State of the Union.

President Bush has called for the extension of the Patriot Act because the threat terrorists pose to our liberties and our safety. They might come into possession of “new-cue-ler” weapons, too. Rallying people around the notion that their safety can only be provided by one man feels wrong, and I’m surprised that the voting majority of the United States does not agree.

I was raised in a conservative town by a conservative family. I have conservative leanings. Go ahead, boo that. But I definitely have a moderate approach to life. I can understand and I even agree with many facets of the Rep.-Dem. platforms. I am baffled by the prevailing thought that it must be one or the other. That people’s brains are too cluttered with their own lives to balance views. They want to be told. They want a leeeeeeeeeader. I have never been in support of one man. But I see how it’s easier to do than exert any intellectual effort.

Similarly, I know why entertainment-types hire personal assistants. It’s easier than exerting any of their own physical effort. “Oops. I left my dry cleaning somewhere. That’s okay. The assistant I don’t pay can go pick it up.” I want to steer clear of landing in bitching territory, so I will only say that the state of the boss-assistant union will always be a tenuous one. The boss wields the power of possibility, and the assistant’s constant naiveté will ultimately be his/her undoing. The boss is never looking to help you move on from being his or her assistant. There’s no point in doing that.

So, I simultaneously find it surprising and not-at-all-surprising to learn that my “in” for a job (on a certain movie to which I will not directly refer) comes at the cost of my becoming an assistant for someone associated with the production. It won’t be the job for which I’m interviewing, but I will be asked (once/if hired) to step away from that job description and be the direct assistant of this film’s producer.

I’m a crappy assistant. I’m a little too selfish to ever be a good one. But, potentially, I would be in a position to be noticed by other people who might like to tap into my other talents at some point in the future. Given that I do not wish to leave LA, I am definitely mentally reinforcing myself so that I can endure what could potentially be three-months of paid bitch assistant work. But that might be the aforementioned naiveté talking. In any case, the state of this union, should it come to pass, will also be a tenuous one. The physical and intellectual effort that will be required of my admittedly weak fortitude will be considerable, but the threat unemployment poses to my liberty and my safety is too great to ignore.

God bless you, and God bless the United States of America.

My Weird Bear-Themed Dream.

I’m working in an office building for an employer I don’t know. I have to take files down to another office in the building. I leave my sixth floor office and head into the hallway, which actually becomes like a parking structure. I go down concrete steps and reach my destination on the fourth floor. A lot of fluorescent lighting – again, think a parking lot. I drop off my papers to the kindly receptionist, and then I head back out into the hallway, which, again, becomes a parking structure deal.

As I walk up the stairs, I hear a growl. I turn around and see a FUCKING GRIZZLY BEAR on all fours. I sense it’s a she and she’s a mother. I didn’t realize I had stumbled into a bear habitat on the fourth flour of this office building where the hallways look like a parking garage. The bear snarls at me. I think about running away, back up the stairs and I do manage to go up a few steps, but suddenly, I walk backwards – slowly – and I walk myself right into a corner. Forget that I’m supposed to be between the fourth and sixth floors of this office building. I am now on the ground floor of a parking structure, in a corner, with a FUCKING GRIZZLY BEAR snarling at me.

I’m only a little scared. Not terrified at all. This didn’t feel like a nightmare. I do wish it had been a little more Great Outdoors and a little less Underworld, because pretty quickly this FUCKING GRIZZLY BEAR takes a swipe at me. I miraculously dodge the swipe, but now I’ve broken into a sweat and I’m really panicking. I bolt up the stairs and I run back into that fourth floor office. I run all the way up to a table where my third grade teacher, Mrs. Williams, sits. She’s very surprised to see me. I think it’s great to see her, too, but I tell her that the purpose of my visit is to inform her that there’s quite a large bear after me. That sends everybody (save my third grade teacher, Mrs. Williams) into a panic and they all bolt. Comically visualize stacks of paper fly into the air as the staff departs and I am left with that sinking feeling that I have to go back out there and get past this FUCKING GRIZZLY BEAR.

I don’t know why I have to go back out into the hallway, but it’s a dream so let’s just assume that it’s part of the internal logic of it. Kind of like why Michael always had to tell K.I.T.T. what button he was going to press before actually doing it. “Okay, buddy. Turbo boost!” You don’t ask why he does it. That’s just the way it’s supposed to be.

So, I rush back into the hallway, but I’m back on the ground floor of that damned parking lot. The grizzly bear has me cornered. I hear people yelling at me to get away, but I can’t. I don’t have that “But my legs are molasses!” feeling running through me, and it never occurs to me that I’m fairly incapacitated. I just keep thinking, “Why is there a grizzly bear here, and how the heck am I going to get away from it?”

The bear swipes at me and rips up my left arm. Just shreds it. Big claw marks and blood. It feels weird, but it doesn’t hurt. I run away and I’m suddenly in a promenade setting. It feels like I’m on a high school campus. I run past emo/goth girls and people who feel familiar to me, but I’m really trying to get away from this FUCKING GRIZZLY BEAR and find some medical attention for my shredded left arm.

But then I end up back in the parking lot. The mama grizzly bear’s about to finish the job. I hear another growl from behind – it’s the baby grizzly bear. So now there are TWO FUCKING GRIZZLY BEARS. I’m done for. Mama bear’s about to swipe at me when she’s shot up with four or five dart guns. I turn around and some Crocodile Dundee-looking guy whom I’ve never seen before is standing behind me. He yells, “Okay. Get out of here!” And I say, “But what about the other one?” We both look and see baby grizzly leave, scared. I’m relieved.

Then I woke up.

Please tell me to stop posting my dreams OR to stop dreaming so vividly.

