An old piece

This is something I wrote in August of 2004. I just ran across it and thought it interesting that it should apply in some ways to my life today but within a different context. I suppose we only change so much. It's just alright. I'm not sure I ever really finished it, but I didn't want to change anything. I kinda think I was planning on making them into lyrics, but, well, I don't think I'm much of a lyricist. I just write how I speak. Ok.


The Things I Feel are lovely.
They’re ripe and fresh and bloody.
They’re wounds derived from loving.
I live and think, think and love.

My joy it sinks and rises.
My loneliness surprises.
It impassions me to write.
I breathe and write, write and writhe.

And the timeless days,
(that)play out in my mind.
Are made hazy by the joy we both shared.
And the smiles on my face
make my eyes a different shape,
so the scenes I see are poorly lit.

The sweets that pass my teeth.
Fill the space between my sheets.
It’s through eating I achive.
I grieve and eat, eat and thieve.

Don’t contemplate the Future,
Or second guess the Past.
Focus is Present
The task at hand
Stay the course.
Well done,
Son.

We Don't Ride Bikes Anymore (12/10/06)

It’s interesting how much of your parents you can see directly in yourself. I mean, it makes sense that a product originating from two sources would carry their traits. But, it’s interesting to recognize those traits in both your parent and in yourself and then appreciate the parent and feel that much closer to them.
Both of my parents are people of deep character. They think about life, about the human condition, they treat people well. And they both effect people they talk to. You can easily feel from both my parents that if engaged in a conversation with them, they care about you. But if I had to categorize the way my parents relate to people, I would say that my dad is more public and my mom is more private in their approach.
My dad puts on a show. He will spin a tale and stand up out of necessity, out of sheer need to express. And it’s funny because I’m prone to think of my dad as the entertainer, but seeing my mom in front of a class room full of kids, it’s unbelievable how she works the crowd. I don’t know how she does it. Neither my father nor I could ever wrangle an elementary class, and with such aplomb!
My mom has a shwazé, an élan, a fine air of classical literature, the sentiment of dramatic and the heart of a mother the size which could easily love an entire orphanage. My mother has that type of capacity. She has size of love that reaches into a hard-hearted, neglected, rebellious, sharp-tongued 13 year-old and absolutely melts them, wining their allegiance not just for the day but the rest of their public school days in Fullerton. My mom has legions of rough kids in every class in the Fullerton school district who are loyal to the bone. And if you don’t show respect to Mrs. Pecoraro, one of these toughs will straighten you out before my mom has to say a word. Again, it’s unbelievable.
My mom gets so excited about the growth of a child. I have seen her ecstatic over an example of one child who overcame a learning barrier, learned to feel better about themselves or who finally understood the logic behind long division. Her focus really is on others.
Over the years we’ve often discussed my mother’s childhood and the environment she grew up in. It seems very unusual to me in terms of presence of parenting. But in short, my mother, the middle of five children, never really learned to have much regard for herself. Because she felt lost in the middle and was seldom noticed, recognized or made to feel “special”, my mother went about life as if such were the case.
On one hand this makes my mother a very giving person, selfless and thoughtful. She’s this way with the people in her life. I can’t even measure how this plays out in our relationship. There isn’t a son on planet Earth who has a mother who loves him more than mine. Unfortunately many of you don’t have a problem excepting this, but for those of you who think your mother loves you, she might as well hate you in comparison.
Anyone who has ever met my mother knows this. A case in point, upon meeting my dear friend and coworker Katherine, my mother very earnestly expressed, “it’s nice to meet you. You’re so lucky to be working with my son.” Katherine, of course, knew this to be true, but was taken aback by such a bold statement of love.
My mom’s not blind to my faults but she definitely is near-sighted. And if she does recognize them, she will never mention them to anyone else, ever, only to me. She displays this amount of loyalty to my father as well. And I can’t tell you what a prized virtue that is in a companion. My father is very fortunate to be able to say that my mom never embarrasses him in public by saying he’s wrong, or putting him down. And she would never mention anything to friend that might be between them. My mom hears women complain about their husbands all the time, but no one can say that they have ever heard my mother say anything negative about my dad. I hope this rings as priceless to your ears as well. I fear it’s far too rare a quality, that sort of fidelity. The sort that puts the friendship, the commitment the privacy of two lovers before any other on the planet; two becoming one. That’s how it’s done.
Here’s an example of how much my mom loves me. When I was a child we would go to Mc Donald’s a lot for lunch. Maybe it wasn’t the healthiest but we went mostly for the toys in the happy meal. And the great part, the part that makes these trips such a prized memory of my youth, is that we would hit up the four or so closest Mc Donald’s to see if we could collect all the toys in the series. How fun is that?! It would be so great traveling around, like a mission. And the sense of completion I would feel after we had gathered up all the Big Foot monster trucks or Muppet Babies on tricycles, well it felt very nice, until the next series came out.
What other mother would do that? What other mother would have the patience or plain interest to spend that time with her young son Mc Donald hoping for a couple hours? Or spend hours on end going from antique shop to antique shop? Or go on explorations to the “secret park” and Brea’s Best burgers on our two Schwinns. Man, we had so much fun. My mom IS a lot of fun. I miss going about having fun with my mom. Those times are rare these days.
You know, I’m out here in L.A, I’m working a lot at the restaurant, I’m studying acting, I’m auditioning, I’m shooting I’m trying to live a balanced life. I have got to be out here, right? I do think so. And the noise of all the “stuff” that seems to be going on at the “moment” makes me sometimes forget what it’s like to be at home, or what home even is. And when I realize this I feel like an orphan out here. I feel like I don’t have a home. You know where home is for me right now, the restaurant I work at.
When I’m at work I have my work wives, my LA mom, plenty of uncles and brothers, my big sis, some little sisters, cousins of sorts, it’s all so familial. I’ve come to realize that I rely on these people a lot emotionally. I would have never thought it would be that way. And with my L.A. friends getting married off one by one, well, it leaves a void of intimacy.
I know that I draw Katherine and Jessica nearer and nearer as we grow in our love for one another. As I think about it, perhaps I require them to be friends as well as mothers to me. I’ve definitely asked more from them emotionally than I have with most girlfriends. That’s a funny thought. I’ve never had the thought that they fulfill a need I have for home.
Actually, last week, as Katherine and I had just moved Jess’ stuff back into her mom’s house, we were having a Newcastle and a smoke on her porch and I remember distinctly saying that that moment felt so much like being at home. It was so familiar, that feeling of having busted your butt to move in a friend and then relaxing with a beer and cooling off on the porch. It was so satisfying, that need for being needed, coming through in the clutch, being called upon to be a friend. You only ask a good friend to help you move. And I suppose I felt, within a very practical application, that I was and I had good friends, in L.A. What a golden moment.
And if I can delve deeper for just one more paragraph, I can’t say how much I enjoyed finally seeing Katherine’s home. It was so, well, homey. It had signs of a mother and a father and a brother and I actually met her grandmother, along with her three dogs. It was just so nice to be in a home, a home that wasn’t furnished almost entirely by Ikea. It was a real home with flavour and colour. I loved it. And that’s what I love about going to Jess’ house too.
That’s probably why I like to pick her up and not meet somewhere, so that I can go inside her home and give her mom a mom hug, all warm and comforting. Like Yesterday when I came in and I shared their burger and fries. Oh man, it was the only family meal I’ve been a part of in ages. It was so simple, and I didn’t even think about it at the time, but it was so nice, so warm.
I also love coming in so I can see all the old family decorations up, and be in a house that has about as many antiques as my parents’. And when Jess mentioned Kath, her and I having some vino with her mom, relaxing in front of the fireplace, well, I could get emotional about fireplaces. They hold a deeply special place in my heart from the early days of my childhood. I could sit forever on a foot stool or upon a rug within the warm embrace of a two-log fire, especially with them.

It’s great that I have what I have in Los Angeles. I can’t imagine not knowing these people and not having them in my life, in my heart. I love them. And I can see how I’ve been a part of making LA my home, making Miceli’s my home, it’s how I like to feel, how I probably need my life to feel and these are wonderful thoughts, but in another sense it saddens me.
I’m saddened because I will never know home to be like the home I knew. “Home” for me will never exist like it did, not even as far up as college never mind high school or before. When I return to my parent’s house it is always so wonderful, it is familiar and filled with memories. My mom’s cooking, the décor, my dad going to bed late and waking up even later, my mom up before everyone drinking coffee, reading the paper/her Bible/Tolstoy…
But I’m not the same, My parents are not the same. I am a man, they are older, we don’t ride bikes anymore. And I don’t even want to return to that time, but I think what I DO wish, what I definitely wish, is that I could simply spend more time with my mom and dad. I miss out on the nitty gritty. I miss out on physical touch. I have missed out on the majority of the past seven years, since I went to college. And I have seen my parents, well, grow older, as is the course of life. And I want to be there for that stage.
I want to share these years as we grow as friends, as a close chord of three. Sometimes I think, “what have I done? What have I missed in these seven years. How long will I continue to miss out on familial intimacy? Will I miss an entire decade?” I can’t believe how quickly that time frame approaches. I feel these feelings even though I also feel like I am where I am supposed to be. I feel God working in me, loving me, building in me, whispering to me, holding me in his hand.
I feel joy in all of this. I feel a quite, moist-eyed love in my heart about my life right now. It’s wonderful in all of the smallest ways. It’s wonderful in the way that my street has lots of leaves on it. It’s wonderful in the way that I can practice piano at 1am at Miceli’s with the ghosts. It’s wonderful that I can spend the first minutes of my birthday with Jess at Canter's, talk with Kath for two hours, go over Ryan’s and see grandma Green before we head out to the Italian bakery for a sandwich and some wonderful friendship, do absolutely nothing in our underwears around the house with Tony and laugh till we cry about a specific humour pretty much only we share. What jewels these moments are to me.
As I write this I am teary because I am so blessed. My cup overflows with goodness. God spares no wonderful thing from me. I couldn’t have more touching people in my life.
I guess I just miss my mom and dad.

