A Shotgun, A Case Of Whiskey, And Some Beef Jerky

How many outstanding New Years Eves have you had?

I’ve had a few, but I’m certain that none of them happened after the age of 26. Over the past decade there have been nice nights spent with friends (both of the buddy and special lady varieties), but nothing wild or crazy or particularly memorable. And I’ve been happy with those because the alternative (paying a big cover charge to hang out with strangers in places I probably wouldn’t visit while sober) were never better.

Way back in that other millennium, as we getting ready to crash into the year 2000, there were a lot of people who really believed every single computer would malfunction and reign chaos throughout the world. I’m not sure of the exact figures, but if you had looked in the water or battery aisle of your local supermarket on December 31, 1999 you would have found little or none of both items.

I remember saying that I was going to barricade myself on the balcony of my apartment with a shotgun, a case of whiskey, and some beef jerky. I believe Dennis Leary says something to that effect in one of his songs, and to me it sounded Right. But for some reason (maybe it was the 30 day waiting period for the permit . . . ) I ended going back to Massachusetts for that “special night”.

Well . . . sadly, the global computer crash never materialized. New Years Eve 1999 was mostly like ones that preceded it. An okay time.

I have ambivalent feelings about New Years Eve. I’m not one of those people who piss on it and say it means nothing, but neither do I believe it’s a night where I MUST have plans. Although it can just be viewed as an arbitrary date, the beginning of a new year is something to toast for its symbolic meaning. It’s a rebirth, with new chances to make things right.

Of course that only works if you really believe it. Resolutions can be a good thing if you’re able to convince yourself that you have a “do-over” to make things right. Whether it’s lose weight, save money, drink less, eat better or whatever, most people give-up because they forget why they decided to begin a goal on January 1st. Eventually people will say, the New Year really doesn’t mean anything, I’ll do it later . . . which negates any the good feelings of the clean slate you were supposed to give yourself.

“If you will it, it is no dream.”
- Theodor Herzl (and Walter Sobchak)

But now we are getting into metaphysics, and that’s a tangent for another time and place. What I’m really trying to get to here is that it would be nice, every few years or so, to celebrate New Years Eve in style. It would be wonderful to gather all my friends together and party like it’s 1999 . . . but the logistics are of course impossible. There’s vast distances and babies and competing commitments and all sorts of forces aligning against a party where all my friends of the last 20 years get together for a night.

So tonight in San Francisco, I’ll just have to settle for the whiskey and beef jerky.

Here’s to being better in 2008.

*****

And with that, the blog is officially closed for the winter.

I must board up the shutters. Under the umbrella of “being better”, I need to focus all my free time on completing my 2nd novel. And with new responsibilities at work and taking classes at Berkeley, my hours available for creative ventures are scant. So I thank everybody who spent time reading my blog.

You stay classy.

The Dude vs. The NFL

This year The Patriots have played many games out of the normal Sunday afternoon schedule. And while it’s great to see your team compete on National TV, it presents challenges. If you’re married or in a serious relationship, there probably isn’t much of a problem. You clean your garage, you cut the hedges, you go to the multiplex to that romantic comedy with your special lady friend, or you spend a little more quality time with your children.

But if you’re single and live in a studio apartment. . . .

My God, it really forces you to take ugly looks at yourself.

The Patriots beat The Steelers last Sunday, and it was their first normal scheduled game in the last month. The previous three contests were all played at night, and it’s made Sunday afternoons extremely taxing. Take for example December 2nd. Living in San Francisco, the only game on my TV set was the 49ers and the Carolina Panthers. I didn’t want to watch even a second of it, but for some reason I switched the channel to Fox. I guess my brain waves have been wired to pant like a Pavlovian Dog for QB sneaks and shotgun formations and safety blitzes.

But I regreted my decision quickly. Only three minutes into the game the announcers (guys I’ve never even heard of . . . the Z team of Fox) have referred to Vinny Testerverde as “The Old Guy” at least 12 times. They even put it on their graphics as San Francisco’s key to the game: “Don’t Let The Old Guy Beat You”.

And here are the highlights of the first quarter:

*San Francisco calls a timeout before they punt.
*The timeout seems to be a genius move when Carolina muffs the punt and the 49ers look like they recover the ball. On the field the officials first signal SF ball and then give it back to the Panthers.
*It looks like the officials blew the call, but The 49ers coach, Mike Nolan, doesn’t challenge.
*Vinny, aka “The Old Guy”, has 1st and goal from the 3 but cannot score.
*It’s week 13 and the Panthers have yet to win a game at home.

I check ESPN hoping they’re showing The World Series of Poker. Instead it’s The Great Lakes Classic, a bowling event. Walter Ray Williams needs two strikes AND two pins to beat the immortal Scroggins. This is tense. First strike wipes out all the pins quick. His next strike is more dramatic, with the last pin wobbling before it falls. He only needs two more, and gets the win when he knocks down seven.

This is what happens when you live in a city with two bad NFL teams.

I shudder knowing the game after this will be the 3-8 Raiders. But I switch back to the “football” game. Here are some more stellar statistics:

*With 10:07 left in the half Carolina has used all their timeouts.
*Testerverde throws a TD, and it’s the Panthers first TD at home in something like 80 quarters.
*The 49ers somehow convert a 3rd down and keep a drive alive. Of course they end up punting four plays later, but damn they must have felt good about getting 10 yards in a series.

Back to bowling.

It’s now the women’s championship. It’s Carolyn Dorin-Ballard vs. Diandra Asbaty. Dorin-Ballard has a lunch lady vibe about her. She could easily be a tough aunt from your Dad’s side of the family that nobody fucks with. Asbady is actually cute, a red head with a nice smile who seems as if she enjoys drinking beer and, well . . . bowling. Both of these women have their names on the back of their shirts. Not printed, like a football player, but their signatures embodied into the material. When I notice this I flip back to the other game.

Trent Dilfer, who for some reason is the starting QB for San Francisco, gets sacked. It is only the 11th sack of the season for The Panthers. Dilfer then throws an INT which is returned for a touchdown. It’s 17-0 Carolina.

Could professional women’s bowling be better?

Yes. Yes it is.

Asbaty makes two strikes in a row. While I’m trying to figure out how old she is (my guess is 29), the announcers say she “has finally figured out the lane”. Figured out she was throwing a ball at ten pins from the same distance as every bowler does in the world? Is there a sand trap that creeped up without us noticing?

Then the announcer says that Asbaty wanted him to give a “shot out” to her grandmother.

Okay . . . switching to the football game Dilfer gets sacked again (The Panthers now have 12 on the season . . . my God- this is exciting). But I somehow pry my vision from the intense action and glance at the ticker tape at the bottom of the screen. The Dolphins lead the Jets 13-10. For a few seconds I ponder whether I’d rather be in Miami watching their winless club duel the hapless NY Jets. It’s a tough choice- their shit sandwich to the one that is now on Fox? There is no way to answer that question except to watch some bowling.

It’s too bad I’m not watching The Dude, Walter, and Donnie advance to next Round Robin.

Instead we’re now in the last frame of The Great Lakes Classic Championship. Asbaty needs a mark to win. They flash a graphic that says she was part of a NCAA Championship team from Nebraska in 1999 & 2001. That would put her at about 27 or 28 (I was close). I wonder how it would feel to date a professional bowler. Would she talk about 7-10 splits while in bed? Does she have a bumper sticker that says “I’d rather be bowling”? Could she drink me under the table?

And then Asbaty rolls . . . she gets a nine. I was hoping for somebody to yell “OVER THE LINE” and pull out their “piece” on the lanes. Mark it an 8! Am I the only one that cares about the rules?!!

No such luck. This is not The Big Lebowski come to life. One more pin and Asbaty is the winner. She gets it and is all tears. And then a guy rushes up and hugs her, who The announcers say is her husband. The dream is over.

With the “NFL Game” Dilfer has just thrown an interception with 1:24 left in the half. But Carolina doesn’t have any timeouts, and the “Old Guy” has to rush. The second quarter comes to an end after Vinny throws a ball that is astutely described by JC Pearson as being “way underthrown”.

It’s getting close to noon and I have yet to step outside. I would like to have the last hour and half back in my life, but I’ll simply have to use it as a good life lesson. I get outside for a walk and some lunch, and when I return I see the San Francisco 49ers were somehow worse than the Carolina Panthers today. Next time I will show more fortitude: when The Patriots are not playing on a Sunday morning/afternoon I will immediately leave the apartment.

My Key West Days From The AV Club

It's 8 minutes long and took a helluva long time to get it up on the site. But here is my first foray into video blogging.

Worst. Blogger. Ever.

Okay . . . and this is my second apology to anybody who reads my blog. In my 1st apology (which I never ended up posting for various reasons) I guessed my audience to be seven, but after nearly a month without a post I can’t imagine anybody reading this unless I ask them nicely.

