Jerryl Dwain Jones 1950-2012

Hey.

I was sitting in a pizza shop this Wednesday evening around 6:45pm. Got the call from my mother that my father had died. He was 61 years old.

After the call, I stared at my food and I thought: You have work to do. Eat, get your strength, and do not disappoint me, Jara.  I called my brother, tried to call my sister.  Threw food into my mouth, and canceled my plans for the evening. Walked back to the apartment, and as I stepped inside, I felt my stomach curdle and my knees began to buckle, and I choked back a scream, and I stood right up and I slapped myself hard three times because this was not the fucking time or the place for this.

All the shows I had planned to do or were doing, I canceled. I tried to have friends over to lessen the blow, but it didn't work.

Finally, after making preliminary plans with the siblings and mom and getting my affairs in order, I started working.  I need work. I crave work.  Work is what keeps me alive.  I was listening to an album I just purchased (Florence + The Machine's LUNGS) and I stumbled upon the song "Cosmic Love", which cracked it all open.

If you know me, you know I'm prone to slight exaggeration.  In all seriousness , from Wednesday night till now, I've been listening to that song on a near-constant loop and have heard it nigh on fifty times now.  Around the first thirty minutes, I was just tearing up, working on degree plans for my day job and then something in the way the 8th time I heard the song got to me.  It's at 1:20 in the song, when she sings the second verse:

and in the dark
i can hear your heartbeat
i tried to find the sound
but then it stopped
and i was in the darkness 
so darkness i became...

And, if you've heard it, she starts losing it, screaming the notes in "became" all the way through to the end of the second chorus. And, independent of reason, I began to thrash violently, my head jerking in time with the music, and I was keening and wailing and singing in pitch as loud as I could and the hurt would not cease. 

And this happens every single time I hear the song at this part now and I can't stop listening to it.

The stars, the moon 
they have all been blown out
you left me in the dark
no dawn, no day
i'm always in this twilight
in the shadow of your heart 

Before I tell you about the man I have lost, I want to make one thing expertly clear.

I love you all and know you mean well, but I do not want to hear or see these phrases from anyone at this point:

 - I'm sorry for your loss.
 -If you need anything let me know.

Or the equivalent thereof.

That's pity, and we only pity those we find weak.

And I am not weak.

I am simply pushing through this tragedy.   I will be the same old wanton, empathic, kind, sardonic beast as before, in time.

Look, I've been there.  Dealing with people in grief fucking sucks. Forced social coercion regarding an event which claims us all - death - and knowing deep down that nothing, nothing can ameliorate their sorrow devastates people.  Because people want to help.

I'll tell you for free what people in grief might want.

They'll never voice this, because most people in grief like myself would gnaw off their arm rather than ask for help, but this is what they want:

 - Be present and listen. Don't help.  You can't. Just hear.
- Money.  (Tacky ?  Of course.  But death accrues expenses and probate is woefully slow. Money lifts stress - if you'd like - there's a donate button for Paypal on this page)
- Silently help them clean.  
 - Make them laugh.  For the love of all that is dear, please make them laugh.
 - Show them your breasts (bonus points for dude breasts)


My father was a quiet, weathered mid-western voice; expressive and low.  It's from him where my love of story began. From the bedtime stories he'd tell us as kids to the stirring anecdotes he'd tell us about his life, my father made it very clear that the craft of a good story was in the choice of a word and the cadence used to give that word purpose.  Despite his general even-temperedness, we kids knew that his voice had power and fire behind it, that it could fill the whole room and strike fear when angered or surprised.  Even the way he sneezed was so much larger than life and dangerous in tone. I loved his voice so, so much.  I loved the way he said "warsh" instead of wash. I loved his singing voice and tried to alter my tinny, high pitched voice for years in an effort to sound as resonant and rich and calm as him.

My father wore Old Spice during my childhood, and on him, it smelled like strength and rugged, quiet confidence. It's the only thing I've worn as an adult, and it always reminds me of him and watching him apply it during family vacations.

My father taught me that you can give yourself the opportunity to do what you desire if you are willing to make any and all sacrifices such a ministry takes. His last words to me (this Monday night)  were : "As long as you're doing what you love, that's what matters"  That was his definition of success.

I've told you before about one of my father's greatest strengths : Faking .  He was a master at it.  To just roll up your sleeves and tackle a problem until the solution availed itself.  I'm not saying it always worked, but it always made for a powerful lesson and an amazing story.