My Dad's 88th birthday (12/01/06)

Yesterday was my dad's 88th birthday. I wasn't able to spend it with him and my mom but we got a chance to talk twice, once in the afternoon and once at 2am that night. The night conversation was great.
We talked about all sorts of things, about being artists, about the nature of art and life of an artist. We talked about my future and the non-artistic desires I have for it. My dad and I connected in a really great way last night. It was a conversation I'll never forget for a couple of reasons.
Although we don’t see each other as often as we’d like, my dad and I talk quite a bit. He will often ride the train from Fullerton and I will pick him up at Union Station downtown. It’s great to be there as he steps onto the platform and looks around for me. My dad’s a good height and has an unmistakable look so I usually spot him quickly and shoot a high pitched whistle his way. When he hears it he looks over and sticks up his hand as do I. We greet each other with a great hug and I carry whatever he has brought with him, which is usually a bag filled with foodstuffs and what-have-yous from my mom along with a pair of pajamas and a toothbrush for the stay overnight.
We then grab a bite to eat either at Phillips’ French dip, Canter’s Deli, the Farmer’s Market or a new place. The evening most often consists of a special movie and then more coffee shops for dessert and coffee. We frequent the Silent Movie Theatre on Fairfax as much as possible because one really cool thing about my father’s age is that we can see a movie together there that he saw with his dad when it first came out in the 1920’s. These are usually in the Douglas Fairbanks/Rudolph Valentino vein, which is great because I grew up hearing stories about my dad seeing them as a child. So to see them together is really special and a great father/son time.
Last time my dad came up we saw James Bond at the Chinese theatre. My dad hadn’t been to the Chinese in easily thirty years, at least, when he and my uncle Steve were living in Beverly Hills as bachelors. It’s always great reintroducing my dad to the perks of living in Los Angeles. And it’s great because, even though he’s been in California since 1954, L.A. is now my stomping grounds and I get to show him my spots. They’re great times and we both look forward to them so much.
My dad will often ask when he can hop the train next and because I work so much I’m often times reluctant to give a specific date. But, I must say that I’m pretty decent at remembering what’s important in the long term scheme of things. I morosely like to call it my, “deathbed perspective.” I try and imagine what decisions I will be happy about and which I will regret when I am old and dying. This easily clarifies my dilemma. And it’s always in favor of spending more time with people I love, particularly my dad.
Our best conversations are usually late at night. These will be at Canter’s or Mel’s at two in the morning over coffee and our second dessert of the day. I try and get new stuff out of him when he reverts to old stories just because I want to hear what he’s got to say about different things. I know he likes the old stories and I do too, but it just feels like I would be talking to a grandfather and not my father if all we talked about were the stories I've heard all my life. I mean, this is my dad, it’s important that even though he’s much older than me, we still are able to find common ground. It’s not difficult, I’m an old soul and he’s a hep cat so we probably meet half way and relate as two 45 year olds.
Also, it's not like that's all he talks about. Like I've mentioned before, my dad has a lot of the present on his mind. Politics, new music, film, new applications of Biblical truths, my dad’s always thinking and is often lost in that thought. I definitely take this trait straight from him. My mom is much more present than either one of us. I mean she has a deeply resonant soul, but she’s much more with it.
My pop and I will often talk about encounters he’s had with folks at our family restaurant. Or he might mention an interesting conversation had at his men's Bible study. Or perhaps he'll bring up some non-sequitor thoughts he's been chewing on recently. Those are definitely my favourite moments because it's new shit he's spinning.
Last night was interesting because I don't very often feel like a peer of my father, but as I was talking about my amorphic thoughts and feelings concerning my future, about acting, about humanitarianism, he kind of got down on my level, I can’t really explain in what way, but it was more of a peer type conversation than I commonly remember having with my dad.
I mentioned to him how I really enjoy acting but I don’t see myself being completely fulfilled by it alone unless I was able to parlay my success as an actor into more of a humanitarian role. We discussed how I am definitely an artist in many senses, but I also feel very academic in thought and demeanor. And in some ways I feel like the academic side to me is slower moving than the entertainer whom is always putting on the act. I know that they’re not mutually exclusive, but I sometimes feel very unlike other actors I know. This sort of fish out of water sensation is not a new feeling for me and is in fact a theme to my life. I’m still processing these thoughts. I’m sure I’m not along in these feelings, but being an only child makes me think I’m special, so, I might as well be.
My dad said that he had been thinking and praying for me about these very same notions. And mentioned the times I had spoke of them in the past. And he had this to say about it,
“you know son, these thoughts and feelings are very personal, very intimate. I can understand that you’re at a crossroads of sorts, and that you’re thinking about the future, but there is only so much I can tell you because while I would go the distance with you down whatever road you would choose, I can only do so much. These very close feelings are really between you and our heavenly Father. I don’t know what the future holds for you but I do know that God has wonderful plans for you.”
Now my dad has often told me to seek advice from God and I find all the wisdom in the world in those words. And I do do this, often. In addition to this my dad has, in equal doses, given me personal examples from his own life (old stories) about when he was in a similar situation. It is through the stories of his life that he relates to others, not exclusively, but a lot of the time. So for him to not tell me a story is very interesting, and actually refreshing.
And maybe that’s the reason I felt we related on common ground in that conversation, because while we have sincere faith in God’s timing and goodness, we both felt a level of uncertainty about the future, and that was just fine. I mean, what’s very cool in a very strange way is that, as my father gets older he thinks more about what is to come after this life. And while we both have faith in God’s timing and goodness in this area, in definitely falls into the realm of uncertainty.
It’s interesting now that I think about it, because I think one of the reasons why we sometimes meet at a disconnect concerning life’s travails and bents, is because my dad has seen so much life that nothing seems like a big deal to him. He has been through wars, depressions, revolutions of all sorts and at this point, although he’s probably always had a strong sense of this, he is perpetually cool and nothing ruffles him. For him, it’ll all work out fine. And while he’s concerned about my quandaries, I think he feels a distance from them, and I sense this. But last night he really got what I was feeling, perhaps related to it, and we dealt it out. It was a man’s moment, when you think about your life and what you want from it, as a man. It was a time where we both looked at the great mystery of life, with all of our love and curiosity concerning it.
We’re both deeply passionate men. We look at small things in life. We think about the wonder of intimate things, thoughts, hopes, disappointments, relationships and the wisdom concerning them. We are kindred in this way.
It was a good conversation, good and healthy and satisfying.

Vegas (11/15/06)

Let me start off by saying I strongly dislike Las Vegas. Yes, there are things I like there, in fact things I LOVE in Las Vegas, but as a whole I strongly dislike it. The reason is this: I say “yes” and “no” everyday to many things. I have, over the course of my life, through failure and success, decided on certain convictions. Those who know me know that I am a man of faith. However, those who know me intimately know that I weigh my convictions very strongly in my mind and in my heart and take these thoughts to God in conversation to see how he weighs in on them. I don’t like to make judgments or decisions on how I feel about convictions until I have had this maturation period.
I have, for some years now, been taking this process step by step with God and desire to have our relationship be fresh and vibrant and not so strongly based on what others tell me or interpret for themselves.
I want the most out of my life. I know that the most impact my life can have is if I follow God’s will. Paul quotes Isaiah 64:4 when he says in his first letter to the church in Corinth,
“no eye has seen,
no ear has heard,
no mind has conceived
what God has prepared for those who love
him”
This is what I feel to be among the most true things in my life. My life can be truly valuable only if I love God, and by loving God I obey God to the best of my understanding. And he will take me places that I could never conceive of, never imagine in my wildest dreams. “No man can conceive…”, what a grand thought. And I only want these things because I feel that my life will have an impact, not for glory of self. The thought that I can influence people’s lives for the better, well, I’m pretty high on the idea, especially recently.
Well Vegas is a place that has many things I wish to say “no” to in my life. And it’s not always because I desire to say no, but because I know this is truly what I want for my life. I did not feel deprived to what I said “no” to this weekend, instead I genuinely felt great for making decisions that, when given the option, defined my character in the positive.
Am I alone in this? Does anyone else, regardless of faith, feel that it’s important to make decisions that are wise? Does anyone else feel it’s important to deny yourself certain pleasures in order to have greater satisfactions? Must one have faith to believe that these sacrifices will be worth it in the future? I rarely, if ever, hear this language emanate from secular sources, “deny, sacrifice” it seems people think they’re entitled to avarice with no consequences. And does anyone else feel that the word “sacrifice” is not negative, but that it carries value, honour and in fact, pleasure?
Why am I made to feel so old? Why am I made to feel so disconnected with my generation? Why have I always felt that way? Why do I feel that I need to clarify that standing alone (veritably) is not an act of pride or ego but an act of my soul’s conviction, that I would be living a lie to live any other way?
Can I be honest for a moment without being judged? Can I say how hard it is for me at times, how exhausted I feel sometimes, how I can feel out of place, or how lonely it can get because of what I choose? Can I utter these thoughts aloud without having to explain that choosing this road is not about my pride? That I don’t feel I am a martyr? That I’m not seeking pats of the back or admiration?
Can I confess that I, at times, just want to give in? Can I confess that, at times, I just want to say “yes” to many things that seem comfortable, that seem soft and exciting and warm? Can I tell you, in all honesty, that I feel it would be a relief at times? At times, I want to give in. I want to give up. I want to be “free.”
But just because it would be easier does not mean that it would be better for me. Just because one load might be temporarily relieved doesn’t mean a much heavier load would not be placed on my back, my heart. Being “free” from conviction would only make me a slave to impulse and chain me to the consequences of those intemperate, unchecked desires.
And why do I feel that I sound so impassionate when I use phrases like, “consequences of those intemperate, unchecked desires?” Does anyone know me to be dispassionate, void of fervor, not a strongly sensual human being with a taste and curiosity for many things?
I am no less a man with feeling, with impulse, with passion and with strong desire than any other. In fact, more so than many, I desire much of what the world has to offer, beneficial or not. So I reject the notion that I do not desire the things I say “no” to. I just see them differently and so choose differently. And again I also refuse to associate these choices with feelings of superiority or judgment upon those who choose differently.
There is joy in wisdom. There is freedom in wisdom. And don’t you disregard the word “wisdom” as ancient, as irrelevantly religious or inapplicable to your life. Wisdom is the way to live your life best. Those with wisdom live lives well. The choices they make in turn bless their lives for the extent of their lives. They grow old with peace. They’re families are whole in heart and they pass the beautiful blessings of wise living on to their children and grandchildren. And these wise people are spread all over. They’re not just old white Billy Graham types of folks. They’re in every culture, or every colour.
There is less hurt, more joy and a fuller life when one considers what the wise choice might be given a dilemma. I don’t hear many people talk about wisdom outside of faith communities. And perhaps that is because the term wisdom connotes absolute Truth, and our popular culture has no interest in there being a “wrong” or dealing with consequences. But wisdom is more precious than fame, more valuable than money and of far greater application than plain knowledge. Knowledge is beautiful, I’m as curious a man as you’re likely to meet, but wisdom is eternal, wisdom is divine and your life will flourish with it, suffer without it.
I am obviously passionate about it. But you see, I live in a community (Los Angeles) and work in a profession (entertainment) within a world that flies in the face of these thoughts of mine. I believe these things. And it’s very easy to ignore your convictions, it’s easy to become deaf to wisdom when the din of society clamours in your ear. For me to live any other way would make me less of a man because I would be betraying myself and lying to everyone around me. I can’t like that kind of life. It’s not worth living. I choose to be a man.
And so, when I go to Las Vegas and am shown a sample of “VIP” life, I am a person who starts thinking about how I feel about it and why it’s not something I find value in, even though I’m supposed to, as an actor, as a man, in my curious, hungry, sensual youth.
I know who I am. I know what my life is about. Of course I am continually learning, and always seeking more truth but I have always lived my life true to my heart, loving my it and those around me as fully as I know to at that time. There is so much I don’t know, so much I’m curious about, so much I mull over and marinate in, which is the very reason I’m writing this. But what I do know I will not turn a deaf ear to sate hedonistic impulse.
Don’t get me wrong, I had a great time in Vegas for a number of reasons, (a good amount of them Prince related). I enjoyed the company immensely and had a good time all around. But it’s great to be presented with strong temptations to remind you of what your character is made of when you have real opportunity to fuck up that hard fought character.

