Me And Joss: The Legend Continues

Are you a fan of Joss Whedon? If you are, then you’ll understand why I’m about to tell the non-fans to become fans, and if you’re not a fan, become one.

So, for a very long time (about ten years now), I’ve thought that the man was a genius. If you don’t really know who the heck he is, he created Buffy, Angel, and Firefly, as well as the upcoming Dollhouse, and he wrote and directed Serenity, the spin-off feature film set in the Firefly world. He wrote and directed most of the absolute best episodes of those shows, and really many of the best episodes of television I’ve evr seen. In case you’re wondering, yes, I pretty much have a man crush on the guy. I would have his babies.

Anyway, probably about a year and a half ago, I was walking along the 3rd Street Promenade here in LA, and who should I see but a schlubby guy in sneakers and a loose-fitting shirt. This guy was, you guessed it( you guessed it, right?), Joss Whedon. I couldn’t bring myself to approach him, so I just kind of stalked him up and down the Promenade for about fifteen minutes until he rounded a corner and exited my life.

Cut to a few months ago when, during the writers’ strike, there was an event called Mutant Enemy Day. Mutant Enemy is Joss Whedon’s production company, so I’m sure you can guess what the event was like. Buffy, Angel, and Firefly alum (actors, writers, producers, etc.) were out that day, striking in support of the writers. Now, I had been striking with the Battlestar Galactica writers when I was able since the strike had begun, so the striking wasn’t particularly exhilerating, except that, once again, Joss and I crossed paths. And, once again, I couldn’t bring myself to approach him. It just felt like we were all there for a cause, and to treat it like essentially a convention seemed inappropriate.

Cut to this past Tuesday, three days ago. I’m at work at the bookstore, when who should come up the escalator, but Mr. Whedon himself. I know! I just couldn’t let this go. “Hi. Are you Joss Whedon?” My voice was stuck in my throat, and also was doing octaves I’d never heard it do. “Yes, I am.” “Hi, Joss Whedon. I am a huge fan of yours.” So far, so good. Seriously, what is up with my voice? “Oh. Well, thank you.” “I’m so sorry. I’m all nervous.” Okay. That was okay. Kind of a lame thing to say, but you’ll redeem yourself. Just say something cool right now. Talk about that time on the Promenade. No, he might not appreciate having been stalked. Tell him about how you’re sorta-friends with a former Buffy writer, Jane Espenson. Yeah, that could… no! Tell him about how you supported the writers, and struck with them. Yeah. Or just tell him that he’s your hero, and that he changed your view of television forever. Say something! You’ve been quiet too long. Something cool, something relevant, something now! “Jane Espenson comes in here!” “Oh.” Crap! That’s what you said? You really said that? It’s like that time you met Kevin Sorbo and you told him that last week you had met Lucy Lawless, and then he just politely walked away. Stupid, stupid! “I don’t know if you’d care about that.” No, I care.” He cares! You said something and Joss Whedon cares! “All right. Well, have a nice day.”

And he was gone.

Telling my fiancee about it later, she said that I totally redeemed myself for the Promenade, when I couldn’t even talk to him. I told her, “Yeah, and next time I see him, I’ll redeem myself for this interaction.”

So, here’s what I’ve decided. I don’t know if coincidences exist. But I’m deciding that Joss and I crossing paths so often is not coincidence. I’ve decided that it means we’re fated to work together sometime in the future. I’ve also decided though, that just because fate says “Yes,” doesn’t mean you don’t have to work for it. So, I’m writing this script, right? And some days, I don’t want to write, and I think, “What does it matter? It gets done or it doesn’t, what’s the difference?” Well, the difference is this: if I write it, and it gets made, and I’m in it, then I’m one step closer to being somebody who other people recognize. People like Joss. If I don’t write it, who knows? So, I write. And I let fate take its course, but I do my part, too.

– ldi

Some Late Night Thoughts About Some Actors

I decided a while ago to try to write at least three posts per week. Well, I think I’ve only done two so far this week, and since it’s already technically Sunday, I thought I’d do one right now. Now, keep in mind that “right now” is about two in the morning, so I really, really don’t expect to remember this in the morning, and when I re-read it, I’ll probably a) think that elves must have written it, and b) think it’s crap. My apologies.