This is the perfect story to describe my father, his love, and his care.  I've told it so many times, and I'll tell it again, because he was amazing and it should be heard :

1995. I was about to start my senior year of high school, and we were broke. My grades in school were commendable, I was part of a wide variety of volunteer groups and extra-curricular activities, but that wasn't going to be enough to get me out of my hometown and into college.  My dad knew this.  Because I was aware of how bad things were, money-wise, I asked my parents not to get me any gifts for my 17th birthday, which occurred during the first week of school.

The morning of my birthday, I get a knock on the door, and my dad comes into my room.  I made you something, he drawled.

And then he pulled out a large office calendar and laid it softly on the bed. The calendar was covered with two kinds of ink:  Red for one month prior, and Black for the final due date.  In the back of the calendar, he had included application after application for scholarships.  In the pre-internet world, my own father had spent months researching scholarships, printing out applications, and charting exactly when submissions were due.  For me. 62 scholarships in all.  I still tremble when I think about it.

That year, I completed all but five, and I won five scholarships from that batch.  That, combined with serendipity allowed me to go to college.

He gave me so goddamned much, and now he's gone.

Here's the plan.  I'm headed out next week to see my brother get married in Vegas, and we'll honor dad there as well.  He always wanted a wake over a funeral, and I'd know he'd see me crying and crying over him and think:  Well, son - you've got a choice.  You can choose to let this own you, or you can let it pass and make room for what's to come.   He was the one who taught me self-hypnosis, and the power of suggestion.  To think for yourself, and to challenge any automatic prejudice. He taught me how to play blackjack and texas hold-em and how to predict when traffic lights will turn green and end up looking like a wizard to a group of children.

He had his college acting primer in his vast bookshelf (which I adored), and I still own it. I wish he had the chance to do more acting in his life, to be more confident in his singing.  To have written more, to have dealt with his depression better.  But I know that he loved my mother and his children so fiercely, and that this love gave him a quiet, well-deserved sense of reward.

After the wedding, I'll head to Oregon with my mom, and I'll stay there for as long as she needs me.

Dad, thank you for the time we shared, and for being a wonderful father. I hope I make you proud.

New guitar, and an old song - Jumping the Shark

Hey.

Been one of those weeks where the air crackles with possibility.  So many evenings with dear friends and passionate artists. Auditions and woolgathering and brainstorming about a new one-man musical I want to create. And, in a few short weeks, I'll be 34.

When I was in my twenties, flat broke and working my way through a copy of THE ARTIST'S WAY (which everyone has done, it's like masturbating. Vital, therapeutic.  A window into your own desires. And best not discussed at length out in public) I got to the part there you shape the future of what an average desired day would be like for you.

And about two weeks ago, I realized I had finally fucking pulled it off.  I did it.  I'm not in the union or a success on a commercial level.  But I am disciplined and making things and working with people who are crazy about making things and I wake up without dread.  I haven't woken up with dread since I moved here.

I'd been letting one of my fears (being a shitty musician and guitarist) get the best of me for a while, and I'd been putting off upgrading from the half-size spunky acoustic guitar you've seen in all my videos to something more professional. Something I could take to open mics and plug into amps, something I could use to record my silly songs on a cleaner, more developed level. 

Just like this site, even when it's serious, deep down, I know my songs are silly.  They're simple.  But they make me happy, and if they make you happy too, well, I'm obliged.

So, here's my new guitar.  An Ibanez acoustic-electric.  Gonna call her Huckleberry.  Not for the color, but as a reminder that, no matter my mood or my self-doubt about the quality of the music I make, she'll be my companion and a reminder that somewhere within her body is the clean, clear wonder of music.

Here's me playing one of my cheekier songs.  "Jumping the Shark"

Lyrics  (I'm not gonna cite all the scatting, because that's just annoying as hell to read)

First Verse
watching my favorite tv show
season three
ive started thinking its all going downhill now
but you cant trust me
whatever happened to good old fashioned means
keeping my mind alive
instead of filling me with secondhand bullshit
treating me like im five

Pre-Chorus
will they or wont they devolved to a tired theme
the breakout character is stealing the show
theyve got a catchphrase they use every single scene
no more
i think theyre jumping the shark

Chorus
jumping the shark
damn them theyre jumping the shark
jumping the shark

Second Verse
remember my friends what the fresh prince did
well it wasnt quite nice
see will was never so fond of his old aunt viv
blood running cold as ice
come season four instead of writing the poor dear off
they switched the actress  lame
what were they thinking
its like becky in roseanne
all women don't look the same

Pre-Chorus
Chorus

Bridge
and if you look very carefully
youll see with your own two eyes
i never knew that the fonz could ever suffer
from pale white thighs
and if you look very carefully
youll see with your own two eyes
its not a question of canon
often no big
surprise  

Chorus
jumping the shark
damn them were jumping the shark
jumping the shark
damn them
dont believe it
couldnt see it
it was too good to be true
you know for me
dont believe it
couldnt see it
it was too good to be true
you know for me
dont believe it
couldnt see it
it was too good to be true
you know for me
dont believe it
couldnt see it
oh
it was too good to be true
you know were jumping the shark

By the Bed - first draft of original song

Hey.