But I’m writing this anyway.

Today The Patriots beat The Steelers and are now 13-0. So it boils down to six games for perfection, with the last three (playoffs) meaning everything and the next three (regular season) simply ones for the record books. But now every time The Pats take the field it will be AN EVENT.

And this is fun.

Especially when you remember very well that season in 1991 when I was ECSTATIC when The New England Patriots won 6 games.

I was a senior at BU and would have to scheme to watch The Pats when they played home games. Back then you would have to find a bar that would illegally put the game on their satellite (before Direct TV and the NFL package bars could be fined huge amounts of money by showing a local game that had been blacked out for lack of ticket sales). In 1991 we were coming off a ONE WIN SEASON. The Pats were almost surely being moved to St. Louis, and none of the home games were on TV because they could never sell out the stadium.

The Alley Pub, which was less than a hundred yards from my apartment, was one of those bars that would show Pats games illegally. I would go there every Sunday, and there is one day that burns brightly in my mind. We were playing the Buffalo Bills, the same Buffalo Bills with Jim Kelly and Thurman Thomas that went to 4 straight Superbowls. Hugh Millen was our QB and Dick McPhearson was our coach. There wasn’t even a chance of The Pats going to the playoffs, but on that afternoon we beat The Bills and it was amazing. Our record didn’t matter. For one game we were able to best the best team in the AFC.

Sixteen years later it’s hard to imagine.

In 2007 it’s going to be fans of The Jets, The Dolphins, and The Giants who will be ecstatic if they can beat the best team in the country. The Pats are a long way from being lovable losers . . . they are now hated with as much venom as The NY Yankees. It’s New England and their fans vs. the world.

And as much as I enjoyed that six win season, it’s simply something for nostalgic yearnings. Any sane person would prefer being 13-0. I will never be 21 again, The Alley Pub is no longer, and I will never be happy about anything less than making the playoffs.

Okay, that's it for tonight . . . here is what I wrote last week and never posted:

*****************************

Monday December 3rd
11:15 p.m.

. . . . .My apologies to anyone (all seven of you) who read my blog. Due to being very busy at work, traveling out of the country, and not having an Internet connection at my new apartment I haven’t written anything in weeks. I can hear The Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons saying “Worst. Blogger. Ever.”

But I’m back, and let’s start with Monday Night Football and The New England Patriots:

PATRIOTS 27
RAVENS 24

This whole season my thought process has mirrored that of my team, The New England Patriots. I have just wanted them to beat the next team they were playing- a true one game at a time mentality. And if there was a goal, it was only to win The Superbowl. I honestly haven’t given much thought to not losing and the ’72 Dolphins and the chance to be called The Greatest Team Ever.

But tonight . . .

My God did I want The Pats to win.

I was at my usual seat at the far left of the bar at The Buccaneer, the Boston sports bar in San Francisco I frequent nearly every week. Because of my travels and the bye, I hadn’t been there since the Indy game almost one month ago. And I wasn’t going to make the trip up Polk Street tonight either. It was a long day at work, I was tired, and relaxing on the comfort of my own couch seemed like a good option.

But I knew this game was important.

The Pats were favored by 20, but it just didn’t seem like a blow-out kind of night. They were on the road, facing a very tough defense, in prime time, and contending with history. I knew (and know) that ever single game they play is going to be a battle. Every team they play are going to compete against The Pats as if it were their Superbowl.

Tonight I needed the energy of being surrounded by my people. I am all about watching The Game, and for most of the 60 minutes of play I’m barely aware of those around me. But it’s always nice to be around friends, and it’s especially important when the games are of higher meaning.

This comeback win over Baltimore was special, and it was made even more so being surrounded by Pats fans on Russian Hill in San Francisco. When Jabar Gaffney caught the winning TD in the back corner of the endzone it felt great to high five everybody around me. And when Jill, one of The Buc’s great bartenders, gave me a “still undefeated shot”, I lifted it up and downed it with a smile.

But let’s keep perspective. 12-0 is nice, but there’s still 7 more wins to get. Go Pats!

The State Of The Union by Joel & Ethan Coen

No Country For Old Men

The brilliance of the new Coen Brothers film can be heard in the wind whistling through the bleak desert landscape. It can be seen in every perfectly constructed frame of film- a deserted nighttime street, light sneaking through a key hole, or the smirk of a hired killer. And it can be felt in every tension filled moment where the fates of people’s lives are left, literarily and figuratively, to a flip of a coin.

Based on the Cormac McCarthy novel of the same name, No Country For Old Men is a story set in 1980 about a regular guy who inadvertently finds a bag of money and decides to keep it. Llewelyn Moss (played gruff and charismatic by Josh Brolin) is a welder who lives in a trailer and has drifted through an average life since his tour in Vietnam. Like the cowboys and pioneers of the old west, Llewelyn sees his opportunity for a better life and decides to act.

But standing in his way is good luck, bad luck, no luck, and the inevitability of circumstances. Such factors are personified by a cold and bizarrely philosophical killer named Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem, who could not have been better) and a weary small town Sheriff with the folksy name of Ed Tom (Tommy Lee Jones, using his familiar screen personae to twist the character in a prodigious performance). The plot is simple- a cat and mouse game between the 3 characters- but what lies beneath the text enriches the film and makes it extraordinary.

No Country For Old Men bends and smashes all preconceived expectations and archetypes. The Coen Brothers have made several excellent films about bags of money, ruthless hit men, and everyday people caught in the lure and swirl of crime (such as Blood Simple, Millers Crossing, Fargo, and even the hilarious The Big Lebowski). With this new effort they take all of their own cinematic history, combine it with a hundred years of westerns, gangster pictures, and hero stories to give the audience a warped masterpiece of originality.

Is it really that good?

Yes, it is.

There will be people who say it’s too violent, but the graphic depiction is crucial to the story. And there might be some who will criticize The Coens for choosing to leave key scenes out, but I believe they were invoking the Hemingway iceberg theory: if you do your job right what lurks under the surface makes what shows even stronger. And there’s sure to be some naysayers about the ending, but I believe the resolution to the story is as perfect as the silence after a symphony.

No Country For Old Men demands you to listen and pay attention and become absorbed in the world that is in front of your eyes. If you’re able to do that you’ll be rewarded with a film that somehow manages to be frightening, thrilling, and philosophical. It will also give you a profound insight into American ideas, opinions, and culture.

From Sandwich Layaway to The Director’s Chair

GONE BABY GONE

Could it really have been ten years ago that I took the red line to Kendall Cinema in Cambridge to see Good Will Hunting? At the time all I knew about that film was that it was shot in Boston, starred Robin Williams, and a couple of local guys my age wrote the screenplay and acted in it. Back then I had just finished my film program at Emerson College and wanted to do exactly what Ben Affleck & Matt Damon had accomplished.

Well . . . the two buddies from Boston went on to Oscars, action films, and superstardom. I moved to Hollywood with my Masters Degree and wrote a bunch of screenplays that caught the attention of nobody. 1997 morphed into 2007, and it seemed I had as good of chance as writing and directing a film as Affleck & Damon.

Neither had written a screenplay, either collaboratively or on their own, since Good Will Hunting. What had happened to them? Sure, Matt Damon’s reputation was pretty solid as an actor. The Talented Mr. Ripley showcased his skills, The Bourne films proved he could be an action hero, and Ocean's 11 demonstrated he was cool.

But Affleck . . . his embarrassments are well documented: Armageddon, Pearl Harbor, Daredevil, and Gigi just to name a few. It just seemed the guy couldn’t make a right career choice. Even when he reunited with the director who brought out his best acting performance (Kevin Smith’s Chasing Amy), the result was a disappointment (Jersey Girl).

But if you own the DVD for Good Will Hunting, I urge you to listen to the commentary. When you hear Ben Affleck talk he clearly demonstrates his knowledge of filmmaking. Here’s a guy who not only knows writing and acting, but also speaks intelligently on shot selection and cinematography.

So when the lustrous reviews of Gone Baby Gone started pouring in I wasn’t surprised. He was working off terrific source material (Dennis Lehane’s acclaimed novel), adapted the script himself (he is an Oscar winner), and shot the film entirely in his hometown of Boston.

But this is not the Boston of Good Will Hunting. To borrow the phrase Will says to Sean while they’re staring out at the serenity of The Public Garden lagoon, there are no “Tasters Choice moments”. This film is gritty Dorchester, South Boston and Chelsea. It’s the three decker houses with the chipped paint and barking dogs. It’s the dive bars where the men and women who long ago lost hope go to drink and drug their sorrows away in the afternoon.

The only time we glimpse picturesque Boston is from rooftops and bridges far away from the reality of the movie.

And the reality of “Gone Baby Gone” is harsh. The film’s plot revolves around a kidnapping of a four-year-old girl. There’s also pedophiles and psychopathic drug dealers and a whole lot of people who you spend your whole life trying to avoid.