I just wanted to talk a little about some actors. I just finished watching SNL, with Chris Walken as the host. What’s up, Chris? I mean, seriously, folks, why is he a star? I genuinely don’t get it. Well, that’s not true. I mean, he’s a star because he’s unique and weird, right? I guess I mean, how’d he get to the point where he the right kind of unique and weird to make us decide to make him a star?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m right there with you. I dig the guy. I think he’s great. I just don’t understand. I mean, he doesn’t seem to put any real meaning into what he says, you know? I mean, that’s why he’s so much fun to imitate, because it’s tough to get the rhythm wrong, because it doesn’t matter how you twist the pauses and breaks, as long as you say the right words. Like, the line might be, “I love you. I think I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I can’t see myself with anyone else, ever,” and he’ll say, “I love you, I think. I wanna spend the rest of my life… with you; I can’t. See, myself, with anyone else. Ever.” First, why does he do this? It’s wacky, and that’s why we dig him, but why did he start doing this? And secondly, why is it that if anyone — anyone — else did it that way, they’d be called the worst actor ever?

On a similar note, I don’t really get Shatner, either.

Moving on, I just watched the Ebert and Roeper (though really, at this point shouldn’t it be called, officially, Roeper and the Other Guy?) review of Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Can I just say how pleased I am that they loved it? Very pleased. See, I sort of came to Jason Segel from behind… I’m gonna re-word that. I was introduced to Jason Segel late. I recently discovered the delightful Freaks and Geeks, and was stunned to learn that Jason Segel was a regular on it. Then I came to find out that other people had actually discovered Freaks and Geeks before I did, and they’ve been fans of his ever since. As far as I was concerned, he came into existence when he first entered my life, with the premiere episode of How I Met Your Mother. The great thing is that, even though I wasn’t already part of his fan base, and he was competing with my soft spot for Alyson Hannigan and my excitement over Neil Patrick Harris’ return, I ended up loving his character, Marshall.

All this to say, let’s make Jason Segel a star. He’s proven himself time and time again, so when Forgetting Sarah Marshall comes out, let’s just all go see it. Then, because we like him so much, let’s watch the hell out of How I Met Your Mother, and make it not get cancelled. Thanks.

Another actor I’m proud of these days: Benjamin Mackenzie. Yeah, the guy from The O.C. I watched the show when it was on, but then I stopped after about two seasons. Right now, I actually can’t remember what it was that made me compelled to watch it even for that long. I don’t think it was ever “good” in a conventional way, but I could be wrong. Anyway, I just saw the trailer of 88 Minuets — which I’m interested in premise only, and probably will never see — and there’s Ben Mackenzie, frickin’ right next to Al Pacino! Good for you, O.C. guy!

I really like appreciating things like this, because one day, I hope to be an actor who is suddenly on the verge of a big career move. And when I am, maybe somebody will write a blog at two in the morning that no one will ever read about me. That’s, all kidding aside, the dream.

– ldi

Dear Patch Of Grass

Dear Patch Of Grass –

Hey, what’s up? It’s been a while. How’ve you been? Have you been sick? You look a little green. Haha, j/k. Good joke, ldi. Good joke, indeed.

Anywho, I was just wondering if you remember the last time we met up. Remember? It was a little more than a month ago. Srsly? You don’t… Okay, well, what happened was I saw you, and I thought to myself, Well, I could walk around you… or I could jump over you. Guess which one I decided? It was to jump over you.

Anyway, long story short (too late, j/k) I landed just fine, and everything would’ve been cool like that, but then I twisted the hell out of my ankle, sprained it like crazy, it swelled up to softball-size proportions, and many, many different shades of purple materialized as it started bruising.

On that day, you almost won, Patch Of Grass. In fact, there were days when I was convinced you had won. The pain, the inability to walk, there were days I wanted to just give up, let you have your victory.

But that’s not how I roll.

