are LA. I say this because I've loved this song forever and it is LA. Don't believe me? Go listen.
Don't get it? I understand.
There was a point to this but I've lost the thread. No. That's not true. I've hit the point where the beers and tequila are making me not give a shit about explaining this to you.
You get it or you don't at this point. Go watch "Repo Man" right now and watch it knowing that it's a quintessential LA movie, right up there with "Chinatown." Or don't. We don't care. We're all going to fall into the Pacific or Angelina's vampire cleavage so fuck us, right?
Point: I love LA and I love watching the bent obsessions of the legions of star fuckers get dashed upon the rocks of reality in LA.
And I think it's time to get a new job as working in Hollywood for the last 14 years has killed me.
Peace out, bitches!
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Never get out of the boat. Absolutely goddamned right unless you were going to go all the way.
I shouldn't have gotten out of bed today.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Love means never having to say you're sorry. However, it is with sincere regret that I must now kill all of you.
If anyone had told me what percentage of my day would be spent listening to the irrational and piercing cry of one Hellboy I'd have laughed and told them there weren't 28 hours in a day. I'd have been wrong, of course, but the fact remains that no one can ever truly prepare you for the hell that is an infant.
Wrap all of the worst characteristics of your average person into the miniature body of a human. Remove all reason from said sack of loud and unleash it on two people who feel immeasurable quilt at every cry that comes from sack. Add in Geneva-Convention-violating amounts of sleep deprivation. That, my friends, that is having a child.
Notice that diapers made no appearance in that list of horrors? Know why? Because only an idiot thinks that changing diapers is the worst of having an infant in the house. The diaper changing is easy. It has a beginning, middle, and end (pun fully intended). There's a reason behind (ahem) it, some semblance of logic: food goes in, poop comes out, diaper is changed and disposed of, new diaper applied. Would you like the undercoating with that, sir? Perhaps and extended warranty? No? Well then, good day, sir. It makes sense, as a man, the changing of diapers. The screaming, the piercing, incessant, mindless screaming, that does not make sense and that you cannot stop it does not make sense.
Couldn't make them sing, eh, Life?
The only off button is the breast milk but you don't have breast milk. You have breasts and useless nipples and a screaming mound of suck. Why on earth don't men produce breast milk? How hard could that have been, eh, Life? It's further proof that there is no God for if there were Men would have fucking milk producing breasts for those occasions when the little bundle of joy won't shut the fuck up.
Cruel joke, Life.
If anyone tells you that having children is a blessing or the greatest thing you can do with your life or anything else flowery or romantic or ridiculous please run away from them. They are either liars, idiots, or grandparents seeking to ruin your life the way you ruined theirs. Yes, children are amazing but mostly when they are someone else's and don't live at your quite, orderly, clean house. Or they're old enough to walk, talk, and wipe their own asses. This whole infant thing is a horrible blight. How in the hell did we ever make it out of the trees with these little bastards constantly alerting every predator for a mile around that hey, tasty helpless meat right here! Come and get your fresh hominid! Bicameral mind be damned, we're louder than hell and easy to catch!
Stunning, Life.
Hellboy. The very moment you're ready to call it quits the little bastard smiles, drools, and does his new dog trick of rolling over several times. He'll finish with some baby gibberish and all of a sudden you love him. You love him and want to hold him forever and teach him how to track game, shoot a gun, light a fire, drive stick, surf, take a photo, catch a ball, skateboard, read, drink wine, and smoke cigars. You want very desperately for him not to ever get hurt but you know it'll happen and it'll be fine but still...
Nice, Life. Worked in a little safety valve, did ya?
It's all so very much to take in and it comes in such a rush. If anyone had actually told me what it was going to be like it might have been easier but I suppose nothing worth doing is ever really easy.
Peace out, bitches!
Wrap all of the worst characteristics of your average person into the miniature body of a human. Remove all reason from said sack of loud and unleash it on two people who feel immeasurable quilt at every cry that comes from sack. Add in Geneva-Convention-violating amounts of sleep deprivation. That, my friends, that is having a child.
