Awake at 6 AM

Not because I have to be. But since I am, I should be writing...things other that this blog. But I'm not. I'm fretting. I'm worrying.

A few days ago--since no real companies seemed willing to come repair the air conditioner that my ambulance chasing handyman left in disrepair for less than the cost of a new air conditioner--I found a guy on Craigslist. He answered his phone, he didn't immediately turn down the job. When I emailed him with details he replied to the email with an estimate and when I set a time he replied to confirm...

All seemed good until I arrived at the address, and he didn't. Ever. I called, and the Sprint customer I was trying to reach didn't answer. I looked up the original add and it had been removed by owner.

I looked more closely at the damage caused by errant drill, and the more I look, the more I realized that even if I get someone to come, they aren't going to be able to solder at that angle. We're going to have to pull it out of the wall...Basically I can see that at the end of all the things I try, I'm probably going to have to buy a new air conditioner and have it installed, conservatively, $500.

And there's our car that's been in the shop all week. Transmission: $2000.
And there's our other car that needs a new radiator. If Paul's brother finds one refurbished and does the labor himself: $500.

No one paying rent on our extra room: $500. A month. I feel the least bad about that, as we've been able to help out various friends and acquaintances, which is a pleasure to do, and in the down time, we enjoy the larger apartment quite a bit, but eventually, we're going to have to downgrade.

How to fix all this? Make more money. My answer used to be "Move to Costa Rica where I don't need much money," but student loan obligations will now follow me to my plan B. How to make more money? Write like hell and sell something.

But I find it hard to write when I'm worried about finding a solution to the *&^ air conditioner.

I Think Maybe it's Because We're in L.A....

*The billboards suddenly know what day it is. They say "Glee...TONIGHT," then change to say "House...TOMORROW." It's a good idea, I like to watch Glee, but I don't remember what night it's on. Fortunately Paul does, and he sets our Tivo like device to record. But if he didn't, it is quite possible that I would be an excellent advertising target for this kind of timed information. It's better to say "TONIGHT" than, "Thursdays at 8" because truthfully, by the time I'm coming home from school or work, I'm no longer thinking about what day it is. But still, the fact that the billboard IS thinking about it--is kind of creepy.

*My handyman's career aspiration and hobby is crime scene photography. Like paparazzi for crime scenes. He tells me this in his rapid-fire, maybe-I'm-on-coke way as I help him load his van that has a ladder on top and tools inside--along with two video camera's he's just added so he can take video as well as stills.

"Like that police shoot out last year, on Fairfax and Olympic? Remember, they shut down the intersection practically all day? I have probably a hundred pictures, of the bodies, of the detectives bagging evidence..."

"I zip around the scene on my roller blades, that's like my thing, my signature. The cops don't like me much, because I get lots of shots of them, but they can't stop me. It's all legal."

"I've been doing it for five years now. I'm sitting on about 50 thousand photographs. But I haven't sold any yet. I keep sending them to the L.A. Times, but nothing yet. I got lots of pictures of that fire on Pico the other day though, my friend who's an attorney said, if it goes to court, someone's gonna want to buy those pictures. I said,'Well, they're for sale.'"

I look at him, his Wolverine-style salt and pepper hair and total enthusiasm for this subject matter...

"You figure one of these days, something's going to hit."

...and think about what people think about this pushing-forty chick with no job, ever-growing loans and the idea that someday she's going to sell some piece of writing that is going to make it all work out.

The Starting Line-Up: 2

AND, on a final starting line-up note:
Here is my Fantasy Football line-up for this week:
QB Tom Brady of the New England Patriots
WR Terrell Owens, Buffalo Bills
WR Anthony Gonzalez, Indiana Colts
RB LaDainian Tomlinson, San Diego Chargers
RB Ryan Grant, Green Bay Packers,
TE, Jason Witten, Dallas Cowboys
RB Cedric Benson, Cincinnati Bengals
Defense--Minnesota Vikings

What have I learned from my fantasy football experience so far? Well, the names of all the teams above above, except for the Indianopolis Colts and the Dallas Cowboys. What those little initials mean (QB, quarterback; WR, wide receiver; RB running back; TE, tight-end). Do I know what they do on the field yet? No...but baby steps.