So, through it all, I persevered. I worked through the pain, calmed the swelling, and finally, two days ago, I triumphed. Two days ago, I drove a car for the first time in over a month. Just to the gas station around the corner at first, but then to work, and then home from work. And I’m not gonna lie, it hurt. In fact, that night, I was convinced that I wouldn’t be able to drive again the next day.

But I did. And I will again today.

And so, Patch Of Grass, you lose. I win, and you lose. But I know that won’t sit well with you. Yeah, I’ve got your number, I know how you think. You’re probably planning something right now, aren’t you? And that’s just fine. Because when you strike again, I’ll be ready. The ball may be in your court, but we’re both on the playing field. (It’s a metaphor. A mixed metaphor.) Your move, bitch. Make it a good one.

– ldi

Glass And Tears

She broke a glass and broke into tears. Everybody saw it, they’ll tell you positively. There was the loud crash that came from the other room. The partygoers rushed in and saw her sitting, surrounded by thousands of tiny shards. Sobbing.

Nobody understood. They judged her for it. Silently and not so silently. What kind of woman would be so affected by a broken glass? Or was it that she’d made a mistake, and couldn’t handle being imperfect? Either way, they all thought, this was an extreme reaction.

What none of them knew was that earlier that day, as she was preparing for the party, she’d stubbed her toe. And she hadn’t screamed. She’d looked at the small bead of red forming, and just continued looking. Finally, she’d washed it off, and continued her task.

What none of them knew was that two days ago, she’d gone to her car, and had found a bit of metal broken off in the lock. And she hadn’t sighed. She’d looked at it, stared for too long, and called a cab.

What none of them knew was that a week before that, her partner of over a decade had left her, abandoned her. And she hadn’t screamed. She’d sat in stony silence as the woman she loved packed her bags and walked out of her life. She’d stared at the door for hours, until the sun had disappeared, and the darkness had lulled her to sleep.

What none of them knew was that the day before that, a woman she’d grown up with but never really knew passed away. And she hadn’t cried.

One thing had led to another and to another and to another, until, finally, she broke a glass and broke into tears.

What she doesn’t know is that tomorrow, the sun will rise and she will feel its warmth on her skin for the first time in what will feel like ages.

What she doesn’t know is that a week after that, a true friend will call to ask if she’s all right, and they will talk for hours.

What she doesn’t know is that a couple of days after that, she will meet someone, and they will nervously flirt, and she will return home and laugh.

What she doesn’t know is that that laughter will last for days.

What she doesn’t know is that a month from now, or a year from now, or ten, a friend will give her a set of wine glasses as a gift, and she will smile, and she will cry, and she will remember, and she will be loved.

One thing will lead to another and to another and to another…

– ldi

Other Worlds

Today, the Scribble prompts us with “Out Of This World”. Though the clear encouragement is to discuss space and the like, I’ve decided on a slightly different tack. I hope you don’t mind.

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Other worlds exist. I know this to be true. I’ve visited a few myself. The thing about these visits though, is that it’s technically untrue to say that I’ve visited. For you see, when I enter these worlds different from our own, I’m not really myself anymore.

Some of these worlds are vastly different from the one you and I spend most of our time. Some are eerily similar, with one or two things different. Some seem to exist in this world, but in a different time. Often times, I kid you not, they pay me to visit.

The first time I was paid for visiting, I found myself propositioning a seventeenth century whore in France. As she and I walked across the dirt road to my shabby home, four vampires in human form walked by. One of those vampires would become pregnant, and then sacrifice herself for the sake of her child. Another of those vampires would be the father of that child, and would evntually find his soul again and become a champion. That was a fun world to visit.

Less fun was the world in which I was one of a group of Mexican travellers, filthy and sweaty, journeying through the sweltering canyons in search of the Virgin Mary’s image upon the stones. Hundreds of us, some family, most strangers, walked for miles and miles to glimpse the side of the rocky wall. I can’t honestly say whether or not I saw what I sought, but I did see a shimmering light, a reflection, maybe, and I knew intuitively that everyone else saw it, too. We all looked on, hopefully, eagerly.