Not gonna talk much about this song below.  To do so is to disrespect the parties involved. But I did want to stress the following:

1)Every single word in the song is true. I wish it wasn't, but it is.

2)The verses and the chorus are written in the spirit of the moment  when it happened. The need for detail to explain, to control, to summon strength.  The bridge, however, represent my thoughts on the subject years, years later.

3)If you or someone you love feels suicidal, don't treat it as joke or as something you need to hide. Please, please, please seek help. If you don't want to do therapy, you can call an anonymous hotline like this one:

1-800-273-TALK

www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org

I know it's scary, and I know that mental health is overlooked in the United States.  But you owe it to yourself to find care and comfort. This is a woefully short time we're given.  If you feel out of control, promise me you'll reach out to friends, family, or to an outside source.

Lyrics:

i'm by the bed
i smooth your hair
i kiss your cheek
Neck straining, try to read
the vitals on the screen
and you are sleeping so serene
i'm by the bed
thin ring of charcoal round your lips
from where they pumped you when they found you
when i called them
when you called me
when you let your spirit go

Chorus
Til the day I die
i know the worst thing I've ever done
was failing you
should have seen the signs
should have known your hurt had no ending
that collapse was due
oh, now i'm done with love
don't deserve it
far too steeped in sin, it's true
this is all
i know now

Second Verse
i'm by the bed
attendants wheel you out the door
step right in front of me
and tell me bring your clothes
they must observe you
how long   who knows
i'm by the bed
at our apartment
at the crime
survey the wreckage
there's the bottle
there's the pillbox
there's the letter
there's a suitcase  focus pack

CHORUS

Bridge
several years have passed
several thousand miles between us
you're doing well
found a new love
you're ok
i'm still alone
screaming in the wind to seize creation
feeling stronger
growing steady
i'm ok

but there's times i'm in the dark
recall that night, that bitter bark
how something died
my final hope
that i could help you learn to cope
and still i wonder is it me
who always poisons company
love's not enough
when you're bleeding
i was wrong
i am pleading
i am sorry for the pain you shouldered

Third Verse

i'm by the bed
you haven't slept, your fingers shake
room smells like nicotine
i hold you close and tight
and i am sorry   this isn't right
i'm by the goddamned bed
they wave you out
the doctor comes
he asks me jara
will she be safe
when she leaves here
and i'm sorry
for a second    i didn't know

CHORUS

Hilariously Depressed

Hey.

Those in the know are aware that I've struggled with depression my entire life.

I was diagnosed with severe depression in my mid twenties.  Did the therapy and the pills for about four years, and then my life really fell apart, and none of it helped, so I quit it all.

I poured myself into my work, saved up thousands of dollars to move to a new place.  I shut down all outside aspects of my life. And, as always, my sheer stubbornness led me to prosperity.

I don't do well with free time.  Once a play/musical ends, or I wrap up a creative endeavor, I collapse.

And, my depression, which has been patiently waiting, decides to take control.

I've been really hilariously depressed this week.   I think it's funny because it's so predictable and insistent and clumsy and familiar.

My depression looks like this:

Behold, the manatee.

Sailors used to believe these "sea cows" were mermaids.  They're lumbering, homely creatures.

My depression is mute and forceful and belligerent.  He slaps against my chest over and over until it's a steady, dull ache. It's hard to focus.

My favorite part about dealing with him are the strange, desperate bargains I make to keep him from undermining me:

Me: C'mon, you have to get out of bed.  There's no reason for you to brood and feel bad right now.
Manatee:  (groans, shakes head, hides under the covers)
Me: Look, if you get up, you don't have to shower, ok?
Manatee: (bleats feebly)
Me: ...and you can have Thai food.  I know you love Thai food...
Manatee: (slaps me hard with a fin)
Me: Dammit - what do you want?  Love?  Do you want love?  Well, you can't get that right now.  We don't have any of that in stock.  Do you want music?  Movies? Games?
Manatee:: (gurgles sadly)
Me:  (sigh) How about ice cream?
Manatee: (wheezes, lifts himself out of bed)
Me:  Ok.