Eventuality of Relationships? (11/15/06)

Are relationships destined to wane? Will time tear nearly everyone of them apart? Why must people grow apart? Must they? Is it only through extreme dedication that relationships can weather the tests of a lifetime of changes? From moving locations, to introducing new people (i.e. marriage, work relationships, new friends. children…) A marriage only stays the course of a lifetime if divorce is not an option. When it’s not an option then the couple has no other choice than to make it work, and hopefully make it work well.
I attended a wedding recently and the pastor said the following interesting words, “a common piece of advice given to newlyweds is to never keep score when it comes to doing things for one another. But I say keep score, and always make sure you’re losing. Because giving is wining in a marriage.” I found that an interesting way to phrase it. I have found that consistent love and giving only produce positive fruits. I would hope that when the relationship is strained and all I can think of to do is to give more, it would heal wounds and strengthen bonds proving my commitment in the relationship and my love for them. And I do love them.
I think that every relationship is destined to change as is every person. The person who does not change is not healthy, is not growing and is not becoming better. This is true as well of a relationship. The hope is that these relationships also grow and strengthen as they change. I believe it will.

My life at Miceli's, Part 2 (11/08/06)

... It was at that moment that I burned that poor girl on her naked back that the guy she was out with says to me, "Hey! Charlie! How are you?!" In that split second I went from sadness over Jill's condition, to extremely apologetic over the loss of this poor girls first layer of skin, to shocked over seeing this guy and then incredibly humored by what I will explain. You see, the guy who was having dinner with said burn victim was none other than Tommy Mooseknuckles, a guy about 23 years old, who comes into Miceli's on a semi-regular basis.
The very first time Tommy Mooseknuckles came to Miceli's he had a party of about five and put his name in as "Mooseknuckles", which apparently is a synonym for camel toe which is a common pejorative term for the shape that emerges from between a women's legs when she is wearing pants that are too tight, e.g., the shape of a moose’s knuckle.
Tommy was banking on the hope that I would announce loudly, “Mooseknuckles, party of five. Mooseknuckles…” I didn’t get the joke because I hadn’t heard the term before. I inquired because he gave the name in such a schmarmy way that I knew something was fishy, pun intended, He explained, I obliged and we all had a good laugh.
Well, because of that memorable incident I have called Tommy, “Mr. Mooseknuckles” ever since, often times forgetting his real name. And about two weeks ago and a VERY busy Sunday night, Tommy walks in with his out-of-town buddy, Jake. They come in, I promise them a short wait and a good table as always and they sit down,
Shortly after arrives a party of two cute girls. They put their name in and take a seat near Tommy and Jake. I walk over to the guys, chat it up for a minute and offer to buy them drinks so Tommy looks like he’s got some pull at his local hang out. As I turn I see the two girls looking at me like they’re thirsty so I think, “what the hell” and offer to buy them a round.
I after I had dropped off the refreshments I soon realize that the four are talking and hitting it off nicely. I also notice that I haven’t got any deuces (restaurant slang for a two person table) available at the moment but I DO have a four-top. I call Tommy over under the guise that he’s got a phone call. I ask him if he wants me to suggest that the four grab a table together, you know, to help ME out. He agrees and I slyly make my proposal to the other three and they take the bait.
I pass by a couple of times to chat it up and at the end of the night I see that they’ve exchanged numbers. Tommy gives me a, “we’ll see what happens” type of look. They leave. And here, two weeks later, who do I brand like a baby calf on the ranch but Christina, one of the very same girls that I set Tommy and Jake up with, on like their third date, really enjoying each other’s company. It was the weirdest experience. I was so overwhelmed by all stimuli that I could hardly process all the pieces of the experience. So I just started laughing as I gave Christina a big hug and apologized profusely for searing her like ahi tuna. After that they left and I took their unfinished plate of nachos cause I hadn’t had the opportunity to eat at work. They were good.
That, plus the nachos and the Crown & Coke really lightened my mood even though I still felt the sting of the night’s previous events. Life is so strange sometimes. Tragedy and comedy all mashed up together. I’ll tell you what though, I had a really good time with my work wives. They love on me so much. When I sneakily picked up the tab they covered me in kisses and hugs and mashed their boobs on me. It was great. I had a wide ass grin on my face. I love them.

My life at Miceli's, Part 1 (11/08/06)

My life at Miceli's is pretty much divided into two types of nights; the night where my two work wives are scheduled and those they are not. I relish in the former, endure the later. When they work my night is filled with a number of wonderful incidents, little happenings and physical contact that both please me and make the night more enjoyable. Suffice to say I enjoy them. Last night was such a night.
Those unfamiliar to my work environs, it goes like this; I work in a restaurant where every waiter is a singer, they actually have to audition to be there. We have a pianist who plays and when the singers have an opportunity, they sing; jazz, opera and/or Broadway, it’s a great place to work. Also, those unfamiliar to where my talents lay, it goes something like this; I don’t sing very well. But I do play half ass piano, half ass trumpet and having since worked at Miceli’s, learned to play half ass drums. So I am the drummer/manager to the singing/waiter. It’s a fun atmosphere.
Last night, a Tuesday, a typically slow night, was not really that slow at all. When a Monday or a Tuesday get busy it is usually more hectic than a busy Friday or Saturday because; a) we are mentally prepared for a more easy going night b) we are staffed for a more easy going night. After one of these unexpected Mon or Tues rushes I usually feel a little more drained, a little more sapped of energy. And it was at the end of this type of night, with the fun of my two work wives mixed in, that I came across Jill.
Jill was a woman at the bar who was drunk. As I was with one of the wives at the front desk Jill drops the entirety of her bag on the floor in front of the bar. I heard the disruptive clamor. I looked over and saw Jill hunched over the contents. Then I heard Jill plop on the ground. “Here we go…” I thought to myself. “I’ve got to deal with THIS now. I’m spent and enjoying time with my wives and now, when the night’s nearly over, I’ve got to play manager.”
I walk over to the woman and kindly ask, “ma’am, can I help you out? Can I help you collect your things?” There was a small, child like, inaudible whisper. “Ma’am, can I help you gather your things together” I persisted. “No,” was the soft reply. I responded with a soft, “ok, let me know if you need my help” and headed back to the front desk with the thought that I’d let her manage herself since she was inebriated and probably didn’t want any assistance, (as most drunks folks don’t.)
I was hoping that Jill would soon be on her feet and gather together back at the bar stool hopefully sobering up so that I could call her a cab but the pace at which she was moving didn’t suggest that that was the course of events to unfold. After some time I walked back over, knelt down beside her and said kindly, “ma’am, I’d like to help you gather your things if that’s alright with you.” I believed I heard a faint answer in the affirmative so I squatted down beside her and gathered her things together placing them back into her bag.
I then began a campaign to get Jill up and over to a nearby bench. Ten to fifteen minutes later, after gaining her trust, talking with her, consoling her, investing in her, and in some way connecting with her I got her over to the bench with a couple of hot rolls and a strong cup of coffee. I urged her to drink and eat so that she’d feel better. I found out that she was staying at a nearby motel (fleabag) which she insisted on walking back to. I knew she wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom let alone two blocks away to the motel. I insisted on finding her a way there even if that meant I had to drive her myself.
During this time the wives had left to go to Mexicali, a joint five minutes away that we frequent after work. They had been calling me repeatedly expressing that they a) wanted me to get my but over there, b) wanted updates on the situation and c) warned me not to drive Jill myself because she could be crazy and pull a knife on me. The wives threatened to call the police to handle the situation if I didn’t do it myself. I told them that I would be there as soon as I could.
I didn’t want to call the police on Jill. She was a woman who was clearly in a bad spot. I knew she was drunk but the meds that spilled out on the ground when she dropped her purse made me think that her incoherence was not solely an affect of alcohol. I really felt for her. She wasn’t someone I could dismiss so easily as I might a homeless woman or someone who is beyond my ability to help in any way. I at least felt, as a fellow human being, as a child of God, that I could make sure she got back to her motel.
I urged her to drink the coffee and eat a roll as I quickly went through my restaurant closing procedures. I rushed around the place helping out Bill the bus man clear the tables of cheese shakers, wine glasses and dirty plates. I shut off long strings of Christmas lights. I turned off the piped in loungey swing classics. I close the lid to the piano. And as I was talking with Robb, one of my waiters, he lets out a jarring, “OH SHIT!” looking over my shoulder in the direction of the bar. It was at that moment that I heard a horrible sound.
The sound I heard was a crack, a slap, a crunch, a smack and a thud all rolled into one. It was the sound of Jill falling face first into the Italian burgundy tiles that line our floors. They’re not very forgiving. I rushed over and stood over her, aghast at the sight of her face down, directly into the floor, legs and arms sprawled about, green Bic lighter firmly grasped in hand.
I rushed over the phone and dialed 911 as Robb and a kind customer rushed over to her and rolled her over. I had a hard time looking at Jill but once I did I had a hard time looking away. Her face was fucked up. And there was a small pool of dark blood that had gathered where she had landed. I think she busted teeth, split lips and cracked nose. I’d be surprised if she didn’t. Using your face as a cushion for the falling weight of your body might result in few bruises.
In the proceeding moments an ambulance arrived, callously asked her questions, roughly strapped her in and briskly took her away snatching her bag of meds, microwave popcorn, Marlboro lights and a snack sized pack of Milanos leaving only the small pool of dark blood to remember the incident by. Before I knew it, Raul came by without me asking and had mopped that up too. I was grateful.
I went about the rest of my closing duties in a strange stupor. I was obviously affected by this whole episode. It all ended so abruptly. The wives had gotten their wish in a weird sort of way. And after driving to Mexicali and relaying the story they were not happy about Jill’s fate but felt better that I had not gotten shanked.
In the retelling of the evening’s events I lit a much needed cigarette and promptly began speaking with my hands. And in doing this I promptly pressed the red hot cherry of my Nat Sherman classic king sized cigarette into the exposed back of the girl sitting to my right. And SHE promptly let out a squeal that was equal parts, surprise, pain and terror.
(story continued on next blog…)