Also I examined a schedule today and think I also figured out that when people say they are going to watch "the game" on a Saturday, it is college football, and noticed that there are TONS of pro-games on Sundays. I used to believe that guys could watch football all day on Sundays because football games were excruciatingly long, like Cricket. But from the schedule I deduce they must be watching a few different games.

Also, I've been reminded of how easy it is, once you really do it, to just obscure an entire portion of the world from your reality. Like I rarely open the sports section of a newspaper, I don't notice sports stories (except maybe Tennis) on my news pages, and because I never list sports as an interest on anything, or search for sports-related information, all the weird advertisements that pop up on gmail or facebook never pertain to sports.

I had fun today just looking at my starting line-up and clicking on the links to see their pictures, where they went to college, how they've been injured etc...It makes them seem like real people. Cool.

Because I was on a sports page to do all this today, I saw something I normally would not have--which was a little op-ed about Michael Jordan's induction into the Hall of Fame, and how his speech was kind of petty and bitter...and it implied that people who knew him would have expected that, because it's pretty much his personality. Which was sad and interesting, and something I had never heard before, probably since I haven't really followed basketball since 1995. But, Michael Jordan is one of the few sports heroes I feel a connection to, because I lived in Chicago from 1992-1995, the years that encompassed the Chicago Bulls "Threepeat" and even I watched the basketball games, because 1) My boyfriend was a sports fan, and 2) coming from Indiana, I did kind of understand basketball, and 3) because it was SO pervasive...and fun. Everyone, including me, wanted to "Be like Mike." He seemed so fresh and friendly and hardworking, and amazing and happy.

Then, toward the end of that time, I worked as the production coordinator on a series of car commercials that featured celebrities, and for a day or two we had Michael Jordan on the set. And I can't remember much. He certainly didn't diva-out or throw anything. but there was something about a couple things he said, maybe the way he treated some of the guys on the crew...All I remember, is that in the course of a day, he lost some of his shine for me, and that I came home and commented that I no longer wanted so much to be like Mike...but still, on the court, and on the Nike and Gatorade commercials, he was such a hero for so many.

I digress. But I guess the point is that it was interesting, that on the first day...ever, of looking at a yahoo sports page, I would see a kind of end to a saga that I actually know "something" about. Kind of like when, after seeing maybe four or five episodes of Dawson's Creek in my lifetime, I turned on the TV one afternoon, and they were playing the final episode. And just from those episodes over the years, I had gleaned just enough to be interested in seeing if Joey would choose Dawson, or that other guy who's now on Fringe.

The Starting Line-Up: 1

It's fall. There's a lot going on, so much so that I probably have no business blogging, but you know what? I like my blog and it's been kind of sucking lately, so maybe I'll just call it part of my starting line up, too...

So here's what I have on deck...Four different screenplays:

One is for my rewrite class. I started it a million years ago, and now I'm supposed to learn how to make it better. It's a high-school romantic comedy--with invisible people. (Just in case you ever see it.) I'm a little bit behind already, so it's good but it makes me a little anxious.

Two is for my thesis class, and will either be a psychological thriller with sci-fi elements (alien babies!) or a comedy having to do with pole-dancing. I have to decide by Monday. It's a somewhat big decision as thesis is the project you work on for an entire year, and your degree is based on it...plus you just want to pick something that won't suck and that will help catalyze your entire career. So this also makes me a little anxious.

Three is the zombie script I mentioned in an earlier post. It's Paul's story, but I am now the official "second writer" on the script. Exciting! I'm a little less anxious, because Paul has a calming effect on me...but still, I have some time issues and I don't want to let him down after hard-bargaining for the position, so...little anxious.

Four is an adaptation of a Vietnamese novel that I will be co-writing with two other women. They both speak Vietnamese and can read the novel...I cannot, but will be working from an outline. It's a kind of ghost-story-slash-psychological thriller. The deadline coincides with the first draft of my thesis. I'm a little anxious about that too.