And the two of us have been at it all this week. Making bargain after bargain to be able to do things a normal person can do without blinking: getting out of bed, going to work, going to see a friend sing, just getting out of the house.

I don't know if I'll ever make my manatee go away for good.  I know I'm still miles away from practicing healthy self-care and respect.  But by giving him a face, he seems less scary.  Less in control.

The Curse

Hey.
Something's been eating at me for about a week now. Messing with my sleep.

I was walking out of a rehearsal for this wonderful, sweet, hilarious musical I'm doing called PAGEANT PRINCESS, and I meet a friend of a friend. She recognizes me from a production of ASSASSINS I did with our mutual acquaintance, asks me how long I've lived now in the city.

I tell her it's been about a year and a few months for me. She then quips, So, has the city made you want to kill yourself yet?

I pause, shake my head. The elevator doors open, she smiles this tight, skull-rattling smile, and as she exits, she declares, Don't worry, it will.

And I know it's just a stupid, careless thing people toss out in trite social settings. I know people don't have the same trigger about suicide like I do . I know for many, many people suicide's an abstract, academic kind of fear. I've written before about the quiet path marked out by depression: in me, in others I love and have loved.

Is it wrong to feel like she was trying to curse me?

Look, I've known scores of friends of mine who did NY for a spell and moved away. To call them cowards or weak for doing so is beyond arrogant. There are plenty of reasons to leave this city and seek out more space, more freedom. But their path is not mine. I come to this supercharged small town, Manhattan. This island which (on a map) resembles a butchered chicken. I come here a man in my thirties. Single. Rife with the experience and the suffering and the sense of self my twenties gave me.

You think some town's gonna make me fall? Fuck you. I've been lonely before, I've known far fewer acting opportunities or friends or love or money before. Whatever small amount of sadness which comes now is a goddamn holiday compared to the terror and the collapse I've known in this life. There is a vigor to my creative life and an intensity in my gaze which has not ceased. Which will not cease. It is the altar where I gladly sacrifice comfort and pride and status. And I do not expect anything in return. Just the chance to make the work . To listen and be clear.

Willing - First Draft of New Song

Hey.

It's been a while since I put up a new song.  This one's still quite a bit rough.  But I'm gonna have a lot on my hands in the next month with a new musical (PAGEANT PRINCESS) and a production of Hamlet (I'll be playing Claudius) Plus, I really, really like how the first verse flows...give it a listen.

The song idea came from a really tender moment at Joe's wedding.  Joe's grandma is  getting up there in years, and Joe's brother came over to her at the reception area before the rehearsal.  Gave her a hug and asked her if she wanted to explore the grounds with him.

At that point, she stood up, gently tucked her arm into his and said,

If you're willing to lead me, I'm willing to go.

And I thought:  If that isn't love, I don't know what is.

So, that's the gist of this song.  A shy, patient sort of love.


LYRICS

I'm a open book
But I'm missing pages
and I'm not sure
how it ends

Take a second look
see it all in stages
have a heart that's pure
let's be friends

I know
I 'm not cool
not rugged and lean
but there's fire in the belly
it's a little obscene
all the rivulets
of hope

you think
you're all alone
it's fortune or shame
your eyes on a target
that you never did name
just another way
to cope

CHORUS

If you're willing to lead me
I'm willing to go
Pick a journey and we'll start running
let your smile grow
a steady eye, a secret glance
buck the status quo
if you're willing to lead me
let me know


SECOND VERSE

In the dead of night
when the world is sleeping
every rampant thought feels
portent
jumping out of bed
writing words we're keeping
tacitly we wish
important

I know
that I'm scared
will I fail the test, oh
it's been a long time
since I left Modesto
still I really feel
broken

You think
you've had enough
you're riddled with sighs
you think everybody's
got a human disguise
and you realize
truth is spoken

 CHORUS

BRIDGE

Know your hear is a muscle
and cannot break
for as long as there's a lesson
there's no mistake
I've got arms here for holding you
reach out - take
draw me close
give a grunt, let's be merry 
and earn this life
become impeccable and witty
through this open strife
sing along - join the chorus
Take my breath like a knife

my friend.....