16.5 mi (Saturday, October 28, 2006)

I'm pretty sure that I've lost most of my objectivity when regarding distance running. For some reason running 16.5 miles doesn't astound me. Yes, many runners traverse much greater distances than that. But THAT fact has nothing to do with THIS fact, I am not a runner, yet.
And I'm not sure I wanna be. I'll tell you this much though, I've gotten to like it quite a bit more since my last masochistic diatribe [I'm coming clean (with dirty language.)] Matter of fact, I've felt really great during some of my runs. But I've got to remember that I can't rush my progress for the simple reason that my body needs time to adjust, acclimate and strengthen.
On Sunday I ran 14.42 miles in 2hours and 25 minutes and at the end of it I was feeling pretty good. I had the mentality that I could possibly bust out 20 before too long if I just kept putting one foot in front of another. Well, as good as I felt I still needed a few days rest but I felt I took too many (three) and in addition to a few other circumstances I felt I needed a good purging. I told myself I would run 15 miles+ and see what would happen.
I set out about 1:30pm and kept a decent pace. Before I knew it my 1 hour and 15 minute lecture on existentialism was over and I was still feeling ambitious. If I was going to do 15 it would only take a small amount more in time than it took me for 14.42. So when I came to my usual turn-around points to start heading back I kept going farther out. At every opportunity I took the longer distance. Having never "run out of gas" before I felt there wasn't really any distance I couldn't manage if I simply kept a good pace, refueled and hydrated.
I'd say I started to struggle pretty hard at mile 12. The pain in my hips, the anterior (outside) of my knees and ankles had started to become real. In addition to this my gluts, hammies, quads and calves began to give me signals of trouble. By mile 14 I had filled up my water bottle 4 times, ate two Cliff Shots, five Jelly Belly Sport Beanz, two shallow pockets full of salted pretzels and some nutrition bar but I felt I was getting scarily close to empty. And yet I felt that the "one foot in front of the other" philosophy would take me home without any worry.
Well, I had had to stop a few times to stretch out my back side but by mile 15.5 I was walking. I was humbled. My muscles were just shot. I would have about 30 seconds of inspiration, cursing at myself, praising myself, shouting out to Jesus to get me home, talking to my feet to not let me down... and then I would pay for it dearly with every muscle and joint below my belt screaming at me including my testicles, (poor bouncing motherfuckers keeping time for miles and miles.)_I don't exaggerate when I say that the last three to five blocks were scary. I really didn't know if it was physically possible for me to make it back to my apartment by myself. Through God's grace, a lot of swearing, singing songs about my foolishness and the pain to come I made it back crashing promptly to the floor of my living room. I thank God that Carrie, Tony's fiancé was there to get me my Gatorade, pretzels, snacks, and to rub my calves to keep them from cramping. My body was covered in salt from so much perspiration. I mean, I felt granularly all over.
It was at that point that I finally looked at a clock and saw that it read 5:30pm. I had been out for four hours and running something like three and a half. But the unfortunate part was that I was due at work at 5pm. I had completely lost track of time. I don't know what I was thinking. Well, I do and it sure as hell wasn't about time. It was pretty much about survival. I was so focused. The rest of the night and into today I've been worried that I haven't been refueling well enough resulting in me eating a lot.
It's a funny feeling for a chubby guy to "need" to eat to fuel my body. I'm used to eating out of desire, gluttony or plain oral fixation. Needing to specifically refuel and strategically consume is very foreign to me. In the past when I've been hungry my reaction is, "hey fatso, you don't 'need' to eat anything right now. You've got plenty to burn around your midsection." But now it's different and it's taking some adjusting. My body is burning so much it astounds me. On a 14-16 mile run I can burn 2200-2500 calories. For a healthy diet the nationally suggested daily consumption is 2000 calories. So you can see how I might be concerned about getting my nutrients.
I think part of my loss of objectivity is that I'm currently reading a great book about Dean Karnazes, an Ultra-Marathoner who runs 100 milers all the time. The tales are so inspiring that I feel like I could sneeze off a paltry 15 no prob (In all fairness to myself, I COULD have done 15 and been quite alright. But that last 1.5 of the 16.5 nearly killed me.) Dean looks straight into it and preservers. Pain and everything are there but he keeps on. It's good stuff, but I gotta stick to my training schedule.
I plan to run a lot between 5 and 10 miles. This will build up a solid base for me to build further upon. I don't think I'll do another 15 miler till Dec. but I'll have to see. I might get arrogant again. I mean, who am I kidding, I post these stupid updates all the time. It's true, I only do it when I achieve a personal best, but I really enjoy the kudos and encouragement. I'm kind of a whore about it. I drop my latest distances all over at work. I can't help it, it's gotten under my skin and I like it. It's a good feeling to make progress. And I suppose it's the only area in my life where I feel like progress is being made. And perhaps that is the reason I wanted to take it too far too fast.

11.5 Miles (Thursday, October 12, 2006)

New personal best in distance as of this morning(10/12/6).
Today's run:
-11.5 miles
-1:50 hours
-9'30"/mile pace,
With a big ole hill right in the middle of the run.

It was a good run today. I just kept on feeling good. I had some Goo and Clif bar shot Bloks with me along with some water to wash them down. I know that helped. Plus I bought those little round band aids you put over needle shots in the arm and stuck ..em over my nips so that they wouldn't bleed.
It's funny the pains that come and go during a run. When I start out everything hurts; my knees, my lower back, my left hip and my ankle.. But, as I pass through mile one I'm good and warmed up. If I do the run that goes up and over Barham, the big ole hill, then my left hip and right knee hurt because it's at an angle. But after I come down the other side, stop in Miceli's for a glass of water and a piss and continue on, I feel really good. Everything is well lubed up at that point, which is just about four miles deep. That's also the point at which I start to get thirsty, round mile 4 and 5. I think I popped a Clif bar shot Blok in about that time.
I believe it was around mile six or seven that I slurped up the Clif bar strawberry Goo and washed it down with a couple hearty gulps of water. And within half a mile I felt a wonderful second wind. When you read that a large part of running is the mind game, I'd say that's absolutely true.
I always run with headphones on. There are a lot of runners, mostly old school, who are purist about it and believe that running with headphones inhibits two fundamental elements of running; the conversation that bonds two runners running together and the ability to listen to your own body. They also feel that it's dangerous because you can't hear cars or are generally less aware of your environment.
These things are true for the most part, however, I find the benefits to outweigh the detriments by more than a sufficient amount. When I go on longer runs I like to listen to a lecture, a sermon or an interview. I just get them through iTunes as a podcast. For example, I often like to listen to Pastor Chuck Swindoll. I find he gives great insights into God's word and what it has to say about life, the nature of God and all sorts of things. His pod casts, which are taken directly from his Sunday morning sermons, are always under 28 minutes, you know, a Sunday morning sermon.
Or, last week I listened to a guest lecturer from the 2006, ANU-Toyota Public Lecture series, speak on the nature of freedom as presented in Thomas Hobbes' The Leviathan. Sometimes I'll listen in on the economic state of India and it's emergence as a World super power, or, like today, I distract myself of my aching left partially torn ACL (self diagnosed) by paying attention to a great introduction to a philosophy class taught last Spring at, I can't remember where, which focuses on existentialism in literature and film. I really enjoyed today's lecture.
After I finish the spoken word section of my run I then listen to high octane music that lifts my spirits and makes me wanna yell stuff out loud as passers by in cars think I'm escaping the asylum. Such music includes or course, AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, White Stripes, Chili Peppers, Styx, Muse, Rage Against the Machine, Prince, Wolfmother and a little fast paced Miles Davis.
From what I can gather, the key element to effective running music is usually a driving tempo. Also of main import are ripping guitar solos, squelching lead vocalists, a kick ass drummer and music that builds to sound bursts and orgasmic climaxes.
As a final note to today’s running recap, I never stretch before I run. I read and heard that it is damaging to attempt to stretch cold muscles. And more so than this, I had much pain in my left Achilles tendon due to over pre-run stretching. I do my warming up on the road like a real runner. On the converse, I do stretch a healthy amount (but probably not enough) after I run because lactic acid builds up to repair your muscles and if you don't spread it around you get real sore.

A pleasing new trend in hand soaps (Tuesday, October 10, 2006)

To cut to the chase here, I have to say that I am very excited about the new trend in hand soaps in public restrooms. I have noticed over the past year that not an insignificant amount of restrooms now carry the foam style hand soap, and this my friends, is progress.
Firstly, every single foam soap I have ever had the pleasure of disinfecting with has had a pleasant aroma. In addition to this, foam hand soaps ALWAYS rinse off with that nice, clean feeling that other liquid soaps often fall short of supplying.
Many times I have had to struggle to get the "moisturizing" feeling off of my hands while cleansing with liquid hand soap. I hate this struggle. If I want my hands to be moisturized I will get some hand lotion. Who's kidding who, what are you trying to do, save time? I'm not looking to cut corners in this department. It's like combining a hot dog and a coke so that you can enjoy the savory nature of the frank and yet be satiated by the cool, crisp refreshment of coca cola. In the hand lotion department, a dab will do me, IF, I need it, (which is seldom.)_Another benefit of foam soap is that it does not drip or contain colour so that it will not stain the counter top or gather in a runny, dripping, pink amalgam. And I will tell you something that is HUGE in my hand soap world, the company that could MOST benefit from a switch to foam hand soap would be IN N OUT Burger. I LOATHE their pink, liquid hand soap. It absolutely STINKS! As a matter of fact, I often times will forego a premeal hand washing SOLEY for the reason that every time I lift that glorious burger to my beautiful face I am slapped with the revolting stench of that stomach turning, fucking disgusting, pink goo. It's chemical and clinical odors are repugnant at the very least and completely clash with the homey, welcoming and nurturing aroma that wafts up from your roundish, burgery smiling friend.