But...happy. These are all projects that I like and think could be really good. I'm only anxious that they won't. So, happiness and anxiety seem to go hand in hand for me. I remember reading once that sometimes women date scary guys because they would mistake a fear reaction for desire or excitement. Apparently a number of people have problems distinguishing excitement from fear. And since "anxious" for me, seems pretty fear-based, maybe I'm actually excited! Woo-hoo! I'm excited!

But I still am not too fond of excited. Which is why a return to my meditation practice is also on my starting line-up for fall.

A Picture of My Father

I'm sitting at the Indianapolis airport early on a Tuesday--on my way home from my Dad's memorial service this past weekend. Much of the time, I am surprised with how okay I am in the wake of his death--perhaps because, in truth, he had become less involved, more removed, in recent years...or not. I don't know anything for sure right now. The night before we left L.A. I started to pack for the weekend, and the thought that when I walked in the door of my childhood home, he wouldn't be there to greet and hug, hit me hard, and a cried for much of the evening.

At the same time, the open house after the memorial service was actually fun. Some good friends came from out of town, as well as family we don't often see. Talk was talked, food was ate, and games were played.

The service itself was really nice. I hope my Dad would have liked it. My sister and her husband sang (my brother on piano), and it was so beautiful. I don't think I have ever heard her sing so well. She also read a remembrance, as did I.

When my father was twelve he lived on a farm, building model airplanes, dreaming of the World War he was missing. He imagined that it would come to him in the form of a B-17 bomber, crashing over the fence into the field where he lay looking up at the clouds.

When I was seven, he taught me the clouds (like my sister before me): Cirrus, cumulus, stratus. When I was twelve we didn’t speak for almost two weeks after I stormed out of a tempestuous piano lesson and said that “I quit!” When I was four we sat together in his arm chair, carefully enlarging, square by gridded square, the pictures in my Planet of the Apes activity book, and pulled the cushions off every piece of furniture and made tunnels and architectural wonders. When I was born, my mother said I was rarely breast fed because she couldn’t wrest me from my father’s arms for long enough to feed me.

When my father was seven years old, his father caught strep throat. Old Doc Baker came to their house with a new medicine that had just come in, called “penicillin.” Our dad stood outside the bedroom door and overheard Doc Baker tell his mother that it “might just do the trick,” but if not, she could expect her husband to be dead within twenty-four hours. In his seventies my father finds himself telling this story, long forgotten, and says he can’t understand why it makes him cry.
When I was six and my sister was four, we had matching rocking chairs and we rocked and rocked as our father played the guitar and sang songs about a fella named Campbell, and the boy from Arkansas who became an auctioneer.

Our father told us, “Be anything you want, but first get a good liberal arts education, and it will serve you for the rest of your life.” And he was right. My father’s undying faith in us inspired and encouraged our career choices in the arts (although we always knew he would also support our decisions if we changed course to pursue other careers in say, real estate or academia. ☺)

Throughout his adult life, our father struggled with life-threatening and challenging illnesses, but he emerged, bout after bout, victoriously alive. He modeled for me the strategies I would need to survive similar hardships. In the course of his illnesses he explored spirituality, nutrition, and alternate modes of healing. By example he taught us to think beyond convention, he showed us that no one, not even a doctor, can predict the future, And he taught us never to underestimate the power of a strong will and a strong mind.

In remembering my father, I have chosen a handful of moments, from a life consisting of an infinity of such moments, knowing that each of you might choose others. To paint the complete picture of a man, even with a thousand moments, I know is a venture destined to fail. But still, I stand here, faced with choosing a final image share.

When our father was twelve, he built model airplanes. The summer before his 80th birthday, he sent packages of un-built models to his sons, to give his grandchildren when the time was right. I can see him, his fingers passing over the dusty cellophane of unopened boxes, pulling them carefully from the shelf, and I know he intends to pass on not just model planes, but the joy of building something with elements of both art and fantasy, the sense of wonderment that he felt in his boyhood and never forgot.
On the farm, real B-17 bombers never crashed over my father’s fence, but he built and drew and painted them all through his life in an attempt to express the awe and admiration he felt. So I, with all love and affection, assemble these words, a small and incomplete picture of my father.