I'm a open book
But I'm missing pages
and I'm not sure
how it ends


Take a second look
see it all in stages
have a heart that's pure
let's be friends


I know
I 'm not cool
not rugged and lean
but there's fire in the belly
it's a little obscene
all the rivulets
of hope

you think
you're all alone
it's fortune or shame
your eyes on a target
that you never did name
just another way
to cope

CHORUS

The Trip - my time back in California

Hey.

I've been reflecting back on the wild time I spent back in California. And, now that the last parts of the story have ended, I'll post my thoughts.  Names in italics have been replaced to protect the innocent. 

THURSDAY, APRIL 26th

Touched down into Palm Springs with practically the whole connecting flight from from San Francisco to here a mad, skipping rout of turbulence.  Plane filled to the brim with drunken women in cowboy hats en route to Stagecoach, the country-western version of Coachella.  And each time the plan hiccups, they are screaming, screaming, screaming.

Me?  I'm in survival mode.  It's how I tend to approach flying days.  Day before a flight, I'll have already showered the night before.  Everything's already packed. Contacts are stowed away;wearing glasses is easier on my eyes altitude-wise. I don't drink coffee or eat too much.  Sometimes I don't sleep.  The goal is to pass out during the flight or listen to podcasts and grind my way to my destination.

Grab my suitcase out of baggage claim, try to pull the handle open, but it's jammed.  For good. TSA has once again destroyed my cheap ass luggage.  Hop outside, grab a cab, and I'm off to the Motel 6.  My dear friend Joe and his husband Matt had group rates at the Hyatt for the "discounted" amount of $300 a night a room.  I love Matt, but his level of income and experience is so wildly opposite mine, it's almost like how Bush Senior had a photo op at a grocery store once.  And they snapped a picture just as he was watching the checkout clerk scan items from the conveyor belt.  He looks so surprised and curious.  Because he's never gone to the grocery store for himself in his entire life. This ritual is a novelty to him.

So, yeah.  Hyatt was a no for me, so I booked the Motel 6 instead.  And the lack of comfort is more than a little jarring.  Bed feels like someone threw a blanket over a metal filing cabinet.  Comforter has a slimy texture to it.  Shower is half the size of a port-o-porty. 

I'm unpacking, and start my second traveling ritual:  Showering off the trip.  Wash out the 2000+ miles and clear my head. Put my toiletries in a familiar pattern along the bathroom.  And I spy something which makes me giggle uncontrollably.

I brought condoms. 

Why the hell did I bring condoms?

Granted, I was stressed and tired as hell when I packed my stuff.  Scurried home from a stage reading and had a couple of issues on my mind.  But really, Jones? 

It's an old habit my dad gave me.  We never really talked about sex much.  But, the day he moved me into the dorms my freshman year of college, we went grocery shopping and he came back, handed me a pack of condoms and whispered:  Here.  Just in case.

And since then, I end up buying a box once a year or every time I move to a new place.  Mind you, I didn't even have cause to use the damn things until I was 22.  I'm an odd, furry duck.   I am not physically attractive.  And, at the time I was giggling away in that shitty hotel room, I hadn't had sex in over three years.

What did I think was going to happen?  Was I gonna shack up with some one at the wedding or during my stay in Orange County?  Break out some power seduction moves? 

After I stopped laughing, I dressed, and headed out to explore the city.

Palm Springs has a quiet, somber beauty.  The whole time I was there, though, the dust and the smoke burned my throat. It's a pretty sort of poison, and you don't really see any young people around.

I found an adorable diner near the hotel, settled in and had the best homemade fries in my life.  They crackled and flaked in my mouth, and they were roasted in garlic.  Twenty minutes into the meal, the owner welcomed all of us and began to sing "C'mon, Get Happy"  And she was delightful!

FRIDAY, APRIL 27th

Woke up early, and headed to a coffee shop with wi-fi.  Worked the whole day there,  Even though it's been a year or so working remotely at my job, it still feels weird.  Like I'm cheating. Even though I'm way more effective and produce more work than if I had to be in an office and deal with all the elegant time-wasters there. 

After work,  my friends Rob and Maureen picked me up and we drove to Matt and Joe's house for a welcome dinner.  I had seen pictures of the remodeling efforts from Joe, but nothing prepared me for the experience of actually stepping foot into a mini-mansion.  Lush, open welcoming area.  A private sauna room. A bathroom with a bidet.  Even the sink was ridiculous and wonderful:

Any one who's been to a wedding knows that half of  the stress is the meet and greets with strangers and old friends who haven't seen you in a while.  Days before I left for Palm Springs, I kept role playing these moments, and kept saying to myself: Don't speak your resume. Don't speak your resume.  Just be cool.  
And I did my best.  But I'm nervous as hell, and part of me is hoping that the people I love and care about out in CA think I've gotten better, that I look healthier, that I'm heading somewhere in the right creative direction since the year or more since last we saw each other.  And I'm hoping the same for them. 