Then there was the time that I was mostly myself. I was at the Food Court in one of the malls of this world. We were in Los Angeles. I was enjoying my day, almost ready to resume shopping, when suddenly there was an announcement: “Attention, attention! Please evacuate the mall immediately! Repeat: please evacuate the mall immediately!” We later learned that foreign terrorists had released a deadly gas through the ventillation system of the mall. As we ran toward the exits, I spotted many who were not as fortunate as I was. Frothing at the mouth, bleeding at the eyes, dying. The horror of the situation remains with me to this day. Were it not for a hero named Jack, and the rest of his unit, who knows how many more would have suffered the same fate?

On a lighter note, there was the time I was in what appeared to be our world, but in the 1970’s. I was at a dance club, when two men — one short and with curly hair, the other tall and blonde with a long-ago-broken nose — entered. The short one was clearly hopped up on some kind of drug, so he barely noticed when he bumped into another man. Oh, but he noticed when the other man challenged him to a Dance Off. And oh, what fun it was to watch and cheer for the two competitors.

There exists a world where I am a high school student in a town called Arcadia, where Joan, a fellow student, believes she can see and have conversations with God. There’s a world in which I’m at a club that Big Momma barrels through to catch the bad guy. There’s a world where I’m a student at a fictional college where everyone is Accepted.

I’ve been spared by the evil vampire Angelus, saved by Jack Baur, and I’ve seen both Starsky and Hutch. Because between “Action!” and “Cut!”, these worlds truly do exists. They aren’t actors playing parts, they are realities unfolding.

People ask me sometimes why I want to be an actor. I say, why wouldn’t you want to live a life where everyday the impossible becomes not only possible, but probable? I wouldn’t want anything else.

– ldi

Dear 7-11 Cashier

Dear 7-11 Cashier -

Hey, man. What’s up? Not much with me. Cool.

So, I don’t wanna seem like a dick, but I have a quick request: when I’m buying a thing of ice cream from your store, and the little placard thingie says that it will be $4.99, and then you ring it up, and you and I can both clearly see that the total is $4.99 because the LED states it on your and my side of the register in nice, bold, big green numbers, please don’t tell me that my total is in fact $5.oo. Then, when I mention this discrepency, please don’t argue with me like I’m not right, and claim that there’s a single cent in tax, when we both know that’s a complete fabrication on your part.

Furthermore, once we’ve sorted all that out, please don’t proceed to get all pissy with me when I ask for my receipt. I think in general, and I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job, you should maybe just assume that all customers want their receipt. Just, you know, go ahead and offer it to them all, and if they don’t want it, they’ll probably ask you to throw it away, or they’ll throw it away themselves. I’ll bet you’re concerned because you think that if it gets thrown away, the company’s losing money, and your boss will fire you, right? Is that it? Well, let me assure you, 7-11 Cashier, that the company expects customers to want their receipt. They actually count on it. I promise.

Thanks a lot for your time.

– ldi

The King Has Entered The Small Building

I just finished watching the movie The Mist, based on the Stephen King novella of the same name. For what it’s worth, I enjoyed it. I remember hearing some complaints about the ending, and now that I’ve seen in, I sorta get it, but really, how would you have ended it? The world is saved, everyone lives prosperous lives, the dead are revived, the disgruntled are settled, and the two arguing groups find common ground? I say there’s a place for a swell, happy ending, but it just wouldn’t have fit here. I’m not sure the ending they decided on fit here either, but like Frank Darabont or Stephen King mention, “There was like, two hours of movie before the ending.” Well put, Frank Darabont or Stephen King.

But this is not a movie review.

No, today we talk about something that’s been bothering me of late. The subject of violence in movies. Note, please, that it’s not the violence itself that bothers me. Recently, a work friend of mine invited me to a table read of a script written by a kinda-friend of his. Afterwards, this work friend of mine and I talked about the script. Without giving too much of the story away, I’ll just tell you that most of the script is a relatively dark comedy. However, about halfway into the script, a couple of guys discuss some killings which included some pretty gruesome torture. Later still, a main character himself is tortured to within an inch of his life.

