I did a gig in Huntington Beach on Saturday evening. Huntington Beach, I should note; is about an hour and twenty from me. And, even better; the gig paid a whopping $20. Welcome to comedy in Los Angeles. But, it was a whole pre-planned thing. See, it was my birthday and my wife and I had been asked to perform together by this female comedian who had booked me at a club on Sunset. A club which is an hour and nineteen minutes closer to my house. But, the gig was cancelled because some band who used to be famous for ten minutes in the 80's managed to stuff themselves back into their pleather pants and do an impromptu gig.

So anyway, this girl who booked that non-gig emailed me to work this Huntington Beach room. I noticed that it fell on my Birthday. Which, usually I forget my birthday entirely because I grew up Jehovah's Witness. I remember going through entire days not knowing it was my birthday. One time when I was nineteen and working at the infamous Merry Go Round clothing store in Merrillville, Indiana; just doing my thing... phone rings, Joanie, the assistant floor manager dressed in leggings, a baggy sweatshirt and a ponytail wrapped in a neon scrunchie picks it up and "uh,huhs" then "we just love your son" And, it swells over me, embarrassment that my Mom is calling me at work. Then, it gets worse... "It is not!" "Oh my God!" "We'll make sure to give him a big birthday kiss for you!" Unbearable. For some reason, the same woman who brought me up for an entire childhood presentless and party-less on my birthday; somehow felt the need to remind me of the birthday I wouldn't be celebrating. Moms.

To be quite honest, I never really missed the birthday thing. I'm not a big fan of "event planning." New Year's is my perfect example. Have a party or don't. Geez, we're such drones.
We're all given the gift of freedom and we choose desk jobs and lame birthday parties in the copy room.

Anyway, back to this birthday. The whole plan was for my wife and I to spend the day on the strand and have a nice early dinner and then go yuk it up. Which, is fun for us. It's the only drug I do -- comedy.

Well, it goes to hell early in the day. Bren is super sick and is doing her best to put off the inevitable until well into the afternoon. Which I admire and resent. Because, even if she does find it possible to pull her head out of the trashcan next to the bed -- she'll be a lot of fun. Fun on the drive. Fun at the restaurant. Where I wouldn't even be able to consider ordering shellfish. And fun at the gig. Oh yeah, that's what I want; a crabby sick wife driving home with me at midnight-- steaming because she had a crappy set because she was in the thralls of a migraine from hell. No thanks.

At 2:30 I make a pre-emptive strike and give her a half hour to decide if she can make it. Even though the gig is at 8pm I know she'll leave me hanging if I give her the rope. I have to fill her spot after all. And who's going to be available for a $20 gig in the OC on a Saturday night?

At 3pm, my lovely wife trudges out of the cavern that is our bedroom in my Sex Pistols tee shirt and concedes defeat. She apologizes profusely between winces of pain shooting through her cranium. I can almost smell smoke coming off her swollen brain. I tell her "no sweat" and "just get some rest and feel better" and "that's my birthday present -- you feeling better"

And it's true. I'd rather her feel better. Also, the prospect of being untethered for the evening isn't the worst feeling in the world. I love my girl and we have a blast always. But, it's cool to be indie sometimes. It's like going on safari without a guide.

crabby


My friend writes in his blog every day.

I wish I was dilligent.

I'm a crammer.

Not a plugger.

I'm the definition of compulsive. Or is it impulsive?

Hey, I hate me.

A little.

But, I hate these pants I'm wearing even more.

But, not as much as I hate my mattress.

Man, I really need a new mattress.

SOmebody get me a mattress.

One that's soft but firm.

Somebody get me a mattress. One that smells like lavender.

I don't want to lift a finger.

I'd prefer to not even be in the house when the movers arrive. I just want to open the bedroom door and hop on that baby and say "aahh! now that's what I'm talkin' 'bout!"

How hard is that?

It must be hard though.

I mean there are mattess commercials on the radio & TV constantly. Constantly reminding us how easy it is to get a new bed.

I mean a bed is a pretty important thing.

In fact, as far as household stuff goes -- it's really at the top of the list.

I mean, you can go a week or two without a fridge or a stove. But a bed, gotta' have one.

But, still we sleep on crappy mattresses for years.

If our fridge kept our food only kinda' cold. We'd be down at the Sears before you could say Frigidaire. But, we sleep "kinda' good" and somehow let our brains convince us that a new bed is a luxury we can put off.

I say no!

I need my sleep.

I hate being tired.

Get me a new damn mattress now!

Now!

And throw in two free pillows while you're at it.

Goose down.

It's been a few months.

I'm working on putting together a cohesive website with these blogs I do.

Big news. "The Good Part", a film I wrote and directed is in the Dances with Films festival MAy 5-12th.