At the center of all this madness is Patrick Kenzie (played perfectly by Casey Affleck), a small time private investigator who gets this case because he is from the neighborhood. Patrick’s partner is his girlfriend Angie (Michelle Monaghan, who’s eyes express so much depth), and although you don’t get too many personal details of their past you know they are smart, caring individuals who had the integrity to rise above all the degeneracy around them. All they want to do is make a living and be happy together.

In fact Angie doesn’t want to take the case. She says they have a good life, and doesn’t want to be involved in a missing child investigation- where statistics say they normally turn up dead or abused. But Patrick & Angie both know as insiders to the neighborhood they could actually help to rescue little Amanda. They make the decision to sacrifice the safety of their world and enter what will become a nightmare for both of them.

Gone Baby Gone works purely on the level of a crime/detective thriller. There’s mystery, suspense, gunfights and a few scenes that will rival Silence of The Lambs in getting your heart racing. Sure there’s some plot points that might border on the incredulous (true of most films in that genre), but overall the nuts and bolts of the story are grounded in reality and will keep you watching intently.

But this film is so much more than a genre piece. By shooting in these blocks and neighborhoods that nobody outside the area knows much about, Ben Affleck was able to capture the feel of the lower-middle class (the population that makes up much of America). The feel of what it’s like to be born in your hometown and be resigned to live and work there (probably at a tough job) your whole life. And by casting the film with local non-actors (who don’t have to “act” the speech and mannerisms), the authenticity is heightened. You can see it on their faces- most of these people didn’t get many choices.

I grew up not too far from where the action takes place. Lynn, Mass is a cousin to as the economically depressed Dorchester. But luckily I had great parents who provided me with as many choices as I wanted.

And that brings us right to the heart of Gone Baby Gone. In the opening voice-over Patrick says we don’t get to choose much of what defines us- our family and where we’re from. But most of us, especially the people of Boston, take extreme pride in our roots and even feel a sense of accomplishment (even though we had nothing to do with being born there). This pride can either be an asset or a hindrances to your life.

This sets up beautifully the ending of the film, where Patrick has an enormous decision to make. One that is morally ambiguous and will cause pain no matter which side he takes (I can’t spoil it by mentioning specifics). While Patrick struggles with the decision the audience gets to participate with him. But whether or not you agree with the resolution, you’re bonded with the characters and story in a way that happens rarely.

Gone Baby Gone could be the best film I’ve seen all year. Possibly Zodiac was technically better and The Darjeeling Limited more entertaining, but Ben Affleck has created something special. Let’s hope his next writing and directing project doesn’t take another decade.

Escape To The Florian Villa

There are times when you feel as if your job, your responsibilities, and your daily existence have ground your soul into chalky dust. Just waking up in the morning is a chore. Whether dulled by monotony or overwhelmed by a frantic pace, a change must be made.

But what can you do? You could quit your job and join a commune in a remote desert. There are always narcotics, whether prescribed by a doctor or procured by other means, which offer a survival of foggy indifference. Or you could simply stroll through your days in a purely perfunctory manner.

I don’t like any of those options.

For me a great trip has always reinvigorated my life. Getting far away from my routines stirs the blood and lights up those unused brain cells. And when the weather turns cold there is no better place I’d rather be than a tropical island.

This year I am going to St. John.

St. John is part of the U.S. Virgin Islands, and to get there you take one of the numerous non-stop flights to the more crowded St. Thomas. After landing you board a ferry and traverse azure Caribbean water. Less than an hour later you’ll be in the secluded and exotic outpost of St. John. And if you’ve made the right choice, you’ll be truly experiencing the island by staying at Florian Villa.

I’ve stayed at big hotels in tropical escapes like Key West, Aruba, and Curacao. And while I’ve enjoyed the amenities of the big chains in those locales, I’m really looking forward to experiencing a more personalized trip in small rental property. At The Florian Villa there will be no noisy neighbors, no housekeepers knocking on my door when I’m hung-over in the morning from my rum punches, and no obnoxious kids splashing in the pool when I just want to work on my tan.

But there will be personalized service, great snorkeling, hiking, secluded beaches, and that tropical air to give me serenity.

Of course I’m very lucky that one of my best friends owns the Florian Villa. Scott Whalen, who used to sling drinks next to me behind a bar but is now a Boston Fireman, recently bought the villa with his girlfriend Deb. Both had been frequent travelers to St. John and wanted to share the magic they felt with the island. Although Scott & Deb have demanding full time jobs, they have a sincere desire to be tropical hosts.

So the Florian Villa isn’t simply a rental property. It’s a place where they are going to host retreats, all inclusive vacations that will be tailored to their guest’s interests. Deb is a certified Yoga instructor and will get you completely relaxed and focused. Scott will lead snorkeling trips underneath the glass clear Caribbean water and hiking adventures in the island’s national park. They take care of all the details, and will also be providing gourmet food and drinks.

Thanksgiving week is their inaugural retreat and I will be there. I spoke with Scott yesterday and he said there might be a space or two open. So visit http://www.florianvilla.com/
to get in on the fun.

See you on the ferry. I can’t wait.

Ghosts, Goblins, and 5.6 Magnitude Earthquakes

When I first moved to California, thoughts of earthquakes always lurked in the recesses of my mind. Seismic activity didn’t consume my thoughts (selling a screenplay had that job), but there were certainly an awareness of what could happen. And in 1999, after a night out barhopping on Sunset Boulevard, I finally felt my first significant earthquake.

The epicenter was Joshua Tree, some 100 miles from my apartment in Hollywood. But the magnitude was 7.0 and I lived in a shoddily constructed building on the 3rd Floor. I thought it was The Big One.

It was 2:46 a.m. and I was getting ready to eat my burger from Jack In The Box when the room starting rolling. I’d had several beers that night but I knew the sensation wasn’t from alcohol. It felt as if I were on a boat, or straddling the top of Jenga sticks. Although measured in seconds, to me it felt as if it would never end. I honestly thought the whole apartment complex was going to topple over.

I rushed outside expecting to see destruction and hundreds of people in fear. But June Street in Hollywood was mostly empty, except for a couple of guys smoking a joint. One of them said, “Dude, that was pretty freaky, huh?” From the upper floor of a 1960’s apartment complex it felt if the world was ending. But from the street it was just an amusing 10 or fifteen seconds.

In the history of Earthquakes, the1999 Joshua Tree one is not very memorable. It was centered in the desert and did not cause any major injuries or destruction. With a 7.0 location is everything. You transplant that magnitude close to a major urban area and you have a natural disaster on your hands. But that wasn’t the case, and for most it was just “dude, that was freaky”.

Last night I had my second encounter with a moderate earthquake.

A 5.6 one struck just outside of San Jose, which is about 50 miles away from San Francisco. This time there was no rolling (I live in the basement), but I did feel a jolt and the house rattled. I knew it was bigger than a 3 to 4 magnitude quake- of which I’d felt several times through the years, but I was pretty sure that if it were The Big One it couldn’t be that close to The Bay Area.

So instead of rushing outside I turned on the TV. About ten minutes later KRON 4 (the local independent station) got their coverage going. I watched for about an hour or so, and there were no reports of injuries or significant damage. But from the calls coming in close to the epicenter, it certainly jangled thousands of people’s nerves. One second you’re getting ready to watch the Charlie Brown Halloween special and the next you’re wondering if your $2000 Plasma TV might fall off your wall.

From my location in San Francisco, the jolt and shake just got my mind racing. And then watching the news I learned a very interesting fact: This 5.6 Earthquake was the biggest one in the Bay Area since 1989 . . . the one that killed 62 people, injured 3,756 and left more than 12,000 people homeless.

But on this October night in 2007 it was just a pre-Halloween scare, a grim reminder of what will eventually happen. A major earthquake will strike both San Francisco & Los Angeles at some point in the future. One day from now, 5 years, a decade or two . . . it’s a scientific inevitability.

So this weekend I will put together something resembling an Earthquake Kit (I did the same thing in 1999 and haven’t done it since). I’ll do some reading on the web and my ears will perk up whenever I hear people talking about seismic activity. But then things will go back to normal. Being prepared is smart, but only fools live in fear.

More October Magic

In my high school yearbook every senior had to answer the question: what is your goal in life. It’s a standard query, one that could elicit a wide range of responses. Mine was “to see The Red Sox win a World Series”.

Maybe I should have aimed higher.

Ahh . . . but we have to put this into context. This was 1988, less than two years after the Buckner debacle cemented the idea of a curse in everybody’s head. I was also only 17, highly sarcastic, and a passionate Red Sox fan.

It was offered part in jest, but there was obviously a lot of truth in it. Truth that was magnified every time the Sox got into the playoffs and lost: ’88, ’90, ’95, ’98, ’99, and 2003. Every one of those Octobers my hopes were immensely high . . . and were eventually crushed.