Notice that diapers made no appearance in that list of horrors? Know why? Because only an idiot thinks that changing diapers is the worst of having an infant in the house. The diaper changing is easy. It has a beginning, middle, and end (pun fully intended). There's a reason behind (ahem) it, some semblance of logic: food goes in, poop comes out, diaper is changed and disposed of, new diaper applied. Would you like the undercoating with that, sir? Perhaps and extended warranty? No? Well then, good day, sir. It makes sense, as a man, the changing of diapers. The screaming, the piercing, incessant, mindless screaming, that does not make sense and that you cannot stop it does not make sense.
Couldn't make them sing, eh, Life?
The only off button is the breast milk but you don't have breast milk. You have breasts and useless nipples and a screaming mound of suck. Why on earth don't men produce breast milk? How hard could that have been, eh, Life? It's further proof that there is no God for if there were Men would have fucking milk producing breasts for those occasions when the little bundle of joy won't shut the fuck up.
Cruel joke, Life.
If anyone tells you that having children is a blessing or the greatest thing you can do with your life or anything else flowery or romantic or ridiculous please run away from them. They are either liars, idiots, or grandparents seeking to ruin your life the way you ruined theirs. Yes, children are amazing but mostly when they are someone else's and don't live at your quite, orderly, clean house. Or they're old enough to walk, talk, and wipe their own asses. This whole infant thing is a horrible blight. How in the hell did we ever make it out of the trees with these little bastards constantly alerting every predator for a mile around that hey, tasty helpless meat right here! Come and get your fresh hominid! Bicameral mind be damned, we're louder than hell and easy to catch!
Stunning, Life.
Hellboy. The very moment you're ready to call it quits the little bastard smiles, drools, and does his new dog trick of rolling over several times. He'll finish with some baby gibberish and all of a sudden you love him. You love him and want to hold him forever and teach him how to track game, shoot a gun, light a fire, drive stick, surf, take a photo, catch a ball, skateboard, read, drink wine, and smoke cigars. You want very desperately for him not to ever get hurt but you know it'll happen and it'll be fine but still...
Nice, Life. Worked in a little safety valve, did ya?
It's all so very much to take in and it comes in such a rush. If anyone had actually told me what it was going to be like it might have been easier but I suppose nothing worth doing is ever really easy.
Peace out, bitches!
Monday, April 30, 2012
His idea of great R&R was cold rice and a little rat meat. He had only two ways home: death, or victory.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
It's not the years, honey, it's the mileage.
I had an epiphany the other day while holding my two week old son. It occurred to me suddenly that I might not live long enough to see my son turn the same age I am now, which is 40. I suppose this kind of thought crosses everyone's mind when they're forty. Reflecting on one's life is what you do at forty, right? I came to the conclusion that I've got one overriding regret now.
After all of the lying, cheating, stealing, drug abuse, cowardice, fear, and assorted bullshit my one and only regret is that I didn't have my son earlier in life. Perhaps his existence would have helped me avoid the legion of mistakes I've made in my life. Perhaps not. I suppose I'll never know about that aspect of the whole thing but I do know I wish I we're younger right now. Younger so that I'd have a better shot at being around for everything.
I'm happy that I'm not as much of a dumb-ass as I've been for much of my life. I think I'll be a better father for not being younger but again, one never knows. Suffice it to say I'm truly excited to be a father to both Number 1 and Hellboy and a husband to Stretch. We'll see how it all goes won't we?
Peace out, bitches!
After all of the lying, cheating, stealing, drug abuse, cowardice, fear, and assorted bullshit my one and only regret is that I didn't have my son earlier in life. Perhaps his existence would have helped me avoid the legion of mistakes I've made in my life. Perhaps not. I suppose I'll never know about that aspect of the whole thing but I do know I wish I we're younger right now. Younger so that I'd have a better shot at being around for everything.
I'm happy that I'm not as much of a dumb-ass as I've been for much of my life. I think I'll be a better father for not being younger but again, one never knows. Suffice it to say I'm truly excited to be a father to both Number 1 and Hellboy and a husband to Stretch. We'll see how it all goes won't we?
Peace out, bitches!
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