My Weird "The Aristocrats"-related Dream.

Thanks to Fuston.

Penn Jillette has assembled every comic from around the country to join him for a surprise presentation. Somehow, I am invited to come with people like Bill Murray, Bill Maher, Billy Crystal… maybe some other comedic Bills, but I can’t recall because, you know, it’s a dream. Even David Brenner’s there, which is odd because I don’t find David Brenner at all amusing. I surmise in my dream state that he’s there for the free food and for a walk-on part in my subconscious. Which, actually, is a little cool. For him.

Anyway, It turns out Penn Jillette is now schilling for Burger King. He unveils for we comedy geniuses (Hey, I’m there, might as well go with the flow) a new ad campaign for the burger chain, where he’s comedically describing why BK is better than other burger joints. Apparently, they deep fry and “bag” their fries, which (according to commercial Penn) is a burger industry term for making waffle fries. I don’t recall ever eating waffle fries at Burger King, so I assume that this bit of information is a result of me being in a dream. So, the presentation ends and Penn finally reveals that BK has formed another 9/11 Foundation and they want the assembled comics to promote said foundation on behalf of Burger King. Everybody seems pretty pissed that they have been asked to sell out. Judy Gold actually scoffed.

Then Penn (that’s awkward) asked Bill Murray to tell the room about a positive experience he had at Burger King. I don’t remember what he said because, you know, it’s a dream, but I do remember thinking that I had to come up with something positive to say about Burger King, because I was two people down from Bill Murray. Peter Venkman couldn’t really say anything positive because he was so pissed he was being asked to sell out some more (I didn’t see Garfield but, come on – that’s low), so Penn just skipped right to me. I knew the vibe of the room was very negative, so I thought I’d earn some of the respect of “my fellow comics” by being the rebel. When asked about a positive experience I had at Burger King, I said the following:

“Once I was asked to give a talk on this very subject. I didn’t know what to say, exactly, because it felt so out of place in my life. You know, I have never enjoyed the particular service this company has to offer, so I could not speak of it positively or negatively. But instead of getting into my car and driving to one of the local branches of this business, I instead decided to take a walk to clear my head and use the fresh air as inspiration. I took a walk through downtown. I observed the grime on the sidewalk, the smudged mascara of a kindly streetwalker,
the desperation of the foreign fellow trying to board the bus with incorrect change. And it so happened that I came across a strip mall that had several businesses, including a restaurant that happened to serve hamburgers. I approached this restaurant, intending to sample the menu so I could give my talk some more detail. But as I walked To the door of the restaurant, I noticed that a cat had defecated in
the parking lot, and I thought that was a very inconsiderate thing to do.”

I do not use drugs. I was not drunk when I fell asleep last night. But this was the dream I had and this is what I said, to 95% accuracy. Suffice it to say, I got a laugh from the other comics and Bill Murray smirked and nodded at me.

What does it mean?

Start the Countdown...

Steelers. Seahawks. Ford Field. Get juiced, folks, ‘cause Super Bowl 40-something is gonna be a whale of a barn burner. Roethlisberger v. Hasselbeck. It’s a Battle of the Mult-Syllabic QBs in the ultimate parity bowl. Sure, both of these teams have earned it, but where are the superstars? Where is the awesome football of yore? Watch as the capable, but unspectacular Seattle linebackers bite on Roethlisberger play action for an easy score. Look! A Seattle DB committed another pass interference penalty! Holding on the Steelers? No way! The last exciting Super Bowl was… well, who the hell cares? We all want to watch the commercials and try to make the cleverest comments to punctuate the utter stupidity of said commercial.

...

As The West Wing winds down its seven-year run, I can’t help but feel like the show is getting undue praise. It never got terrible, people. It got different. It’s like changing jobs or girlfriends – some things are different, but we’re still at work or we’re still getting into the same fights about being on time and relationship responsibilities. If anything, I have been less impressed by season 7 than season 6. Six got off to a great start (even if C.J.’s promotion to chief of staff was, to say the least, fucking unbelievably ridiculous) but then got obnoxious towards the second half when it went all campaigny. Now, though, who cares about the next president? Let Lame Duck Bartlet be Lame Duck Bartlet and quit Jimmy Smitting with my TV show. And, please, showrunners, stop airmailing a Santos win.

...

I’m two weeks away from leaving Los Angeles. Not by choice, mind you, but finances being what they are – sorry, I didn’t have enough money in my pocket to adequately complete that thought. Let me say this: to all those wanting to move to Hollywood, have a financial plan firmly in place before the move. Have other skills. A college degree and a jack of all trades-persona are actually the worst things you can have out here. And working for free to gain experience? Nah. Not gonna cut it. The best thing any of us can do is be original. Be our own person. And, for god’s sake, have passion about something. It’s easy to care about ourselves – how we look, how we sound, what others think about us. But that’s not passion. That’s narcissism. Or something like it. Care about what you want to do, and then do it. Lots of people want to act or “Do something in film or television.” I say figure it out. Then, if you decide you want to be a writer… don’t come to LA. Not until you’ve written a lot, or you’re an absolute savant with friends who are already well-positioned in film or television. Not on their way to being well-positioned, mind you. Already there.

Doing what you want with your life is probably the scariest thing you can do with it. But you can only want what you want. Family, community, social mores, private mores, The Moors can all stand in your way, but at the end of the day, you can only want what you want. And, ultimately, only you stand in your way. Unless you’re low on cash, then maybe that can stand in your way, too. But you keep at it, and you get back on the horse, and you make the best out of life.

When you’re young and prone to awkward phrasing, taking chances to make the best out of your life is what I want.

Looking for change in the couch pillows? Not what I want.