But as we all know 2004 changed all that. The Bloody Sock, Big Papi’s miracle walk-offs, and that underhand toss to first base. Those events are all well documented, and those memories will last forever.

And now we have 2007.

For me this season will still be special, and I’ll always remember exactly where I was when Jonathan Papelbon stuck out Seth Smith to win it all. For the record I was at The Buccaneer, a Red Sox bastion in San Francisco. Sitting at a coveted seat at the bar with Jen, Jamie, and Ryan, the roar from the crowd around us reverberated through my ears. Suddenly champagne bottles popped and we got sprayed by the celebratory beverage (I can see why the players wear the goggles . . . it stings the eyes). “Dirty Water” blasted from the speakers, high fives were flying everywhere, and the grin on my face was a serene as The Buddha.

I don’t care that it was a sweep. I don’t care that it was against a 15 year-old team with a much smaller payroll. I don’t care that we didn’t have to life the weight of curses and history this time. Winning The World Series is a damn hard thing to do and anything can happen on that stage. Ask The Yankees about getting beat by The Marlins & Diamondbacks.

So congratulations to your 2007 Boston Red Sox. From the rookies to international players to the veterans, you all gave us diehard fans another year to cherish. And now I really need to find another goal in life.

"The Chief just voted- It was 10-9 . . . Now I want that TV Set on RIGHT NOW"- McMurphy

I was 16 years-old when The Red Sox played The Mets in The World Series, and by the time they got back to The Fall Classic I was 34. Between the heart amputation of 1986 to the curse reverse of 2004 were eighteen long years. Millions of babies grew into adults. Computers turned from esoteric items used by few to vital tools utilized throughout the world. There were five presidential races. And somewhere along the way Michael Jackson, Pee Wee Herman, and Mel Gibson went from fascinating entertainers to people you wouldn’t let near your children.

A three year wait isn’t quite as dramatic, but it’s still immensely exciting to see The Red Sox play in The World Series.

So here we go . . . Game One begins tonight at Fenway Park. The White Hot Rockies, winners of 21 out of 22 games, will try to extend their improbable run under the glare of The Green Monster. They’ll face The Boston Red Sox, who on the brink of elimination captured The American League Pennant by outscoring The Indians 30-5 in the final 3 games. It’s Troy Tulowitzki & Todd Helton contrasting with Dustin Pedroia & Big Papi. It’s Kaz Matsui facing off against Daisuke Matsuzaka. It’s expansion franchise vs. the one with more than a century of history.

While The Red Sox are certainly going to be the favorites, The Rockies will challenge them much in the way Cleveland did. The men in purple play outstanding defense, they have 3 good starting pitchers, a solid bullpen, and have several players who can hit homeruns. And if you’ve turned on ESPN over the last few days, I’m sure you know by now that Colorado took 2 out 3 from Boston in June and hit Beckett & Schilling hard.

But this isn’t the summer. And while The Rockies have been riding an incredible streak of wins, they were doing it against National League teams that were not very good. And then there’s the fact they haven’t played a game in eight days. While such a rest might be helpful for a veteran team, for a predominately young one it’s bound to disrupt their rhythm. The Rockies have also had more than a week to allow the pressure of playing for baseball’s ultimate goal to seep into their brains.

As for The Red Sox, they have a good mixture of youth and experience and they bring power, pitching, and defense to every game. They have the best starter in Josh Beckett, the best closer in Jonathan Papelbon, and Post Season Legend David Ortiz. These guys know how to handle any amount of pressure. And thanks to that All Star Game in San Francisco, Fenway Park will provide the home field advantage.

I don’t believe in crystal balls, but as I said in my last blog I always expect my teams to win. That doesn’t come from arrogance, it comes from wistful optimism. So I don’t know if it will be a sweep, a 7 game nerve scorcher, or somewhere in between, but I expect The Red Sox to be the last team standing in this 2007 Season. So cue up “Tessie”, “Sweet Caroline”, and “Dirty Water”. This is The World Series and you have to enjoy every minute of it, because you never know if the next one will be eighteen years in the future.

Fenway Daydreaming

As I wrote in a previous post, I knew beating The Indians would be tough. Did I think we would be on the edge of our barstools last night, just hoping The Red Sox would be able to force a Game 6 at Fenway? Of course not. But this is true Boston playoff baseball, which means it is never easy on the nerves. Although when The Sox win, it’s a helluva lot of fun.

So now we give the ball and the 2007 season to Curt Schilling, who I expect will conjure up the magic of the bloody sock. His last outing was forgettable, but so was his first ALCS start against NY in ’04. History doesn’t always repeat itself, but statistics have the ability to provide a glimpse into the future. Schilling is 9-2 with 2.23 ERA in the playoffs. He thrives in pressure situations, and I expect him to get win number 10 on Saturday night.

As stated before, I have to think that way. Some people expect the worst so they lessen any possible disappointment. When it comes to my teams, my mind doesn’t operate in a pessimistic mode. I always believe The Red Sox, Patriots, Celtics, & Bruins will find a way to win. And I’m elated when it happens, and devastated when it doesn’t.

So believe and keep the faith . . . and expect The Red Sox to accomplish great things over the weekend at Fenway Park.

Old Emails & Cheap Wine

Although I own several bottles of wine from some great vineyards of Northern California, last night I stopped at a liquor store and some bought a jug of cheap port. I suppose I wanted to save the good stuff, but for what I’m not sure. Or maybe I wanted to channel the ghost of Jack Kerouac, who loved to get high on Christian Brothers port and write (although he did die of cirrhosis of the liver, so maybe I shouldn't be doing that).

But even a couple glasses of the sweet purple stuff couldn’t stir up the creative juices. I wanted to resurrect my “new” novel (the one I began in 2004), but I only wrote a few lines and then quickly deleted them.

From there I decided on a nostalgia trip back to 2004, and once again began digging through my old emails. There is something nice about reading your old letters while listening to good music and drinking cheap wine. You might learn something about yourself, or it might just be entertainment. Both happened with these two emails that I’m posting. They were to my friend Jen (who now writes a great blog- Pink & Blue on my link list), and the subject is writing and the quest to have a career with words.


From: Mike
To: Jen
Subject: Re: Swag Bellied Pirates
Date: Sunday, May 16, 2004 1:23 AM


"The truth is that I am still poor as a church-house rat and I have been severely beaten many times, just for telling the truth. My life has been a series of tragic misunderstandings."
-Hunter S. Thompson

If I had one quote to describe my six years in Los Angeles, I think that would be it. Poor, beaten, and misunderstood.

No, it hasn’t been That Bad. Hyperbole is a sport, and when you're feeling low it's nice to exaggerate your life in a heinous way. Especially when you've been drinking. Actually, I'm doing pretty well. I'm living with a terrific girl, and when we're together life is good. Have I sold a script? No. Have I sold my novel? No. And that's the core of the self-loathing: my failure as a writer. So I've begun to look for a Real Job. And reading those Help Wanted Ads makes me even more depressed.

But enough about that. You're pregnant, and I'm sure you don't want to hear one of your old friends whine. And I don't have much energy for that kind of gig. Shit . . . you're pregnant, Jen! I'm 33 now, and most of my friends are married and have children. So I should be used to it by now, but I'm not. I still think of the girl playing darts, drinking a pint after a night at Uno's, and wearing that damned backpack. And you still are that person, but now you're having a child. And that's wonderful! I am truly happy for you and your husband.

As for things with my girlfriend, we're still trying to figure stuff out. (Never end a sentence in a preposition, but screw that...I'm rolling.) We want to move to another city, but we can't decide on San Francisco, Seattle, Chicago, or Boston. Those are the "mutually accepted" locations, but on some days I would give anything for a job in Key West, Honolulu, or Tahiti. Maturity has never been a strong suit.

Anyway, let me know how the move went and how the baby stuff is doing and how you're adjusting being back in America.

-Mike


From: Mike
To: Jen
Subject: Re: self loathing
Date: Friday, June 04, 2004 3:27 AM


"Every word I put down now must be an arrow that goes straight to the mark. A poisoned arrow. I want to kill off books, writers, publishers, readers. To write for the public doesn't mean a thing to me. What I'd like to do is write for madmen . . . or for the angels."
-Henry Miller

Jen,

I think my problem (and it may be yours also) is that I've been so concerned with my career. Writing for the public (be they readers, editors, or critics) is wrong. It might bring about a sale (like the many stupid books and movies out there), but it will be ephemeral and empty. Writers write because they have to . . . the story or poem or essay sears their brain and tunnels out to the page.