GO FOAM! I LOVE YOU!

Men are from Mars and so is Veronica (Monday, October 09, 2006)

Here is another interesting story that happened to me recently. Again, I was working at Miceli's, it was last Saturday night and it was busy. On busy Fridays and Saturdays I;
-play a lot of drums
-seat a lot of folks
-talk to customers
-keep an eye on the floor in general.

Suffice to say that I'm a significant presence. People often ask me when it will be MY turn to sing. I wish I had a better answer but I try and retain my dignity by saying something overly defensive like, "well, I play piano, trumpet and drums, I'm a writer and an actor and I toss a mean pizza pie but, I cannot sing. I wish I could. I really do. But I feel it would be an insult to these artists, (the singing waiters) who have studied voice their whole lives, if I were to hack through some Sinatra standard. So no, I do not sing, BUT, I DO play drums here." Some speech eerily close to that. Hey, when you work in a restaurant and interact with masses of people on a daily basis, you get asked the same questions over and over. So it only makes sense to have solid plug-in answers. _In the middle of the evening I overheard James the cashier comment, "hey, Veronica Mars is on table 82."_This is significant not because I follow Veronica Mars or have even EVER watched Veronica Mars. It is significant because of the following back-story.
Back round April of this year (06) I attended an event to raise awareness for the children's crisis in Northern Uganda. The event was held by the group Invisible Children, an organization founded by three mid twenties guy from San Diego, two of which I know from USC, one of which is my little brother in my fraternity, Alpha Gamma Omega. The event entailed tens of thousands of people literally sleeping over-night, outdoors, on this certain night, all over the US and in other countries. It was symbolic in that it mimed what Northern Ugandan children have to go through every night. It was called the Global Night Commute and I strongly urge you to look it and the Invisible Children group up. They are worth you while.
The event was very successful at garnering media attention and there were a handful of news crews in Santa Monica with us. Because I was planning on being there for the entirety of the night I decided to meet some folks. As I was walking around I happened to overhear a guy and a girl talking about actor stuff. Ever being the curious one on tips and opinions regarding the business I turned around and said, "are you two actors?" They both replied in the affirmative with which I followed, "that's great because I'm looking for theatrical rep (agents for film/tv) right now and I'm curious about your opinion. Are either one of you represented?" The fella said he was not but the girl said she was. When I inquired by whom she was repped, she replied matter of factly, "William Morris."
I don't suppose you have to know much about entertainment or agencies to be familiar with the name William Morris. I mean, the first time I heard of The William Morris Agency was when I was a child watching I love Lucy. Suffice to say they are HUGE. And if they are repping you then you have got something good going on. I replied with enthusiasm and asked where she was from, where she went to school, you know, chit chat. She seemed really nice and friendly and she was obviously really cute, so, not wanting to over stay my welcome, I bid them adieu and good evening and departed to meet some more folks.
On the way to doing that I ran into a few of my buddies and excitedly told them, "hey, I just met this really cute girl. She over there in the red coat with the cute hat and the blond hair." And as if it was a competition they all clamored, "dude, that's Veronica Mars", that's Kristin Bell", "she has her own show", "she's super famous", "she's gorgeous", "she's here to talk to the media about the cause" and so forth. And truly, the first thing I thought of was this unattractive and obnoxious girl I knew in the second grade named Kristin Bell. I had never heard of Veronica Mars, I had never heard of Kristin Bell, but I HAD just talked with her and I thought she was cool and cute. I found it entertaining.
So, now that you're caught up, we go back to Miceli's and you see the scenario I was in when being informed about table 82 and said celebrity. That's when I began to map out my plan so as to have an interaction with her. First, whenever I sat anybody near her and her parents I,_-made sure she could see my face_-sounded like a sincere and amiable fella(which I undoubtedly am)_-perhaps threw out something charming/humorous (also am)_-I NEVER looked at her_-perhaps twice I passed by and cleared a few plates from the surrounding tables_-I made sure to do my "Matré d" talking thing with a table or two around them so as not to seem out of the ordinary.
AND, the neat part was that she could see me playing drums, so I felt like a cool musician. Finally, as their meal came to an end, I walked by and kinda peaked over at them and said real familiar like, "hi there, how was everything tonight? How was your food? How was the entertainment? Did you get dessert?" Stuff like that, not all in rapid fire succession but just casually.
As I did this I mostly made eye contact with her parents just so as to treat her like a normal human being and not a celebrity. Not that she was acting like a celebrity or anything, I just think most people who are recognizable and who still act human enjoy when someone treats them normally.
But THEN, I pulled out my fake but sly double take and paused my conversation on her and said, "...weren't you, weren't you at the Invisible Children thing..." "YES!" she sincerely exclaimed. "THAT'S where I know you from. I was trying to place you all night." "I'm Kristin", "I'm Charlie" we exchanged with a handshake. "Yes I know, BUT, I didn't know that then" I humorously replied inferring that our interaction late that night in April was genuine and human void of any celebrity cognizance.
We went on to talk about her parents and their stay out here for the weekend and funny enough I told her the story about Casey and the head shot (see previous blog). I don't know why in the world I would tell her that but I don't think she found me creepy. It was a really nice conversation filled with anecdotes about me at USC, her being on billboards and all sorts of fun things. I was really impressed with how I was keeping my cool which was a challenge in part because of her celebrity but mostly because I found her really attractive and really sweet. When I realized that I WAS keeping it cool, I began to LOOSE my cool.
So I ended the conversation with an invitation to come back and say hello and wished her parents a safe flight. I hope she does. I'd like to take her out.

Decidedly NOT a creep. (Monday, October 09, 2006)

A few happenings of note have happened.

Two days ago I was working the front desk at Miceli's Italian Ristorante and in walks this cute brunette with real "girl next door" looks. She has really pretty eyes and an adorable smile and she puts her name in (Casey) as there is a short wait and she is soon expecting her friend to arrive. Not long after her friend arrives I call her name and bring the two women over to a fine booth, a booth I like to sit cute girls at so they can see me playing drums and know that I am a cool musician who HAPPENS to be working at a restaurant.
All the while I am walking about, taking care of business and such and when I pass her I recall my thoughts going from, "she's really cute" to "She's really familiar" to "uh oh, I know where I know her from and this is weird and kinda creepy."
So, once I realize where I know her from I am faced with the decision of whether or not I'm going to tell her. What the hell. I walk over at the end of the meal and say, "hi, is your last name Peters?" "Uh, yes..." she replies. "And was your hair blonde at any point?" I further inquire. "uuuhhhh... yes it was" she again replies with suspicion. "Well," I jump in head first, "I have an usual story for you. It's borderline creepy. Can I sit down?" I think I actually just told her friend to scoot over.
At any rate I take a deep breath and launch into the story of how when I first moved out to L.A. two years ago one of my roommates, Brian Murphy, worked at NBC. And at the time I was in desperate need for advice on headshots. To help me out he would bring loads of shots that made it to the waste paper basket of one of the execs. And he, myself and my other roomy, Tony, would go through them and pick out our favourites, as well as ridicule the lousy ones. Fortunately for my story, Casey's shot was one that I liked and so kept in my file for reference.
Well, two years later, I still have Casey's headshot and have perused the "keepers" pile every so often, usually when I get the itch to shoot again. And in doing this perusing I had inadvertently burned the name "Casey Peters" into my subconscious. Never did I imagine that I would actually meet one of the "keepers".
So, after wrapping up said creepy story she seemed surprisingly not creeped-out. I found this encouraging and a relief. After all, I know I'm not a creep. I might be a few unsavory things but a creep is not one of them. Perhaps shmarmy, but not creepy.

Prince & Charlie talk business (09/03/06)