Hug upon hugs are given to Joe's brother, his grandma, his mom and dad.  I meet Matt's New Jersey family and we chat for a bit.  It's then that I finally take a look at the one major piece of the house which has not yet been remodeled; the clown pool.

The previous owners had some strange tastes.  Some, like the sink above, win over my heart.  Others, like the clown pool, give me the creeps.  The tile in the pool is covered with clowns, each of them bearing sharp, flat, non-responsive faces.  If my friend Kueberth was here, he'd have pissed himself with fear.  I like clowns, and even these were sketchy-looking ones.

SATURDAY, APRIL 28th

Joe and Matt's wedding day. 

I grab brunch with my friends Rob, Maureen, Paula and her man Emmett (who shall thereafter be named Pooh-Bear) and it feels like old times.  We've all known each other for over twelve years now, and even though a lot's changed, their love, their humor is still effusive and open.

After brunch, I head over to Paula and Pooh-Bear's hotel to get changed for the wedding.  As I'm in the wedding party, I get to wear this outfit (which I really like)

Pooh-Bear and Paula show off the secret outfit he's going to wear for the wedding.  Joe and Matt gave them some of the fabric which the old owners of the house used to decorate the place.  Paula then used it to sew together a cape, vest, and bow tie for Pooh-Bear:

Behold his majesty!

We drive to the wedding site, the historic O'Donnell House, which overlooks the city of Palm Springs.  I'm more than a little acrophobic, so it surprises me that the wedding and reception are pretty much inches away from a sheer cliff. But it's so goddamn gorgeous and resplendent that my fears die down and get replaced by slight heat exhaustion. Because it's the middle of the day in Palm Springs and the wedding planner didn't think to have water on hand for the rehearsal.  The wedding party springs to life and in minutes, water is freely distributed.

After the rehearsal, the bar opens and the guests arrive.  And I'm reunited with some dear, dear folks.  My old Queen Mary friends.

And the wedding begins.  The heat has died down to a quiet simmer, but there's dirt in my right contact, so I give the eternal impression that I'm crying.  And I don't care.  Joe and Matt join us at the clearing, and Rob begins to officiate.  He starts by reading an excerpt of the overturned Prop 8 ruling, which is brave and funny and grounded all the same.  I'm never going to get married, this I know.  But for many, the word holds a raw and evocative power. And, ceremonies aside, there are far too many basic human rights which are denied people who aren't seen as officially married in the eyes of the government.  I hope decency and love find their way into law someday.

The ceremony ends, and it's time for the reception.  Joe and Matt's friend TJ delivers.  He's a passionate, playful, daring man.  The first time I met him, he told me that Spanx now made items for men, and proceeded to show off his Spanx top (which he didn't even need, as he was in far, far, far better shape than me)  I'm sitting at a table with my good friend Bobby, along with my friend Christopher Kueberth (or Kueberth for short) and his wife Allison.   I am over the moon at seeing Kueberth.  Since I moved, I haven't heard anything from him other than his decreasing health.  And, even though he's lost quite a bit weight, the fire in his eyes remains. 

Wedding toasts begun, and I scurry off to grab my guitar.  Joe called me days before the wedding and asked that I play what I wrote for him and Matt at the reception.  If you haven't already heard the song, you can check it out below:

Joe and Matt's Wedding song

As I'm playing the song, I see my friend Rebecca just weeping with joy.  I turn to face Joe, and he's a wet mess, too.  I had to focus, or I was gonna lose it. 

The song ends, and I rush back to put the guitar away and help TJ pass out glow sticks to get people up to dance.  At that point, I'm attacked with praise and thanks for my song. And I know this is pathological for me, but I don't trust positive feedback.  Never have. If you belittle me or criticize me to pieces, you'll have my unending ear.  But if you say I'm good, I just won't believe you.

So the group starts dancing.  Now, I don't dance very often in my life.  But something about this wedding and being with so many wonderful people makes me forget myself, and I spend hours just dancing and meeting new individuals.  About an hour into the dancing, I turn around and I see Kueberth .  And he is on fucking fire, tearing his way through the crowd, dancing up a storm.  In that moment, he is brave, he is healthy, he is glorious.  And I'm forever blessed to be his friend.