Ahh, but if you want a career (and who doesn't), you have to have some grasp on the marketplace. And if you want to be able to spend your time writing (and not waiting on tables or shuffling papers or digging a ditch or shaking your butt from a stripper pole), you need that success. A Catch-22 shit sandwich (with extra rancid mayo), and it inevitably leads to self-loathing and complaining to your friends. So you have to make a decision, and I've decided that I'm done with screenplays. Whatever I end up doing now for my income, I'm going to keep on writing stories and novels. But I refuse to waste any more time laboring over scripts. I have so much I want to say, and I don't want my voice to be shackled by acts and plot points and trying to appease the 15-24 demographic.

Which brings us to you, Jen. You are a writer, and a damn good one, even if you haven't produced anything recently. Maybe most writing stems from longing . . . but why can't it be a longing to express feelings of happiness or even to simply interpret interesting experiences? Living in Italy, getting married, having a child- these are moments in your life that you will (at some point) want to communicate. Maybe it will be next month, or maybe it might be next year, but you will one day wake-up and jump at your computer or notebook with your hair on fire, just longing to express yourself. And you won't do it for a smarmy lit magazine or for a possible book deal . . . you'll do it because you have no choice.

Jesus, talk about preachy.

For the last year I've thought so much about writing and my career, and even getting married and having kids. Heavy stuff . . . the topics that usually send me to the nearest bottle of rum. But I still haven't found any answers, and I don't suspect I will anytime soon. So I plod onwards, with a desire not to take myself so damned seriously so damned often. The harsh realities of life will always be there, but as long as I pay attention and keep writing stuff down I will be happy more days than not. And hopefully you will be too.

Mike

Of Laundromats & Shopping Carts

I was going to write a blog about how there is something inherently sad about Laundromats, about seeing little girl’s pink sock stuck to the top of the dryer you’re about to use. Such thoughts were swirling around my mind the other night as I was washing my clothes in public for the first time in nearly 5 years. I guess I was extrapolating my situation (of recently losing a terrific woman and a washer/dryer facility). But all around me seemed divorced, widowed, or perpetually single.

And that might have been the case . . . but doubtful. In congested metropolitan areas there is bound to be a percentage of the population who cannot do their laundry within their building. It’s actually very normal.

Except when you’re used to cleaning your socks and underwear in the privacy of your own home, a Laundromat can be a bizarre place. There’s the bright florescent lights, the industrial sound of machines running, and a group of people staring zombie-like at the tumbling dryers.

But there is something a bit odder. Picture if you will a college educated man in his 30’s pushing a shopping cart full of dirty clothes up the street. And then imagine this unfortunate person navigating this rickety carriage past multi-million dollar homes.

This really happened.

Buzzed from drinking beers and watching The Patriots beat The Cowboys, I came back to my apartment and suddenly realized I had no clean clothes to wear to work. Something had to be done. But I’d yet to do laundry since I moved to my new apartment, and I wasn’t quite sure where to go. Sans car, I knew I was in for a challenge.

I remembered passing a Laundromat somewhere nearby, so I gathered up all my dirty clothes and went outside for the journey. But something was very wrong. The laundry basket was exceeding heavy, and in the cool of the night I got to the end of the street and realized this was a huge mistake. I desperately needed clean clothes, but there was just no way to make the walk to the Laundromat (which, unbeknownst by me at the time, was about a mile away).

And that’s when I saw the shopping cart.

In urban areas shopping carts are not exotic items. Homeless people use them to transport their belongings, the elderly bypass the supermarket boundaries and push their groceries home with them, and punk kids boost them for joyrides. But as stated, I live in a very upscale neighborhood (for fluky reasons- there is nothing upscale about me). There are no bums, old people can afford to pay for cabs to deliver their groceries, and the kids are too busy with their soccer, lacrosse, or karate practices to steal shopping carts.

But there it was. Right at the end of the street, almost as if the laundry gods placed it there for me. And since I was buzzed from the football beverages and my basket was so heavy, I took it. I placed all my dirty clothes inside and made a terrible racket pushing the cart to the Laundromat. Clang, clang, clang I went and disturbed the peacefulness of the posh neighborhood.

Going there I was more embarrassed than anything. I felt guilty for taking somebody’s cart (even though it had a supermarket logo printed on it), and very low class for pushing it. But once at my destination I hid it off to the side because I knew I would need it return.

And I did use it again once I was finished washing and drying. But now I saw this whole situation as hilarious. I couldn’t help but smirk when a few people walking their dogs crossed to the other side of the street as I crashed on by. In the dark they must have thought I was an errant bum. So I laughed, and probably frightened them even more. When I got back to my block I left it exactly where I had found it.

And then it put everything in perspective. If you think hard enough, just about anything can be inherently sad. But if you are just trying to accomplish routine tasks, there is nothing dolorous about them. In fact, if you keep your sense of humor you might even have a good time.

Bring On The Indians

Although it’s strange to see The Red Sox play somebody other than The Yankees in the ALCS, it’s no less exciting. So we have Grady Sizemore, C.C. Sabathia, and Joe Borowski to root against instead of Johnny Damon, Andy Pettitte, and Mariano Rivera. The Cleveland names don’t exactly have the juice of their New York counterparts, but their team did win 96 games- same as The Sox.

And no matter who you play, you have to win four games to get to The World Series.

This is what us fans dream of every year. This is why we go to the park to see the games, watch them TV, or listen to the calls on the radio. This is why we pour over stats and box scores and read all the coverage in The Globe & Herald. Sure, if the Red Sox were in last place I’d still do the same thing (and have in years past). But winning makes it so much sweeter, so much more rewarding.

The season is exceedingly long and it’s incredibly difficult to play consistently well from April through October. So many things can go wrong, just getting to the League Championship Series is a huge accomplishment. But there isn’t a Sox fan or player who will say he or she is just happy for them to be there. We want to get into The World Series (which has happened only 3 times during my life) and win it all (only occurring once in 89 years).

But I’m looking too far ahead. The Indians are a very good team and will certainly provide The Red Sox with a tough challenge. Their top two starters- Sabathia and Fausto Carmona- have combined for 38 wins, they have a solid bullpen, and their line-up (7 players with double digit homers) produces a lot of runs. They are also well coached, scrappy, and play good defense.

But the Red Sox will have the advantage in two key areas- depth of starters and closers. Dice-K and Wakefield (or Jon Lester) are much stronger than their 3 & 4 pitchers. And while the Indians have great set-up men, their closer Borowski has had a lot of problems (8 blown saves and an ERA of 5.07). The Sox have Jonathan Papelbon, who is one of the league’s elite. These games should all be tight, and they have the potential to be decided by whoever can get the final 3 outs. With Papelbon you feel very safe giving him the ball in the 9th inning. I don’t think Cleveland fans feel the same way about Borowski.

So here we go. I will be rushing out of work early (4:10 west coast start) so I can make it up to The Buccaneer (my Boston bar in San Francisco) for Beckett’s first pitch. The Red Sox have won 99 games thus far this year. Hopefully we get number 100 tonight, and can squeeze out seven more after that.

Long Live Mediocrity

Just returned from walking around my new neighborhood (San Francisco's Outer Richmond) and I had planned on writing a blog about this area. But then I realized I don’t know enough about it yet. I could probably squeeze a few paragraphs on the good burger I had at Bill’s (a 1950’s joint) and the nice glass of Guinness I drank at The Blarney Stone (authentic Irish Pub), but beyond that I haven’t been to many of the places. But once I have the time I plan on doing a lot of exploring. There is much to see and do around here.

So instead I decided to read some old emails and find a good one to post. This was sent to my friend Paul back in the summer of ’04, most likely fueled by some red wine.


June 9, 2004

"Look around and you will see, this world is full of creeps like me. You look surprised, but you shouldn't be . . . this world is full of creeps like me." -Lyle Lovett

Paul,

Was just flipping channels and caught the end of Jay Leno. Three women were singing, and they looked like hideous caricatures of some Branson, Missouri show gone wild. They were gyrating out of sync, croaking a bland pop tune, and blasting Joker-like smiles from pancake make-up. But wait, they also looked familiar. Too young for an 80's band, too old for anything that might be on the charts . . . holy shit, it's Wilson-Phillips. Granted, I never liked their one or two songs that were hits, and they were pretty forgettable when they were released . . . but what had HAPPENED to them in the last 12 years (that was their last appearance on Leno). They are our age and looked just terrible. Not simply old, but haggard and ridiculous and wrong.

I'm not sure why it's bothering me so much. I was laughing when I saw them singing, but when they sat on the couch and stared talking about their new album and how 1992 was the last time they were on Leno . . . I began thinking about how 12 years ago we were still at B.U., and back then I felt like I could write and sell anything I wanted and that everything was possible. And here it is 2004 and a crappy pop group of my generation is doing a fucking REUNION TOUR and I've yet to achieve anything I've set out to do.

Ahh, but that's the way it goes. I've complained for so long now that I don't even listen to myself. I say bring on all the 90's reunion tours- Vanilla Ice, The Spice Girls, and that goddamned group that sang "Macarena". Mediocrity sells, long live mediocrity.