So it's 12:43am, Tuesday night and I'm standing outside of Miceli's talking with Katherine about all sorts of stuff. And I think Katherine's in the middle of a monologue on Mexican courtesans when a modest black limo pulls up beside us. Big deal, could be any average moron, any pee-on could scrap together a few bucks and have a night out. LA is full of limos full of fake tits and real assholes. But the strange thing is that the limo just sits there for a couple minutes and no one gets out.
Finally a passenger side "chauffer" gets out and hurriedly and opens the curb side door to reveal a leggy, leggy beautiful Venezuelan model type followed shortly by the purple one. He steps out and helps the lady get situated with purse and everything. I'm looking and I swear I didn't hear ONE thing Katherine was saying after that. My hearing went out completely I got this weird tunnel vision and all I could sense was my heart beating out of my chest.
I looked back at Katherine who had had her back more towards the scene, my eyes a-bulge unable to utter a sound and she caught on quickly that I was having a seizure or an orgasm and she took a look over her left shoulder and looked back at me like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. But it was great because she looked at me as if to say, "this is so unbelievable, but so much more so because you're here and you're CRAZY about Prince."
He had this great gray suit on that was neither single nor double breasted. All his shit is custom so it's an original but the best way I could describe it would be to say it overlapped very high and had broad shoulders. I couldn't see any shirt but he had a black scarf wrapped around up to his head tight and neat. And of course, he had on his 3 inch heals. That's the number one question; just how short he is. He's a small guy. But he's a giant.
As he stepped up the curb and began walking around us I gathered whatever pathetic scrap of cool and calm I could collect, swallowed the lump in my throat, "nonchalantly" looked over at Prince as he passed me and coughed up a faux casual, "hey, how are ya" as if I was acknowledging a stranger passing by. With authentic cool and no hint of pretense, Prince looked me in the eye and acknowledged me with a glorious, "hey."
As soon as the exchange was over I stared un blinkingly at him as he and the Venezuelan walked through the door opened by his bodyguard and up the stairs to Mamma Juana's Latin night club.
I was completely unable to speak until the door closed with which I caused a scene so lively, so enthusiastic, so bewildered that I collapsed on poor Katherine with screams, whoops, yelps, "can you believe its and rubber legged pacing, jumping and dancing. I swear, I don't think I could give half a good gosh dang about any fool on film, TV or in music. I never have in the past, not to Russell Crowe, LL Cool J, Angelina, Isaac Hayes, Jon Voight or Joaquin Phoenix, but seeing Prince, it was like setting eyes on something that doesn't really exist, like a unicorn.
Imagine if you saw a unicorn in real life. Can you imagine what surprise, what exhilaration, what disbelief you'd experience? It would be surreal to say the least. I've spent quite a lot of time thinking about Prince. I mean, I listen to a lot of Prince. I have paraphernalia in my room, on my walls. I've been to a show. One of my most wonderful friends, Charles Jones has jammed with him. My friend Isabelle did makeup for his Grammy after party. Hearing these stories, listening to music, kind of getting to know an artist through his words and music, I guess I didn't realize how distanced he was from my reality having lived almost exclusively in my mind, which is the case with most things in life.
Most of us have never scene the President, Africa or my 6 pack but they exist, somewhere (under two inches of Mashti Malone's ice cream, Miceli's pizza and international candy.) And if we ever saw them face to face, it would be astonishing and surreal, (shit, it would be mind numbing) because you're not used to experiencing the actual, but just the conceptual. I think perhaps it is the very opposite of death. When someone close dies, you've almost exclusively experienced them in the real and know they are exclusively in the conceptual. Which means that meeting Prince was akin to the opposite of grieving.
So, after he walked in, I thought I'd stick around because I've heard stories about him not liking most clubs he goes to. If it's not cool or the vibe is whack, or what have you, he will leave really quickly. After four or five minutes he walked back out, Leggy McLeggerson in tow and right back up to the limo and off into the night. And I was spent. I told Katherine I had to go home and have some alone time to contemplate my life and stuff. Thusly, I sent out about 100 text messages and spoke with a host of people before I crashed at 3.
Most of what I thought about post encounter was along the lines me wanting to have a more meaningful exchange with Prince. I wanted to have a conversation, plant seeds for a friendship. I guess I just wasn't satisfied with that little morsel. I wanted to be up on stage and dance it up at a show or like another Prince story I heard from Megan, get to break it down on a dance floor with him. Man, that would be cool. Of course, jamming with him would be ridiculous.
It was weird for me to think that he was not somewhere else because I think when you imagine a celebrity, their image or likeness is always so accessible. They're always on TV, DVD or the internet and you can access "them" anytime you want. Which, in a very odd way, makes the "real" them so much more valuable. When I said hello to Prince, he was not in Minneapolis, he was not recording, he was not jamming at a club (yet), he was not making squealing noises or performing or acting strange or was he with anyone else famous. He was right there, in front of me and was a real human being acting like a real human being. I suppose that's a true experience of the surreal; the real seeming unreal or foreign. Like when I went to Maui and caught myself saying, "this looks so much like Adventure land." It's Adventure land that looks like Maui. It's twisted all up.
What I really wanted was desperately to say SOMETHING of import, but anything I could think of at the time was so trite and dull. What hasn't he heard before, "I love your music," "you're awesome"... I mean, there's very little. And most importantly, he was on a date enjoying himself so I didn't want to bother him. I have a lot of celebs who come into Miceli's, Eva Longoria came in last week, Ashlee Simpson and all the Simpsons used to come in all the time, Hassellhoff, Jay Mohr comes in a lot, Adam Sandler, Michael Keaton, Richard Dryfus, Lily Tomlin, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Zeus from that wrestling movie with Hulk Hogan(ha), Sean Astin, Alfonso Ribiera, all sorts, and I try all the time to just be friendly and treat them like normal people because I have empathy for them. I know there are a lot of perks but they are just people and to not be able to go anywhere and not have to second guess everybody's glances, motives and observations, well it must be very hard on a person.
I was thinking how it must be for Prince to go on a date. Holy shit, how do you find a woman to date that will treat you like a human being and not an icon?
Celebrity is very interesting to me, celebrities are not, but the phenomenon is very interesting.

Anyhow, that's my story plus some.

I'm coming clean (with dirty language) (Saturday, September 30, 2006)

I haven't mentioned this to a whole lot of people because I wanted to kind of see where it was going. But at this point I have a good idea so I think it would only benefit me to spill the beans. I've decided to run the Los Angeles marathon in March.
I decided this about two months ago and have been running 4-5 days a week, Saturdays with a group called the L.A. Road Runners. They provide a lot of structure in my gradual increase of mileage, time and a little pace. It all happened like this..._I was feeling real fat, and looking about the same and so I decided I'd start walking. Well, after about a week or so I though I'd pick up the pace so I starting jogging. After two weeks my pianist at Miceli's says to me, "Charlie, you want to run the L.A. Marathon this year?" And I said, "Hell no, what are you crazy?" Actually, I didn't ask, I told him he was crazy. And then he said these magical words, "you'll lose 20lbs and it'll...." I didn't really hear what else he said but it was something along the lines of changing my life. I thought about it for literally 10 seconds and I said, "ok." So then he said, "really? Alright, meet me here (Miceli’s) tomorrow at 6am and we'll go running with the Road Runners." I said something like, "What the hell, ok."
So, I haven't looked back since. My major concerns are my right knee (the un--operated one), my left Achilles tendon (which is tight) and my heart(which I've been feeling beat really hard when I'm running. But I mean, that makes sense, so, I don't know, I'll get a complete check up just in case.) I'm doing this for a couple of reasons.
Yes, I'm very interested in losing 20lbs. And I've already begun to alter my body in pretty significant ways. I usually can only feel so fat before I say, "hey, what the fuck is going on here(usually pointing to my stomach), I'm getting really fucking fat. I need to run and eat less." I mean, I'm usually pretty mad at that point cause I feel fat, lethargic, un-athletic, unattractive and not very confidant. And it takes that level of anger and self-loathing to turn it around. And it's usually when I get to a point physically that I like myself and so I stop beating myself up on the track, cause hey, I look good.
I mean, I've never been thin, or had a six-pack, or been photograph worthy really. Is that my goal this time around? Hmmmm.. I'm not so sure. I'll tell you this though, I'm going to look really good come March. I won't be able to help it. I read if you run in excess of 20 miles a week you can't help but loose weight, pretty much whatever you're eating, and I've been eating really well. I suppose the only thing I need to do look real nice would be sit ups and bench. I might work that in.
Ryan Green told me that I should work in my sit-ups after my run but that's not going to happen. I always give it my all the last half a mile so when I finish I feel like vomiting. And I'm in no condition to do a set of crunches. And it's sure not going to happen before I run because it's all I can do to get up and out of the house at 8 on 4-6 hours of sleep. I don't even stretch that much because if I sit on the ground I'm liable to lie down and fall asleep.
I can't even tell you what goes on in my mind when I wake up to run. It is a debate I will NEVER win if I try and use logic. There is NO argument, NO sensible point I can drive home that will convince me that running in the morning is a good idea. I don't think I'll ever FEEL like running. I just go on autopilot and if that doesn't work I look down, grab a handful of fat and think of a woman I wish I could seduce but fall pathetically short of being able to. I often curse at myself. And I'm usually putting actual foot to pavement at 8:15. But, I do it. I can't explain why. I don't deserve any credit really. I don't have any suggestions to any other fat asses. I suppose the only thing I can suggest is that you begin to hate yourself for being fat and feeling/looking like shit.
I'm definitely all for being hard on myself. I absolutely feel like I have it very easy. I'm a very privileged human being. Living where I live, having the means to support myself, having wonderful relationships and supportive family, I have no reason to be easy on myself. I believe strongly that I owe a large debt to the World. My God says that "to whom much is given, much is expected". I believe the direct translation form the Hebrew texts goes something like, "Don't let thyself be a fat ass at your 10 year reunion." Hey, now that's wisdom I can hang my hat on.
Anyhow, as they often say on Seinfeld, "barring any unforeseen circumstances", i.e., doc's orders, meniscus tear or a heart attack, I will run AND finish this motherfucking 26.2 miles in March. I may never do it again, but I WILL do it in March. And I will look sexy. And it will change my life, or something.

iTunes contribution (09/14/06)

I think in our times of mass everything and overpopulated everything else it is easy to feel insignificant, minute and inconsequential. Our voice seems to never get heard. I have to believe that this is a significant draw to online publishing/blogging. To think that your ruminations, your exactions, your convictions are available to people around the World, I think that's very appealing. And if you think that people don't read random stuff, well, how about this story.
Four years ago I began writing food and film reviews for a local magazine back home in Orange County. I had that gig for one year until I decided to move to Los Angeles at which point I relinquished my responsibilities. In that time I wrote a total of twelve pieces, all of which I have posted as blogs. Matter of fact, I believe them to be the first twelve blogs I posted on MySpace. And I'm proud of a few of them. I really enjoyed that experience.
And one time, oh about two or three months ago, I ran into a good friend of mine who still lives back home and she told me that she had been wanting to check out a certain sushi place but wanted to look up a review first. She types in the name and the very first hit is my article. Although, she didn’t see my name until she had finished it and decided to patronize Samurai Sushi.
I took a lot of pleasure in that story because while I was writing those food and film reviews I got little in the way of feedback. Sure I’d run into a few friends or their parents who had known me since kindergarten, but by and large those who didn’t know me personally didn’t know what I looked like.
So to think that I actually painted a tasty enough picture as to motivate someone to dine at the establishment, that felt good. My review had fulfilled it’s purpose. And funny enough, the hit that came up was from a live journal account I had started and then abandon soon after I began to freebase MySpace. It wasn’t even from the actual magazine or the magazine’s webpage. And so this lonely little posting out in the ether (or inter) was stumbled upon like a piece of space debris’ chance encounter with a spaceship. BUT, what I’m really writing about has a much broader impact.
About three months ago I wrote Apple about a programming suggestion I had for iTunes. I have an extensive amount of music on my computer. It’s easily the largest space taker on my hard drive. I’ve had to buy an external because of it. And because of this mass of files, it can become wearisome to navigate my albums, file by file, like sifting through grains of sand.
So I thought to myself, how do I browse through my albums in the real world? Why is that so much more enjoyable? Well, all of my cds are in large 200 disc folders. And I have them displayed with the booklet and the cd underneath. So I can just flip through and browse BY COVER ART.
So this what I told Apple; I told them that it would be so much more enjoyable to browse my music collection by cover art, as I do in the real world. And what do you think is the major difference in the iTunes 7 update? Yep. You can browse by cover art two different ways. Perhaps they were already working on the idea, perhaps they were toying with the idea, but I like to think that someone passed MY idea on, an idea from some dude who is insignificant, minute and inconsequential.