SUNDAY, APRIL 29th

Bobby and I drive back to Orange County, and we make a stop at an Indian Casino.  I'm my father's son, and my one real vice is gambling.  But I've learned to bet with less and to do so once a year, if that.  I enjoy gambling, but the worse part of it is the other gamblers.  They're like a buffet of quiet misery.  Strollers and cigarette burns and hacking, dry coughs.  Bobby's been on a lucky streak all weekend, gambling-wise, and it does not end today.  I walk away losing about twenty bucks.

As we head towards Anaheim, we talk about the strange world of online dating, and the merits (if any) to that silly book called THE GAME.  We're in a similar place, he and I , when it comes to starting over, relationship-wise.

I check into the hotel my sister got for me and quickly realize it's not a hotel.  It's a bloody time share.  The rooms are three times the size of my studio apartment and have dishes, a washer and dryer.  It's far, far more than I need...more than a little daunting.  Bobby watches me chatting up the front desk clerk and says: See, you've got game.  And I laugh. 

Later that night, I call her up and see if she wants to grab dinner, but she's engaged.  So it goes.


MONDAY, APRIL 30th

Monday morning, I did a time share presentation so my sister and her husband would get some extra points added to their account.  It was supposed to just be an hour and a half  I stayed there three hours.  Why? At some point in the presentation, the sales rep, Wanda and I really hit it off and it devolved into a bleeding, vulnerable therapy session about how I feel I really need to just give up trying to find someone to share my company with and give up wanting trips or any other pursuits and just focus on my work.  And, her mothering nature kept countering that I was just boxing myself in and that I can have a career and still have love and other comforts. It was clear that she pretty much stopped selling anything to me about an hour into the presentation. She felt she had to save me, from something,

After that, I had lunch with my friend Rebecca and we talk about how acting recently came back into her life.  And I'm glad it did.  She got hit hard with the crap and unpleasantness hustling in LA can do to a person.  She went back to school, got another degree, moved back to her hometown for a spell, but that desire to act was just tucked away, waiting.  And ignoring it will ruin you.  I've seen it happen to too many folks.  Just then, she gets a call to sign with a big agent that day. 

That night, I hitch a ride with Pooh-Bear to have dinner with Rob, Maureen, their kids, and Kueberth and Allison.  Rob and Maureen's oldest, Maureen is quivering with energy.  She does this move which I call the Apathetic Monster.  She runs towards you, arms out, zombie-style and growls "rawrrrrr".  Then, about two steps in, she stops growling, but starts to swing her arms.  And their youngest son has this precious, penetrating stare.  It's a dubious, distrusting look which makes me grin.

Dinner is fresh carne asada and salsa, among other sundry delights.  Rob and Maureen have been eternally kind to me, and it cheers me to see them as a family enjoying their world.

TUESDAY, MAY 1st.

My old Partner in Crime picks me up and we head over to my onsite office for work.  I plan to spend the day there and get some equipment updated.

As soon as I walk in there, I immediately feel depressed.  The desperation and impotent rage is so fucking palpable.  It's like a bomb went off and the survivors have turned to eating the dead in order to cope.  The office is crested in this office park where everything's hazy and a dirty color of white and it smells like stale soup.

And then I saw you, Samantha.  You've always had it rough, even when I used to live in CA and be a supervisor for this company. I tried to make your work life as bearable as I could, and I kept urging you to find your joy, to leave this place if it was killing you.  And I saw you and you were as white as a sheet and your eyes burned with desolation and you didn't even stop to hug me, you just whispered that you're not doing well right now and you're busy and I had to choke back a sob and I just nodded and I walked away.

And you weren't weren't the only one who was scraping by like this.  The whole building was filled with the shells of my former friends and colleagues, trodding along.  There was a meeting that day to discuss a policy which needed to have been established over a year ago, and the boss looked like a combination of a horse and a gym coach and the plans he had in motion didn't make sense and I spoke up, and all eyes were on me, this alien from the east who didn't care about being polite.  We had lost untold hundreds of students and dozens of good people because new management didn't understand how to keep things going and going well. 

My work day ended, and my former Partner in Crime picked me up and we headed to the Upright Citizens Brigade theatre to see some stand-up comedy. Waited in line and the show started.  The actual roster of guests is a secret and you don't know until the moment they appear onstage.  Just then, Paul F Tompkins arrived behind the curtain and I lost my shit.