Okay, that's it for now. Hope the house hunting is going well. Talk to you soon.

-Oz

Pretty Girls Ride The Bus In San Francisco

In The Bay Area, if you want to get into San Francisco you have many travel options. There’s the freeways and bridges for driving, the BART (subway), the bus, the ferry, and Caltrain (commuter rail). Living on The Peninsula, I took the latter.

As much as I complained about my commuter train journey into the city everyday, the actual experience wasn’t that bad. I always got a seat to myself, the scenery was pleasant (hills, water, fog, and sunrises), I could drink coffee and eat my breakfast (Cliff Bar and string cheese), and it was a smooth 35 minute ride up the Bay. I think it was the whole “familiarity breeds contempt” thing that got to me, the repetition and seeing the same people everyday and that damn walk up 4th Street with all the herd of commuters.

But now that I live in the city and do not own a car, from my neighborhood I only have one option of getting to and from work- the bus.

I have always hated riding the bus.

For all the years I lived in Boston, I rarely rode the bus within the city. If I couldn’t get there by The T (subway) or on foot, I took a cab or else didn’t go to that destination. Busses were smelly- both of exhaust and the rift-raft of society, I hated waiting around for them to show, and the constant stopping and starting within traffic drove me crazy. In fact, when I was at BU and I had to go to Cambridge, I still took The T. Even though the quickest way there was the bus that simply crossed the river. But instead I would ride the Green Line all the way down Commonwealth Ave and underground to Park Street and then onto the Red Line and back up The Charles River. Adding 30 minutes was a good tradeoff from staying away from a bus.

When I lived in Los Angeles, there was about a six month period when I found myself without a car. Luckily for me there was the new underground Red Line that zipped me from Hollywood to downtown (where I worked) in about fifteen minutes. But there were many places the Los Angeles subway did not go, and occasionally I would take the bus.

There is nothing sadder than a screenwriter hopeful waiting on Sunset Boulevard for a bus that isn’t showing while Mercedes, Porches and Limos whiz on past him on their way to (what I always envisioned) million dollar deals. And while you were waiting for that stinking bus, inevitably a gorgeous girl in a convertible would stop at a red light next to you. Every second you lingered in the perfectly sunny afternoon, you could not help but to try to figure out what had went wrong with your life.

And the actual LA bus ride was a dreadful experience. Ten times smellier than Boston, with 50% more homeless people, and triple the stops and starts and traffic. There came a point when I could no longer stand it. I remember the exact moment when I said "no more" to LA busses. It was the day a lovely gentleman whipped out his Johnson and urinated while we headed down Wilshire Boulevard. I, along with most of the passengers, got off on the next stop.

But in San Francisco, I’ve had to hop back on.

I still hate waiting for the bus on the street corner. And I loathe being packed inside the crowded vehicle, trying desperately to hold onto the rail as we careen around the city. But luckily some things have changed.

In SF there are electric and low emission busses that eliminate most of the exhaust smell. And while I cannot say there are no dregs of society riding next to me, the percentage is much lower than LA. I’m also discovering which lines to take (#2 Clement- mostly students, elderly, and business people) and which to avoid (#38 Geary- too many winos). There also isn’t a stigma attached to taking the bus in San Francisco.

In LA, you were probably only taking the bus if you were poor or had lost your license from a DUI. And I never once saw a pretty girl get on board. In fact there were plenty of times when I was certain I was the only person there who was not wanted by the police. But here a wide selection of the masses rides the bus. And every morning at least a few beautiful women sit along side of me as we travel up and down the hills of San Francisco.

Dissecting The Blog

The whole idea of a blog is to provide a running commentary on your life or a certain subject. You’re trying to give whoever wants to read it brief bursts of personal information and opinions. But it seems as if I’ve had trouble with the “running” and “personal” and “brief” parts of that equation.

Posting everyday is just not option. If blogging were my job, then I would be able to happily finish several entries per day. But instead I must wake early in the morning, commute, work at a computer all day in uncreative endeavors, and then rush off for my return commute. Finding quiet time to write has always been a challenge.

The personal side is also tough. I have no problems revealing intimate details of my past (as with publishing excerpts from my old journals), but I tend to guard the here and now very closely. Recently I’ve gone through a break-up and have moved out on my own, but I have no interest in elaborating on either. Maybe that’s because I’m always looking for perspective. Current personal events are very volatile, and although you might feel a certain way today . . . tomorrow’s thoughts and emotions can be the polar opposite.

As for being brief, I guess that goes back to the fact that I don’t blog everyday. When I actually sit down and start to write and get the words flowing, it is pure enjoyment. I sort of zone-out and the hours pass quickly . . . especially with a few glasses of wine or beer. Even when I’m posting my old journals, I have to do a lot of editing to make them shorter.

But now that I’m going to have a lot more alone time, I plan on writing more often. I’ll probably still be guarded with the private details, but I want to start offering up more opinions and descriptions of what is happening around me. I will attempt to be more like a newspaper columnist (in the tradition of Mike Barnicle or Carl Hiassen). And I’m definitely going to limit the number of words in each blog entry (under 400 with this one), because the bulk of my writing time is going to be spent working on my new novel.

Sox AL East Champions- 1st time since 1995!

A bunt single by Baltimore's Melvin Mora gives The Red Sox the division title!

Of course you would like to clinch on the field, with the players jumping up and down and getting to shake up Champagne immediately afterwards in the clubhouse. It's also more fun for the fans, who can celebrate in unison. I was there in 1990 when The Red Sox won the division on the Last Play of the season. With the go ahead run on base, Tom Brunansky made a diving catch near Pesky Pole. I was standing in the right field bleachers and going crazy with 30,000 plus other people at Fenway Park. It was amazing. Probably the best sports moment I'd seen in person. Right afterwards I got in line for playoff tickets and spent the night on Yawkey Way. (Don't try this tonight, because you'll be very lonely out there. Playoff tickets can only be had if you're lucky-via the internet-or very rich...but that is another topic and we don't need to bring the mood down on such a great night).

There was no drama inside Fenway Park tonight, but having The Yankees (and Mariano Riveria) blow a 3 run in the 9th inning and for NY to lose the game in extra innings to a lowly Orioles club isn't bad either.

And 17 years ago the playoffs were a lot different. There were only 2 division winners and no wild card. Getting The AL East pennant was a huge accomplishment, and you were only one step away from The World Series.

In 2007, with The Sox already assured of a playoff spot, it's doesn't have the weight it once had . . . . but it's still damned cool. It's even sweeter to end The Yankees run on those flags. And even more sweeter that it's our first division title in 12 years.

I was able to listen to the Yankees broadcast on mlb.com and hear NY blow their game to give us the division championship live. And now I have the stream from WEEI on the computer to get a picture of what is going on at Fenway. I would love to be in Boston instead of San Francisco, but I'm still enjoying this very much.

. . . . Just talked to my Mom, who informed me that they had the Yankees game on the big screen in Fenway and many of the fans stayed. And from Joe Castiglione on WEEI I'm hearing that the players have gone back to the field and are celebrating with the fans. Papelbon & Gagne are showering the fans with Champagne. Very cool. 162 games is a long grind, and the players should take this time to go a little crazy.

So raise those glasses in a nice toast, and get ready for us to keep on winning (11 more times) in the playoffs. I haven't had much to feel good about lately, so I will certainly appreciate this. But there's still so much to be done.

A Look Back To September 2002

Due to some grim personal problems, I haven’t felt much like writing this month. Creativity does not arise when you’re feeling down. But if anything good comes out of the pain, it’s that you’re forced into introspection. You’re forced to looking honestly at your life, and even though you might not like what you see, the truth will eventually help.

And part of the process is analyzing your history. And for me it’s apt to take a look back five years ago, the last time I found myself single. Reading through my journal from that period might not provide any answers, but it may give me a modicum of perspective. So here is what I was thinking and writing in September of 2002.


September 1, 2002
9:04 p.m.

So here it is, Labor Day Weekend, and I find myself hunkered down on Descanso Drive in front of the air-conditioner during an uncharacteristic humid evening. I’ve spent this whole day editing my manuscript, and I’ve made good progress. A Model Community is almost ready to send out to the world.

So why do I feel, as Kristofferson sings, nearly faded as my jeans? Sure the heat has whittled away my energy, but the weariness isn’t all physical.

I had tried to get people to go to The Red Lion tonight, but I didn’t follow through and have no idea whether anybody will show. Should I make a trip to Glendale Boulevard? I thought being around friends inside one of my favorite bars would help, but I’m feeling rather lousy and alcohol has no appeal.

I need a trip far away from Los Angeles, California.

