January 29, 2003 Because Netflix enables me to watch movies indiscriminately, no longer requiring me to worry if a particular film is going to be worth the three-dollar rental fee plus the sixteen bucks I'll rack up in late fees when I forget to get off my ass and walk the friggin thing back three blocks to the video store; yes, because Netflix has saved me from that specific hassle and sparked in me a whole new “Have I seen Encino Man? Why the hell not for my flat as-many-movies-as-I-can-watch-for-twenty-bucks-a-month?” attitude, the other day I watched Unfaithful. It wasn't terrible. In fact, it was good for a few laughs. Mostly in places where I'm relatively certain the filmmakers didn't intend for comedy to creep in, but whatever. I've heard it was Diane Lane's big breakout performance. I liked her much better as kidnapped rock star Ellen Aim in Streets of Fire. (Now, there's a movie to pay a three-dollar rental plus sixteen bucks in late fees for. The Blasters make an appearance in it. Jim Steinman wrote the music. Michael Pare is quite gorgeous. It even has Rick Moranis. ;) Anyway, Unfaithful. If I had allowed myself to think about it, it would have pissed me off: stories about careless Yuppies (are they still called that anymore?) with big, beautiful houses in Connecticut; witty, cute kids; more disposable income than my yearly non-disposable salary; and attractive, caring spouses, who are nonetheless still not happy with their lives and end up nearly getting away with murder tend to annoy me. Go figure. But I didn't think about it that hard because I was looped on Vanilla Stoli and Coke. And Chad Lowe was in it and he still looked like he was twelve years old, but this time he also looked like he was wearing a bad toupee. And, really how maddening can a film be if it has Chad Lowe with a bad brown dye job and atrocious haircut? The ending was stupid. I didn't get it. Or maybe I was too drunk to get it. (I won't give it away in case any of you plan to see it after my glowing review) So, after the actual film, I went poking around the DVD special features to see if I could find something to make sense of the ending. I didn't find anything, but then again, I didn't try very hard, because you know what an overachiever I am and pressing those menu buttons just got so tiring after a while. But I did find an interview with Olivier Martinez, the actor who plays Diane Lane's sexy, French lover – you know, the guy she picks over Richard Gere, because the filmmakers let us know at the beginning of the film that Richard Gere is not sexy because he comes to breakfast with his sweater on backwards and inside out. (Please. I don't think Richard Gere is sexy, but I'm also not an idiot, or blind, and even I know that an inside-out sweater wouldn't make him unsexy to the multitude of women who do.) On the DVD, there's this interview with Olivier Martinez and let me just say that Olivier Martinez would do well never to allow himself to be interviewed ever again. He's one of those incredibly attractive, sexy men, who just get less so with every unscripted word that comes out of his mouth. He'd be much better off if he kept his mouth shut and remained all French and smoldering. Granted, English doesn't seem to be his first language, so maybe something is getting lost in the translation, but when he blithely chatters on about how he's met some acting legends like DeNiro and (I'm assuming) Richard Gere, and they all told him how it took them years and years of hard work and struggle to make it big, and he basically made it overnight, so really, being a world famous, rich actor must simply be his destiny, well, it just makes you want to hit him over the head with something. Possibly a snowglobe. Then again, maybe Olivier Martinez is more than just a set of chiseled abs and an impossibly handsome face. Maybe this man is a genius. I mean, there he is dating Mira Sorvino and before that living with Juliette Binoche and starring in major motion pictures and eating at Spago, and here I am dating Holden and before that living with crazy Erica and teaching low-level undergraduate writing classes to people who could not care less and eating Ramen Noodles in my kitchen with the leaky skylight – so really, who's the lunkhead, here? In the interview, Olivier outlined the brilliant method he used to become a successful Hollywood actor and sex symbol. (I'm paraphrasing here, but the gist is the same): “I woke up one morning and I decided I didn't want to sell shoes and I didn't want to wait tables and I didn't want another boring job, so I decided to become an actor. And I applied to this drama school, which was free, and I thought if I don't get in here then I will find something else to do, but I got in and now I am famous.” Someone must have slapped me upside the head with the stupid stick. Here I am, paying University A thirty grand to perfect my craft as a writer and spending money at Kinko's to copy stories so I can mail them out just to be rejected time after time and riding in the back of U-Hauls with Sammy on 100 degree days like two refugees huddled amidst the pools and ladders and props and costumes for Rose's latest production, trying to make something pay off, when all I had to do was wake up one morning and decide what I didn't want to do and what I wanted to do and everything would fall into place. What a fucking waste of time my life has been up to this point. (Actually, that's not exactly as facetious as it sounds. It has been a waste of time, and not because I haven't been following the Olivier Martinez Method to Success in Life, but I still need about ten more years of therapy before we can effectively address that issue, so let's drop it, shall we?) Sooooo, since my new goal is to use this next year to put my life into some semblance of order and to stop being afraid of success but rather to embrace it, I woke up this morning and I decided that: I don't want to work in University B's Writing Center where I spend endless hours reading shrill, poorly-written, personally-affronted essays about why Brent Staples is a moron if he thinks colleges are inflating grades in order to bolster their reputations in the glutted marketplace of higher learning and to placate students and their parents, both of whom have figured out that they are ultimately consumers and are no longer afraid to wield their buying power in regards to a university education, all the while thinking to myself, “Sure, kid, why don't you ask me about how I was advised not to give any of my students lower than a C, unless they absolutely never showed up to class and never did any of the papers.” I don't want to teach mind-numbing subjects like Technical Writing anymore, particularly