Any one who knows me has had to suffer through my feverish declaration that Paul F Tompkins is bar none my favorite comedian.  Why?  He's spent decades evolving and adapting his work.  He's suffered in ways which I've shared and I guess his career path gives me hope that maybe one day I'll prosper on the level he has as an artist.  Plus, he can outriff anyone under the table!  On that taping of Doug Loves Movies, he did the episode as himself, as reality TV show celebrity CakeBoss, and as Ice-T, and it was wonderful.  Just wonderful.  You can hear the episode for free on ITunes if ya like.  And, if you haven't already picked up his work, I urge you to do so.  His newest special:  Laboring Under Delusions just came out a month ago and you can pick it up on Amazon.

Next, came Comedy Bang Bang's standup show.  And the surprise guest of all surprise guests came out: Mr. Patton Oswalt.  His set was a fast fifteen and it was painful how savagely funny it was.  Like, unable to breathe, stabbing my ribs in the seat, funny.

As we tried to leave Hollywood and get back to my hotel, an old wound opened up between my former Partner in Crime and I .  I'm super shitty at directions. And I got her lost driving back to the freeway.  Naturally, due to the late hour and the stalled city traffic, she was furious.  She began to yell at me and claimed that I must be telling all my friends that she's the reason why we broke up.  And I began to cry.  I said: Don't you think that I've told everyone, my friends, my new acquaintances in New York, even goddamn strangers working at a goddamn time share that I'm the one to blame for things falling apart between us? Look at you.  You've prospered.  You've grown and found new love and sharpened your skills as a artist.  And I had to get the hell out of your way to do this.  For eight and a half years, I failed you. And I'm sorry. 

WEDNESDAY, May 2nd

I hop a cross town bus back to the office to pick up the new laptop they've given me.  CA transit just feels more desolate than NY transit.  Takes longer, too. 

Spend an early evening hosting Paula, Kueberth and Allison for dinner.  I play them a few songs I've written and they politely oblige.

After dinner, we explore the game room in the time share and discover an incredibly creepy cotton candy machine which plays a theme more suited to the last five minutes of an after-school special than vending food.

They leave, and as I head back to my room, I get a call from this girl, Mary, who's been chatting with me sporadically on OkCupid.  She's cute, but we're very different people.  It's the first time she's called me on the phone instead of texting me, and soon it devolves into a six hour conversation and we go too fast way too soon.  But I'm just swept up in loneliness and anger and it's nice to feel even a little appreciation.


THURSDAY, MAY 3rd

Checked out of the time share and spent most of the work day with the new laptop in the lobby.  My friend Greg picks me up and we grab dinner before seeing the production of Sherlock Holmes he directed.  It's a Thursday show, which for some actors can be as good as seeing a Wednesday afternoon stripper.  But, there are a few really solid characters, and Greg did well with the vision of the tale. 


FRIDAY, MAY 4th

The former Partner in Crime picks me up and we head over to Disneyland, where we meet an old college friend, Anna.  And it's a calm, serene time.  Just a short six hours in the park, not enough to make one feel sluggish or stressed.  I ride Mr. Toad's Wild Ride and tease my cohort for driving us into Hell.  I ride Pirates, I ride It's a Small World (and proclaim that , for such a happy ride, the song alludes to quite a bit more tragedy which is woefully underrepresented by the puppets.  Where are the tears?  Where are the fears?)

After Disneyland, we drive back up to the Upright Citizens Brigade theatre to see Paul F Tompkins do this incredibly funny show called The Dead Authors Series.  In it, he plays H.G. Wells (who has used his time travel machine to bring authors from the past back to the present to interview them)  and he interviewed the Brothers Grimm (played by two gentlemen from the Superego podcast)  It was non-stop amazing and brutally hilarious.


SATURDAY, MAY 5th

The entire time I'm flying back to NY, I keep thinking:  Why did I schedule a first date with Mary two hours after my flight lands?   Granted, I wanted to see her, but that's just a lot of pressure.  She was the one who wanted to see me sooner. The airplane lands, I hop to a cab and I'm racing the clock.  Sending texts back and forth to her.  Cab arrives earlier than I'd planned, which is great.  Run inside, shower off the trip, and await Mary.    And again, things went too fast, too soon.


PS - A week and a half later, after another too fast, too soon date, I ended things with her.  We had too many differences and she smoked like crazy and I discovered that I can't date someone who constantly smells like cigarettes and pot smoke.  I just don't like the way it tastes.  And I'm sorry my behavior led to the situation which took place between us.  Just as I tried to shut down my OkCupid account, someone emailed me asking if I wanted to grab coffee.  I agreed.

Today, that person stood me up.  At  a place which took an hour to get to each way.  Time to focus on just the work now, you know?