Key West would be great. My buddy Dave emailed me and wanted tips on the island. He’s going there with his wife, and when we were roommates (6 years ago . . . how could that be 6 years ago??), I had told many stories of my Key West days. So just typing Pier House and Mallory Square and Fort Taylor and Captain Tony’s in my email back to him made me sigh. I want out of this damned city. I feel like a rat dumbly zigzagging around a maze……………….


September 9, 2002
10:30 p.m.
Monday Night

Okay, things are pretty f’n good right now. Of course it can all crash to shit in a nanosecond, but The Patriots began their Super Bowl defense tonight with a 30-14 smack down on The Steelers, things are going well with my (hopefully) new semi-girlfriend, and I finished the near final draft on A Model Community. Sure, if I analyzed my life enough I could probably find things to depress the shit out of myself. But I have no interest in such an activity, and I’m just going to enjoy September 9th in the good year of our lord 2002.

Because, as everybody knows, in less than two days it’s going to be that anniversary. It won’t be a day to smile. It won’t be a day to rejoice. But it will be a day to shed a tear for the victims, to celebrate survival, and to be thankful of your life.

Well…there’s no sense going on about my successes or problems after even mentioning September 11, 2001. The pictures of my trip to the World Trade Center in 1996 are still tacked up to the wall, and in the middle are the three firemen raising the American Flag at Ground Zero. Six and a half years ago I was standing on top of Manhattan, my head above the skyscrapers, horizon, and clouds. Nobody will ever be at that spot ever again. It’s an eerie and awful fact…………………………


SEPTEMBER 11, 2002
11:04 p.m.

Last year I couldn’t articulate my sorrow and there’s no reason why I could do it now.

Nobody knows why one person is allowed to live while another cannot be saved from death. All day at work I couldn’t help but ponder that unanswerable question. And as such thoughts pinball around your brain, you cannot believe you’re still spending hour upon hour at a job you don’t enjoy. Sure, you’re breathing now….but there’s no promises you will be tomorrow. And what do you have to show for it?

I’ve dedicated myself to succeeding in my career, and even though I’ve consistently failed, I can take some sense of pride in the effort. But I’m still earning money by doing something I see as pointless. I’m still not only far away from my family and friends, I’m living in a city that rates extremely low in my opinion. And it could all end tomorrow.

You can’t consciously think doom and gloom or you’ll go crazy. But the fragility of existence is something that should be acknowledged on some level. You have to have priorities. And waiting around for “fate” to help me is not one of them.

Publishing my novel is a good start. As Palahniuk said in Fight Club, “This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time”. You should at least try to do something worthwhile with your days and years. I wasn’t even a teenager when I began writing short stories. It’s the only thing I’ve truly wanted to do. Okay…I can’t make any money writing, but I can get my novel available to whoever wants to read it.

So what does it mean?

I still might leave L.A. before the end of the year. But I’m not going to ponder any future stuff until after A Model Community gets to Xlibris Publishing. Whenever I get overwhelmed and depressed, it’s usually because I’m looking to far down the road………………...

September 30, 2002
11:52 p.m.
Monday

Here it is the waning minutes of the month, and I find myself back at my little brown desk with cold air sneaking through the windowpanes. It can’t be more than fifty degrees outside. Cold for L.A., but still fine weather. After such a hot summer I’ve enjoyed this overcast weather.

Still haven’t heard about my car. Since I blew that tire and damaged my steering column I’ve been mobility challenged for more than a week. My mechanic is back (very honest and friendly) and should give me an estimate tomorrow. I await with both fear and anticipation. The subway is a decent alternative to driving, but I could do without the 25 minute walk. In Boston I was never more than a hundred yards from a T stop.

You could also phrase that as a touchdown away. Which is what the Patriots were from winning their 13th straight game. Unfortunately The Chargers stopped them…and I experienced that lousy feeling for the first time in 300 plus days. It was an amazing run, and there is no shame in their defeat. But why did I have to see it in person? I hadn’t see The Patriots live since they clinched a wild card spot in 1999 against San Francisco…and I make the trip down to San Diego where the incredible streak ends.

Bummer, man.

Yes, and even worse to witness it in hostile territory. Which got me thinking along the same lines as I did in June at Dodger Stadium…that I’m so sick of being the away team. I want Fenway Park and Foxboro and The New Garden. I want to be among scores of friends…to be apart of the community I loved so much. Be it sports or just your average day-to-day stuff. I am through with Los Angeles.

Some good news before I close…the editors have A Model Community, and when I get back from my trip back to Boston to see family and friends it should be ready. And during that time I’ll keep myself busy with writing the back cover summary and my biography and the description I want posted on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.com. There’s also the new script- which might turn out to be the framework for my second novel.

Which brings us to…

My search for a college teaching job. I don’t even know if I’m qualified, but with a M.A. and a literary novel I should have a chance. I’ve said it so many times during my four year misadventures in Hollywood, but this time I truly mean it. What's kept me going, even during my darkest hours, was the belief I would sell a script. The belief has faltered into a desperate hope, and desperation is no way to go about life.

I might be happy at a little college in New England. Not much money, but minimal expenses and plenty of time to read and write. Find a nice girl, settle down, have some kids, and all that usual stuff. I never much gave any thought to all that usual stuff, but I never gave much thought to getting old.

Weird…that’s the only way to describe how I feel, right here in now, as I move a few more feet into my 30’s. I’ve held onto not growing up for a long time, and it was a noble effort. But it’s over. I can still enjoy going to bars and staying up late and sleeping with different women, but I want more. I was pretty contented to just focus on writing and then to goof off in my spare time. But it’s not enough. I’m not saying I want to get married or start a family…shit, I don’t even know what I really want…but I’m sure of what I don’t want- the routine I’ve carved out for myself.

I’m whining and babbling like a 2 year-old now, and we’ll end it here before I reach October. You have to be thankful of the good things you have, and try your best to change the bad things that sting the soul.

A Trip To The Mainland

During the times when I’m not feeling loquacious (which has been the case of late), it’s always nice to crack open an old journal and see what in the hell I was thinking and writing years ago. In January of 1994 I was a bartender living in Key West, trying to get over a girl and write the Great American Novel. Since I wasn’t having any luck at either, when a few friends came to visit we decided to take a trip:

Key West, FL
January 27, 1994
Thursday Afternoon 4:12 p.m.

Returned early this morning from my first road trip to the mainland. I’m quite weary, but still glad I did it. Let me explain.

I guess it all started yesterday afternoon when I called in sick to work. Jamie, Dave, and Corey rented a car to drive up the Keys and I didn’t want to miss out. I’ve been here almost 4 months and until last night I’d never been any further than Marathon Key. So I made the call to Perry’s, and under false pretenses (a sprained ankle getting out of the shower . . . always give embarrassing stories about yourself when you’re calling in sick to work) I was given the okay to head up U.S. 1.

At 2:30 we finally hit the road. We didn’t have any plans or even a destination. Islamorada and Key Largo were thrown out, but nobody really cared where went. So after stopping at Burger King in Stock Island our journey was underway.

U.S. 1, the road that connects all The Keys with Mainland Florida, is not a road for speedy travel. Traffic during the day gets heavy, and it can seem like an eternity when you’re stuck behind a mammoth truck. At some points there are 2 lanes, but those are the exceptions. Mostly it’s a one lane shot with oncoming traffic hindering any passing plans.

Except it’s not all bad. Fortunately the road offers nice views of the ocean, glimpses of the old railroad, and interesting flora and some elegant houses. Also, if you get deep enough, it’s cool to know you’re hopping from one island to the next, suspended over the Atlantic Ocean by just some concrete and steel.

Well, it took us about 4 hours to reach mainland Florida. Along the way we stopped in Marathon to walk onto the old railroad, and in Key Largo for some clues as to what to do.

Traveling without a destination is actually kind of funny. Here we are, driving well over a 100 miles, and we had no plan of action. All we wanted was a good bar to hang out at for the night. Our expectations were not too high.

After stupidly driving by some signs that advertised “happy hour” in Ismoralda (which is supposed to be a good party place), we decided upon Key Largo as our town of choice. Hell, if it was good enough for Bogie and Bacall, why not us? So we stopped at (where else) a liquor store for some info on the good bars in town.”

“There are no good bars in Key Largo,” the man behind the counter said.

I couldn’t help but laugh. At that moment I knew how Clark Griswald must have felt when he got all the way to Wally World to find out it was closed. All we wanted was a good bar with some tasty food, but Mr. Liquor Store Guy pissed all over that.

“If you want good bars, go to Coconut Grove. Marino’s, Baha Beach Club . . . that’s where everybody goes. It’s about 45 minutes from here.”

Well, the names sounded good. Coconut Grove. Beach Club. And Dan Marino, although a nemesis of The Pats, is a helluva good QB. So why not? We hopped into the car and hit the road again. We got through Key Largo, buzzed into Homestead, and then stopped into a mall for directions to Coconut Grove and food. T.G.I. Friday’s ended up being the restaurant, and Angela the bartender turned out to be a good source of information. She told us how to get to “CG, the place to go, and you gotta go down to Coco Walk”- and Angela gave us the name of somebody to say hi to at Marino’s Bar.