I am responsible for a much more enjoyable perusal of your music collection. And this affects people around the world in a small way. Isn’t that neat.

I make a difference (Thursday, September 14, 2006)

I think in our times of mass everything and overpopulated everything else it is easy to feel insignificant, minute and inconsequential. Our voice seems to never get heard. I have to believe that this is a significant draw to online publishing/blogging. To think that your ruminations, your exactions, your convictions are available to people around the World, I think that's very appealing. And if you think that people don't read random stuff, well, how about this story.
Four years ago I began writing food and film reviews for a local magazine back home in Orange County. I had that gig for one year until I decided to move to Los Angeles at which point I relinquished my responsibilities. In that time I wrote a total of twelve pieces, all of which I have posted as blogs. Matter of fact, I believe them to be the first twelve blogs I posted on MySpace. And I'm proud of a few of them. I really enjoyed that experience.
And one time, oh about two or three months ago, I ran into a good friend of mine who still lives back home and she told me that she had been wanting to check out a certain sushi place but wanted to look up a review first. She types in the name and the very first hit is my article. Although, she didn’t see my name until she had finished it and decided to patronize Samurai Sushi.
I took a lot of pleasure in that story because while I was writing those food and film reviews I got little in the way of feedback. Sure Id run into a few friends or their parents who had known me since kindergarten, but by and large those who didn’t know me personally didn’t know what I looked like.
So to think that I actually painted a tasty enough picture as to motivate someone to dine at the establishment, that felt good. My review had fulfilled its purpose. And funny enough, the hit that came up was from a live journal account I had started and then abandon soon after I began to freebase MySpace. It wasn’t even from the actual magazine or the magazines webpage. And so this lonely little posting out in the ether (or inter) was stumbled upon like a piece of space debris chance encounter with a spaceship. BUT, what I’m really writing about has a much broader impact.
About three months ago I wrote Apple about a programming suggestion I had for iTunes. I have an extensive amount of music on my computer. Its easily the largest space taker on my hard drive. I’ve had to buy an external because of it. And because of this mass of files, it can become wearisome to navigate my albums, file by file, like sifting through grains of sand.
So I thought to myself, how do I browse through my albums in the real world? Why is that so much more enjoyable? Well, all of my cds are in large 200 disc folders. And I have them displayed with the booklet and the cd underneath. So I can just flip through and browse BY COVER ART.
So this what I told Apple; I told them that it would be so much more enjoyable to browse my music collection by cover art, as I do in the real world. And what do you think is the major difference in the iTunes 7 update? Yep. You can browse by cover art two different ways. Perhaps they were already working on the idea, perhaps they were toying with the idea, but I like to think that someone passed MY idea on, an idea from some dude who is insignificant, minute and inconsequential.
I am responsible for a much more enjoyable perusal of your music collection. And this affects people around the world in a small way. Isn’t that neat.

One word (Wednesday, September 13, 2006)

I was in a meeting of artists tonight and while I was listening to something very interesting, a certain word literally barged it's way into my thoughts and I haven't been able to persuade it to leave.

The word is "Bumbershoot" and I had no idea whatsoever to it's meaning. I know I've heard the word before, and it's inarguably a very entertaining word to say, nonetheless I hadn't the faintest clue to its significance. And this word has been bouncing around in my mind like a poorly supported breast in a 5k. It begged to be paired with a definition.

So I came home and looked it up and it simply is a British term for an umbrella.

Perhaps it will rain tomorrow.

My friend Melanie Lomax died (9/12/06)

As with most pain, at one point or another, I gain some sort of objectivity and am able to savour the strangeness of the feeling I am experiencing. Physical pain, remorse, lovelorn or grief from death. I lost a friend today and it feels very strange.
I work the front desk at Miceli's and I greet every person who comes through those doors whether they sit and have a meal, are picking up a to go order or are having a drink at the bar. I encounter such a variety of people it's profound. And what I enjoy about the sheer mass of people I interact with everyday is that within literally a moment, a glance, barely a look, I can gather enough information about that person to know how to interact with them.
Can I joke with them, will they take a flirtation in the right way, can I give them a hard time out of fun, should I be straight forward because they're in a bad mood. I can, with surprising regularity, guess where a person might want to sit. And because there is live music at Miceli's it's important to know if they're in the mood for music, want to have a secluded corner or something in between. I often pair up customer personalities with my servers so that they'll have a good experience. And the day I met Melanie Lomax I could tell she was a sad woman.
I don't mean that in a derogatory way, I could tell that she had fought uphill battles all her life. I could tell that from the look in her eyes, the gait with which she walked, the tone in her voice and the amount of scotch she imbibed that she had not lead an easy life. And I wanted to make her feel welcome.
I didn't strike it up so quickly with Melanie. Folks who have a gruffness about them need to be saddled up to, you need to earn it. I've known more than my share of those types and more often than not, you value their friendship more than most because it feels like you're on the inside, you've made it. People like Coach Garland or Mr. Manship are gruff but have a sweet center.
I have a personal theory that it's my job to create regulars. And the way to do that is to make a connection so that folks feel comfortable, they know someone. I often can be found buying drinks or dessert for people I feel I've connected with and this lets them know that they have a friend at Miceli's. People who come in to the bar a lot are easy to get to know because they're right in front of me. I know our bar regulars the best.
I have Brett and Molly who come in nearly every day. I have Sibby on the weekends, Lee on Fridays, Masood and his wife, Chris, the other Chris, Jay Mohr, Bobby, Crystal, Becky, Terry & Matt the sound guys, Sean Astin and of course Koz & Phila and Melanie Lomax.
Melanie always got take out. She would order and go wait at the bar. She would usually come it a couple drinks deep and unfortunately she would leave even deeper. And there wasn't anything you could do. She was a very strong willed woman.
After a period of time, I first recognized her through repetition and then broke the ice with a little conversation and after a little while I bought her a drink. She fought me on it but I told her that she comes in so often that I wanted to show a little gratitude and begged her to allow me the pleasure. She conceded. I don't think she did that much.
Still I didn't rush into being overly friendly and gregarious because folks like Melanie can smell insincerity like a shark does blood. And then any attempt you make to be friendly is fruitless. And I'm a sincere guy, anyone will tell you, but in my line of work, some folks require a little more faux enthusiasm than others and I didn't want to smear any of that on Melanie. I really liked her.
So one day after we had gotten friendly I jumped into a conversation about .the new digital voice recorder I had just purchased. Of all things to connect on...
I told her that I had finally purchased it because I had intended for years to record my dad's stories unbeknownst to him (of the plan or the actual recording.) And I then told her about my dad and his age and our relationship and about my family and my mother and my dad's side with the artists and then about me and she really enjoyed talking with me. She then went on to tell me how her mother had been ailing for sometime and so she had spent the last ten years documenting her mother's stories on video through interviews. And she also told me how she had hired professional photographers to shoot her mother's birthdays. And also how vibrant her mother was in the mind but frail in the body.
We also spoke extensively about the fear we both shared concerning the loss of our respective parents, about the loneliness that that would entail and the gut wrenching trepidations that would seize us from time to time. We connected on these issues and even though she was just two years neigh of my own mother's age we shared a very unusual but thoroughly enjoyable friendship.
Melanie would occasionally tip me a $10 or a $20 for doing nothing at all. I would never wait on her or do anything really except talk with her. Once, when I tried to refuse, she said, "Charlie, I'm a rich lawyer. I make a lot of money. Please allow me the pleasure of sharing it." So I did.
I asked Steve at work about her, because he's a reliable pop culture reference and he told me that she had a big name in LA as a lawyer and for being involved in many race related cases. He also mentioned that she was a controversial figure. Hmmm... interesting. I looked her up one night but only found a handful of articles about civil cases that didn't grab my attention. I guess I didn't dig deep enough. There was a lot more.
Melanie LOVED to listen to the singers. She absolutely loved one of our opera singers, Jennifer Tucker. Jennifer DID have a heavenly voice. I have a hunch that Melanie was a lesbian. Perhaps its my own bias, or maybe its because she was a hardened and seasoned litigator who fought many men in court. And that will probably take a little of the feminity out of you. Or maybe she was just built not so feminine and that made her better suited to be a lawyer.
Or maybe it was the trials she faced as a light skinned Black woman during a much more difficult time for Black folks. Perhaps it's that it's difficult being a Black lesbian with a strong opinion and a great education to back it. Or maybe it was that she wasn't particularly beautiful that made her a fighter. She did have wonderfully deep eyes though.
The second to last time I saw Melanie Lomax was about three to four weeks ago, around early to mid August. I had just bought my first digital camera and I was very excited. I had saved for it and done extensive research on it and finally bought it. And when it came in the mail and I was ecstatic. I of course brought it to work to show everyone. And that night Melanie came in.
I talked it up with her a bit, we asked each other how our parents were doing(something that had grown into a tradition), we chatted, conversed, etcetera and I showed her my new camera. I gave her the full tour and displayed it with much aplomb. And for some reason the topic segued into the socio-political consciousness of varying generations, most specifically hers vs. mine.
I made mention of my distrust of the media, how I had no faith in the information I was receiving, and also how this lead to my lack of enthusiasm for politics. I elaborated on thee and related topics and she made comparisons to her generation and how consumed they were with civil rights, Vietnam, the women's movement and the sexual revolution. It was a good conversation rife with curiosity about the other's perspective and void of any sort of agenda or criticism.
I, of course, was working and so had to leave the conversation at various moments to seat people, help waiters or play drums(as I do in the show.) And it was after one particularly long absence that I returned to find Melanie with take-out food in hand and ready to go, but waiting for me. I picked up this cue and went over to thank her for the wonderful discourse. And with that she said the following;

"Charlie, I really enjoyed our conversation. I think you're a talented and charismatic person and you have a lot going for you. I really like you. I don't often get to engage with people from your generation nor do I often get to encourage people from your generation. And that's why I want to buy that camera for you."