when seventy-five percent of Tech Writing is about not being a moron and learning how to make sure that if you format the first five pages of a document in a certain way, then the remaining twenty had better follow suit. I don't want to work for any more medical journals, legal newsletters, or crappy entertainment magazines owned by certain media moguls who can't be persuaded to part with enough money to give his employees decent health benefits. I don't want to beg banks, corporations, foundations, and anyone else who will listen for money just so I can work my ass off all summer and not get paid to do a show that “gives something back to the community.” I want to give something back to the community and get freakin' paid for my efforts. Fuck, they pay Olivier Martinez and I don't think Unfaithful gave much back to anyone besides the actors and producers. I don't want to get strong-armed by city officials who extort indecent “space rental” fees from non-profit community-based groups like Rose Theatre just so we can put up a free show that will only benefit the community and not make us any money. I don't want to slave for six months on a kick-ass off-Broadway production only to have our press agent screw us off because Rocky Horror extended its run so she neglects to get any critics to come see our show and review it. I don't want to pay an average of forty bucks per mailing (price of copies, postage, envelopes, printer ink) to send out short stories that I have poured my soul into only to get back form letter after form letter thanking me for my interest but regretting to inform me that my work will not appear in these asinine literary magazines with a grand-total circulation of 500 readers. Especially when most of those rejections actually mean: “You are not John Updike or Annie Proulx and since you don't have a recognizable name, we are not going to print your story, no matter if it is well written and compelling. I don't want to have a whopping $84 in my checking account. I don't want to have to prioritize grocery purchases because I have a whopping $84 in my checking account. I don't want to work for universities that seem to think it is not only acceptable to pay you close to nothing to teach the classes that they are making hundreds of thousands of dollars on, but then also think it's okay to withhold your pittance of a paycheck for two months at the beginning of each semester. I don't want to have to call my mother and borrow money to fix my teeth, pay for classes, buy food, etc. I certainly don't want to sell shoes. What I do want are the following: I want to do something I love and get paid for it. Not a lot but enough. I want to teach literature and Creative Writing full-time for Scott at University C. I want to find a permanent home for Rose Theatre where we can do the projects we truly want to do and never have to beg anyone for money again. I want to lose that evil twenty pounds I've been trying to lose for the past thousand years and I don't want to suddenly gain five pounds in a night if I happen to over-eat at one meal. I want to publish my stories, regardless of whether my name is a recognizable in literary circles. Because, you know what? all you pretentious, stuck-up editors out there, if you publish my stories, my name soon will be recognizable. I want to be able to go to the doctor when I need to. I want to be able to walk into my local Super Fresh and meander down the aisles and buy what ever strikes my fancy. I want to pay my mother back all of the money I've borrowed from her over the years. I want to write my novel about stand-up comedians. I want that novel to top the New York Times Bestsellers List. I want Jerry Seinfeld to convince some major film studio to purchase the movie rights to my novel about stand-up comedians for an unheard of amount of money so he can produce it. (Well, he can be in it, too, but only a small part.) I want Steve Valentine to play Edmund in the film version of my novel about stand-up comedians. Yes, the novel isn't exactly written but I know the characters' names and, apparently, their nationalities. I want to not be so deep in debt that I can't even begin to figure out a way to climb out. I want to be valued for the talents that I have and rewarded for the work that I do, even if it is unorthodox. And, well, while we're wishing, I want to take a trip to Scotland and meet Billy Boyd and become embroiled with him in at least a torrid month-long affair. Obviously, longer than a month would be even better.

7 Deadly Sins and Other, Less Fatal Diversions Pride: I walked close to six miles yesterday. Not that it did any good on that twenty pounds I'm trying to ditch, but, hey, six miles is six miles. Envy: Oh, where to begin? Wrath: The Gap, again. That whole "Who do you want to see in a Gap print ad?" annoys me to no end. Sloth: Don't ask. Avarice: Money, opportunity, fame, success -- you name it; I want it. Gluttony: I've been eating an inordinate amount of pancakes lately. Lust: Billy, of course. And hello to Rachel who shares my obsession. Book: Still Return of the King. I'm stalling because I don't want my first time with this amazing story to be over. The mirroring that Tolkien does with Merry in Rohan and Pippin in Gondor is brilliant. Tune: Good Charlotte, "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous": Lifestyles of the rich and famous They're always complaining. Always complaining. If money is such a problem, Well, they got mansions. Think we should rob them. Task at Hand: Thanks to Julie, I have discovered that one of Billy Boyd's pet charitable works is to create theater programs for underprivileged kids. Considering that this is exactly what we're trying to do with Rose Theater and that we've already got a program in the works and we need some cash to get it up and running, I think we need to get in touch with Mr. Boyd and see if he wants to partner up. I mean, I think I could suffer through meeting Billy if it would mean helping those underprivileged kids. Quest for Publication: I can finally change one of these numbers. I sent out 13 new submissions about a week and a half ago. Yes, the number 13 was deliberate. The batch I sent out was a story I wrote during my last semester at University A. It had something to do with Richard Belzer when it started, but I got away from that pretty quickly. Basically, it's a look at people who don't feel comfortable in the time that they live in and wish they could have lived during a different era. I've got 13 more submissions ready to go out this week -- this new batch is the story that hopefully will eventually grow into my stand-up comedy novel. Total Submissions: 35 Rejections: 13 Acceptances: 1 Withdrawals: 7