It was worth the trip.

A town of narrow streets, quaint shops, outdoor cafes, and rocking bars, Coconut Grove is a place I’m glad I’ve seen. Coco Walk, a multi-level plaza with balconies and open air walkways, is the hotbed of activity. White, Spanish stucco combines with corral rock, and there are palm trees and landscaping to please the eye. To appease the body and soul, we hit the bars.

The first place we went was Marino’s, to say hi to Moe for Angela. Moe turned out to be a cool guy who hooked us up with free beer, showed us some bar tricks, and kept us entertained with his Brian Flannagan (Cocktail) impersonations. There were nice looking girls playing pool, a zillion TVs, and good nachos. Overall a great experience.

The next place I give mixed reviews. The Baha Beach Club had one element that I always look for- beautiful women, but the place reeked of pretentious idiots. One the plastic scale I’d rank it a 10 plus. Yes, I can’t complain about the girls- from the half naked bartenders to slutty dancers- but they were the kind of women who’d ask what kind of car you drive . . . if you were even lucky to get that far into a conversation.

Well, I never go into any conversations. I was groggy from the nachos and beer, and weary from the hours in the car. I’ve slung some good bullshit in my time, but it wasn’t going to happen that night. So I just drank my Coronas and did a lot of staring.

I wasn’t the only one. The rest of the crew were in agreement that the day needed to end. I wanted to stay at a hotel, but Dave said he was okay to drive. So we did, and had to combat the hours and miles back to Key West. I was drunk, but couldn’t sleep. I just stared at that white line on the road and got glimpses of the ocean off the streetlights as we went over the bridges. At 4:04 a.m. we had come full circle. I’m glad I went . . . but the next time I’ll be better prepared.

Boston In My Mind

I grew up 10 miles outside of Boston and lived there while I went to school for my undergraduate and master’s degree. I will always consider it my home, and even after exploring New York, Chicago, Denver, Seattle, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego, Phoenix, San Antonio, New Orleans, and Miami . . . I still believe Boston is the greatest city in America.

I recently took a trip there (a 3,000 mile journey from SF) and was very excited to do all the Boston things I love. But my plans were ruined when getting into my Dad’s car I felt as if somebody was jabbing a knife into my lower back. Somehow I had either slipped a disc or pinched a nerve in my back, horrid things I hadn’t done in more than 10 years. How did this happen? Maybe it was a lingering effect from the plane ride, or was related to the 10 lbs I’d gained over the last month, or possibly I did something while throwing a football around a few days before . . . who the hell knows. But regardless of the how or why, I found myself in immense pain.

Although it wasn’t all bad. Because of this injury I got to spend more time with my Mom, Dad, Brother, Sister, nephews, brother-in-law and friends. I love them all and I cherish every moment I get with them.

But it still would have been nice to get a couple days/nights in Boston.

I planned on getting to Fenway last Wednesday, but that was the day when my pain was the most intense. Which was most unfortunate because Big Papi hit a walk-off homerun that night. But I did get to watch it from my parents couch, high on Vicodin.

So other than seeing a Red Sox game, what would have I done in Boston? Last year a co-worker (from Italy) was taking a trip there and asked me for some travel advice. I'm sure I would have only done a handful of these things, but here are the tips I wrote for her (aided by a bottle of red wine and the good ole internet):

• The North End is the Italian section of Boston (sort of like North Beach in S.F.), and here you’ll find cobblestone streets, The Old North Church, and Paul Revere’s House. There are also great cafes and restaurants. My favorite place for an espresso is at Café Vittorio (on Hanover Street) and for a canoli is Mike’s Pastries (a few doors down). I have several favorite places to eat there: Monica’s and Villa Francesca (both on Richmond St), Café Florentine (On Hanover), La Famiglia (On Salem), and Pizzeria Regina (on Thatcher). But what I always loved about The North End is that you can just grab a coffee and wander all the side streets and check out the great architecture and the old time Italians sitting on their steps or beach chairs and get a real feeling of what it was like here 50 years ago. http://www.northendboston.com/visting-map.htm

• If you follow the signs to the water you’ll cross over to Columbus Park, which abuts The North End and The Harbor (It’s next to The Marriot Hotel). It’ll give you great views of The Custom House Tower, the downtown skyscrapers, and the sail boats.

• Quincy Market/ Faneiul Hall (just west of The North End) is pretty touristy, but it’s definitely worth a look. There are shops and restaurants and great architecture. And you shouldn’t leave Boston without having a pint of Guinness at an Irish bar, and you can do that at The Black Rose. If you go at night Eugene Byrne might be playing traditional Irish songs. And if you like oysters, The Union Oyster House across from the Market is one of the oldest restaurants in the country. http://www.faneuilhallmarketplace.com/

• Beacon Hill (just up from Quincy Market and Government Center) is the oldest neighborhood and home of The Massachusetts State House. You can take a tour inside or just take a look at the impressive building. Across the street is The Boston Commons and around the corner you’ll find The Granary Burial Ground, which contains the graves of Paul Revere, Samuel Adams, and John Hancock. But make sure you explore the back streets of this neighborhood and get to Louisburg Square. From The State House take a right on Walnut and a left on Mt. Vernon and shortly you’ll be at the grassy square with the wrought iron and stunning mansions.

• The Public Garden (below The Boston Commons between Arlington and Charles Street, seconds away from Louisburg Square) is a place to just relax with a book or people watch. There are also The Swan Boats here and you can take a ride around the small lagoon shaded by Willow Trees. And if you feel like having a quick lunch and eating outside, I recommend going to Café Du Paris (across the park on Arlington) and taking your food back to a bench. I used to do this a lot when I was in college.

• Newbury Street, which begins at The Public Garden, has a lot of upscale boutiques and restaurants. Although I can’t think of any restaurants there I’ve been to, Sonsie (327 Newbury) is supposed to be excellent. http://www.newbury-st.com/ This is in The Back Bay section of town, and from here you can walk over to:

• Copley Square: The enormous glass Hancock Tower is the first thing you’ll notice, but Trinity Church across the street is one of my favorite buildings in Boston (seeing it reflected in the Hancock’s glass is cool). The Public Library is also an amazing piece of architecture. If you have time go inside and check out all the marble and ornamental ceilings, and then grab a book and relax in the peaceful courtyard.

• Up the road on Bolyston St. you’ll see The Prudential Center, the second tallest building in Boston (Hancock is the first). You can go up top to The Observatory, or even better to the cocktail lounge and restaurant (Top Of The Pru) for a drink. From over 1,000 feet up, it’s like looking at a giant map of the city. http://www.prudentialcenter.com/play/skywalk.html From The Prudential Center you can get on The T (Green Line E Train), which is Boston’s subway, and head over to:

• The Museum Of Fine Arts- It’s one of the best museums in this country, and it’s definitely a must see in when you go to Boston. You’ll find work from just about every major artist here (and one of the best collections of Impressionist paintings outside of Paris). But the only downside is the crowds. Down the road a bit is The Gardner Museum, which has wonderful art (including some great pieces by Matisse) with half the people. http://www.gardnermuseum.org/the museum/introduction.asp

• The above is a good two days of activities, and for day three (when you’re tired of walking) you can take a Harbor Cruise, which will give you different and beautiful views of the city. http://www.bostonharborcruises.com/index.html

• If a boat ride is too long you can take a water taxi over to Charlestown Navy Yard. There you can go on board The USS Constitution (America’s oldest battle ship) or follow the red Freedom Trail and walk up to the top of the Bunker Hill Monument (commemorating a famous battle in The Revolution).

• And at sometime you have to take a walk down The Esplanade, which runs along the Charles River and gives you picture postcard views of Boston. People run, ride bikes, or just lie on the grass and look across the river to Cambridge.

• And once you’ve looked across at Cambridge, you should take The T (subway) there. From Park Street Station (Green Line in Boston Commons) you jump on The Red Line to Harvard Square. You can walk through the campus, check out all the funky characters, and you can even buy an Italian or Russian language magazine at the Newsstand right outside of the subway stop. If you’re up for another museum, The Fogg has great art and is rarely crowded. The Brattle Theatre shows revival films and a couple good places to eat are Grendels (89 Winthrop St.) and The Border Café ( 32 Church St.) http://www.harvardsquare.com/
  
  Here are some other useful websites:
  
  Map: http://www.lib.utexas.edu/maps/national_parks/boston_nhp99.pdf
  
  For taking the subway: http://www.mbta.com/schedules_and_maps/
  
  Historical Walks: http://www.thefreedomtrail.org/
  
  Newspapers: http://www.boston.com/ and http://www.thephoenix.com/