Of course my mouth was agape and I put up a good fight, but like I said, Melanie Lomax doesn't concede much. She wouldn't hear much of my pathetic arguments and dismissed them all with pure stubbornness. She asked me to walk her to her car outside in the valet parking lot, which is where she told me that she would be in the very next day with $200 cash for me. And, she NEVER wanted me to mention it again. It would be as if it never happened so that we would just go on as friends like normal. I swallowed my pride and coughed up a meager, "alright" and helped her into her Jaguar.
The next day she came in around 7pm, at least tipsy, ordered her take out, listened to some music and pulled out a fat wad of cash. She asked me to get her more cash off of her credit card and I did. She then asked me to sort it all out and give some to the pianist and to a waiter for singing a song and then she gave me the rest, two hundred dollars and walked out with my assistance.
I thanked her, hugged her and told her she was a good person. She said, "I have a lot of money. I want to enjoy it. And doing this make me happy." And watched her, for the last time and a tear in my eye, drive away in her Jaguar.
When a person shows such an act of grace, when you're given something out of the blue, when you're not owed it but it's given to you without obligation, well, that's a powerful feeling. I felt God's love through Melanie's act of generosity.
As I walked back into the dinning room I noticed that Melanie had left her take out food at the little table near the drum set at which I play. I knew that she had taken off already and proceeded to try and dig up her home address from the delivery records so that I could send my driver over to her house. Hell, I'd tip him myself no matter how far it was. But she'd never gotten delivery so it was not on file. I felt terrible. She must have gotten a laugh out of it. In essence it had cost her money to come and give out money.
I thought to myself that perhaps she felt she had sacrificed personal relationships for professional success. And now she wondered what all that money in the bank was good for if she couldn't enjoy it. What had she worked all these years for if she couldn't at least enjoy her money and spread it around, encourage a nice kid who had taken the time to have genuine conversations with her, to engage her, to open up and be sincere with her. What was that worth to her. More than money it seems. I know, I'm an actor, I'm supposed to get in the mind of folks. It's my job to create justifications and back story. But I feel these things are true.
Well, the very next day I set down and wrote Melanie a thank you card. I know she didn't want me to mention it EVER again but I was raised to write a thank you card and I wanted badly to do so, so I did. All it said was


I've kept that card in my bag at work everyday since in the hopes that I'd catch her and be able to give it to her. I never got that chance and I feel very badly about that. I think she would have loved the quote. How ironic that Melanie should document her mother's last ten years so that when she should finally pass, she would have it all to remember her by. And now Melanie is gone and her mother still with us and will hopefully make use of the recorded memories that include the both of them. What macabre but fascinating twists life brings. Not a good ending, but interesting to think about nonetheless.
I’ll truly miss her.


Links:
1) http://cbs2.com/local/local_story_254205240.html

This is very exciting & thank you (Thursday, September 21, 2006)

Two days ago I had my 3000th view recorded. That means that my writings have been looked at 3000 times. Yes, I know it's not complicated, but I wrote it twice because I had to think it twice to realize that that is significant.
As a part of my personality I like to share myself with others. I know that plays a major factor in my artistry. As an artist, I in essence, feel I have a perspective that I need to share. Often this is because I feel it's unique, I'm passionate about it and it interests me(and as an only child I naturally have a egocentric perspective which leads me to believe that everyone is interested in what I have to say particularly if I find it interesting.)_That's the beauty of an artist, that's what society relies on artists for, to speak, to proclaim, to help us all understand what we're feeling as humans in this human experience. Furthermore, I would argue that the more masterful the artist, the more precise he'll express his intent, the more unique his expression will be and the more engaging and relevant his art will be with his times and his people.
So 3000 is significant to me because as a writer, I have engaged people a large number of times with my expressions on life and humanity. I have shared and received feedback, interaction and engagement and this fulfills and satisfies me tremendously.

Whether my expressions are precise or masterful is up for debate.

The story behind my favorite song (8/19/06)

First things first. Why is it that every time I go to brush my teeth before I go to bed, I have to pee. And because I brush vigorously, if I attempt to urinate AND brush my teeth at the same time, which SOUNDS do-able, I then water just north, south, east and west of the huge gaping porcelain mouth directly in front of me.
Then I thought to myself, "what if I SIT DOWN to pee, ONLY when I'm brushing my teeth? I surely wouldn't miss THEN."
Nah, I won't trade in my virility for the satisfaction of being efficient in the bathroom. It's just not worth it.

On to my story.
I'll confess something very big to everyone. I want more than anything to be a jazz pianist. I want it more than being an actor matter of fact. I want it more than owning an ice cream parlor. I want it more than sex. All that I just said is true. And I've divulged this deep secret to give you a sense of what meaning music has to me. It's paramount.
I get no greater satisfaction than playing music collectively with other musicians. Music is inside me, it's in my veins, it bounces around incessantly in my head, it's in my feet, my hands, my mouth and my eyes and I don't think it will every leave me. That said, I never fully realized the severity of my condition until after I graduated college. Had I known this from early childhood I would have started my musical studies earlier, forced myself to practice more and not have quit music when I graduated high school.
I quit because I was burnt out and had known only music for the previous 8 years. I decided to set music free in order to see if I would come back to it, if it was REALLY a part of me. And funny enough, of all places, I begin to play DRUMS (of all things) when I move to LA to be an ACTOR at the RESTAURANT that I work at. Life is strange but God is good.
So I plan on and have made small steps to make up for lost time by wood-shedding on my two lost instruments while having fun with drums and focusing like a laser on my acting. Can I make progress on four crafts? I really don't know. But I'd better try while I don't have a girlfriend or a wife or kids or a successful career.

That was therapeutic. Thank you for indulging me.

So NOW, when I say that I have ONE favourite song, it means a lot to me. And thankfully, I feel it has a great story.
When I was seven years old I bought an 8-track because I discovered that our 1977 golden colour Cadillac had an 8-track player SECRETLY hidden in the face of the radio dial. It was an unbelievable find and those of you who know the secret compartment I speak of can understand how truly neat it is. The 8-track I bought was a cream colour. I got it at the Salvation Army or some second hand store. And among the titles I believe the only bands I had heard of were Fleetwood Mac and Stevie Wonder and I remember thinking that Fleetwood Mac was sissy music(such piercing insight at the tender age of seven.) So I bought the Stevie and promptly shoved it into the face of the stereo in our Caddy. A track came on and I liked it a bit but not too much, Then another and another, finally I came to track 7 and I'd found a kindred soul.
It's pivotal to know that I grew up solely on; jazz, classical, oldies and Latin jazz. And I'm sure those Latin rhythms are responsible for my never-ceasing toe-tapping. So when I heard this Latin piece with it's spoken word/Spanish/gibberish intro, hooky chorus and classic repetitive Latin piano chords daring me NOT to dance, to wiggle, to MOVE, it just grabbed me and got inside of that seven year old me.
I took that tape with me in the car everywhere we went and I played track 7 over and over and over until I broke the deck in the car. Luckily we had a turn table in the house that had a deck built in so I played it there as well; over and over and over again. Until I broke the tape. And that, my friends, was the end of that. My mom threw out the tape and the song faded in my mind for years until all I could remember was that when I was a kid my first album was a Stevie Wonder album and my favourite song had a Latin beat.

Until...

One day, I'm at USC. I'm a freshman. I'm 18, maybe 19 and I'm working as a campus taxi driver. I'm telling the aforementioned story and I mention that I've always wanted to find that song again and rediscover a lost piece of my childhood. Well my friend Marko suggests that I ask Toussaint, another one of the "Campus Cruisers" because Toussaint is crazy about Stevie.
Toussaint is a big dude. He's big, he's Black and he is all about music. He grew up in a very musically nurturing family and his upbringing was Stevie centric as you can imagine it would be being raised Black in the early 80's. Toussaint is KNOWLEDGEABLE._I meet Toussaint and all I mention to him is that I've been looking for a Latin Stevie Wonder song and before I can begin my tale of 8-tracks and caddies, he says to me, "well, it MUST be "Don't you worry 'bout a thing" off of "Innervisions."
Just like that my life was changed. I wrote it down and could not wait to get home to look it up. And let me tell you what looking up music meant in 1999. My freshman year in college, Napster HAD to be to music what the Gutenberg press was to books, the Ford assembly line was to automobiles and the UNITED STATES was to freedom. It was FREE, FREE, FREE for everyone and NO ONE was getting caught, there was NO fear of the FBI getting you, it was like the Summer of Love and everybody was gettin some. It was spread alllll around. I spent more hours freshman year downloading music than sleeping or eating, EASY(and I gained fucking 30 lbs, so, you know, that's some major time invested with a spoon and some Hågen Das.)
I firmly believe that a major high point in my education was my exposure to nearly unlimited amounts of musicians, genres, albums, covers and artists entire oeuvres. I fell in love with Zeppelin, Stevie, Prince, Queen and barbershop to name a few. I had thousands of songs and to prove another point, I've been buying much more music ever since. My album consumption has at least quadrupled since pre Napster. So the record labels are wrong.
So, after learning of the name of song and album, I raced home, downloaded "Don't you worry 'bout a thing" and played it. At first I wasn't sure, could THIS be it. I had kinda built it up all these years to be like seeing the face of God. Like nothing could ever meet my glorified nostalgia. But soon I began to really hear it and old memories came flooding back. They came back to me like the first time since babyhood I caught a whiff of Phisoderm face wash, the gentle "soap" my mom would bathe me in when I was an infant. I almost began to cry. It still does it to me.
So if your olfactory senses are most strongly tied to memory, your aural senses must come a close second because I was right back in that Caddy feeling very funky and very satisfied. _I've loved that song ever since and it has been close to me again for nearly seven years. Every time I hear it's like an old friend. I deliberately don't listen to it too often because it would break my heart if I ever overexposed myself to it and grew tired. That's would be a travesty.
And you know what's weird, I've nearly NEVER heard anyone else mention it. They never bring it up when speaking of his greatest hits or important pieces etc. So when I hear it not from my own iPod or cd, like on the radio (rarity of rarities) or ANYWHERE else(I can't even recall such an instance) I flip out and have to tell my story. And perhaps the reason I'm compelled to write this is because my dear friend Jessica and I were grabbing some of my favourite ice cream (Mashti's) on Wed and "Don't you worry..." came on randomly on her iPod. You can imagine my surprise and delight. I went bananas. I knew there was a reason I loved that girl. She thinks enough of that song to a) download it and b) upload it on to her iPod. It went great with the ice cream and company.
So that's my story behind my favourite song. And that you now know this, well, that's very special to me. Next time you see me, let me know you now know this and we will be that much closer