I don’t mind violence in movies. I don’t even mind torture in movies. I’ve seen all the SAW movies, and as long as they keep having interesting twists that I don’t expect at the end, I’ll probably continue seeing them. No, I don’t mind violence in movies; I do mind violence in movies where the violence just doesn’t fit. If you include a graphically violent scene in a movie, you better either be making a movie where the violence is the reason for the movie, or a movie that has earned that violent scene.

This kinda-friend of a work friend of mine’s movie neither had non-stop violence, nor earned the violence it did have. When I mentioned this to that work friend, he disagreed, which is cool. However, his main point seemed to be that these days, you need to have the violence in order to sell the movie.

So I guess what I’d like to do is to clarify what I mean by earning your violence. Because I refuse to believe that mindless violence is really what people want these days, and if you haven’t earned your violence, then your violence is, indeed, mindless. So, how do you earn it? I say two ways: character and story.

Yeah, I know. You’ve heard all this before. But that’s because it’s true. Why do I care that somebody just got decapitated? Or impaled? Or eaten? I don’t. Unless, that is, you’ve made me care. Let me know who these people are. I don’t need their whole life history, but I’d like to know a bit more than, “This guy is scared because someone is chasing them. And the someone chasing them is angry because the script told them to be.”

I used to be a fan of horror movies. But recently, I saw a billboard for some movie. Maybe it was The Ruins, I’m not sure. That was so weird to me. Even as I was looking at the billboard, I wasn’t sure what it was. As far as I’m concerned, so many of these recent “horror” movies are interchangeable. P2, The Ruins, Captivity… I don’t know what these are anymore. I really have no interest in seeing them, and that leads me to believe that that’s because they aren’t being advertised well, and that leads me to believe that that’s because the studios just don’t care anymore. As long as people are flocking, why change? Of course, it’s really just a cyclical practice, right? At first, when SAW came out, people flocked because it was something kind of new. Then the studios started making more and more, and eventually that’s all there was, so people had no real choice but to see the movies. Remember when The Real Cancun came out, and everyone was freaked because if this was popular enough, it might have meant the end of scripted movies? So, when it bombed, everyone breathed a sigh of relief? Remember that? Well, the truth is that if the studios had kept at it, kept making “reality movies,” eventually they would have become successful. People won’t stop going to the movies, so if they give us fewer options, we’ll just have to take it.

So I had all but lost my faith in horror movies.

I just finished watching The Mist. Thank you. Thank you for making a movie about, get this, people. There’s the dad who wants to keep his son safe (and thankfully, it never gets into cheesy Tom-Cruise-War-Of-The-Worlds territory, where danger makes him realize that he should be a better father), the woman convinced this danger is the wrath of a vengeful god, the man who rather be smart and dead than foolish and alive, the soldier in love. So, what did all this character building and backstory and history accomplish? It made the deaths matter. When one person died, or killed another, it impacted us. It wasn’t just another death to get the killer closer to another death to get the killer closer to the eventual showdown with the hero.

And these character building moments, combined with keeping the monsters shrouded in mystery for a while, made the violent images stronger, because we a) cared about the people, and b) knew that the movie had accomplished so much with so little, so that when they finally did show us stuff, it stood out.

So thank you, The Mist, for letting me enjoy a horror movie again. And really, thank you Stephen King. You’ve given us worldwide horrors, nightmares personified, and literal battles between Good and Evil. But I’d say some of your best stuff comes from throwing a small group of people into a cramped building or room, tossing in a threat, and seeing how they react.

– ldi

Stating A Mission

Hmmmm… I’ve been thinking a bit about this blog recently. Haven’t been writing a whole helluva lot in it, but I’ve been thinking. The way it all started was that my fiancee started a blog a good while ago, and she eventually got something of a fan base, and she then encouraged me to start one of my own.

So I decided, what the heck? I had been maintaining a blog over at myspace for a couple of years, but I was always very aware of who was reading the thing. Granted, there weren’t many reading it, but all who were were people I actually know. Which was the problem. Because, you see, when you know the people who read what you write, and they are also the people who, chances are, you’re going to be writing about, it makes it difficult to be completely honest. Not that I’m a lying bastard who has many faces or anything, but let’s face it, sometimes we shroud the truth a little. Like, I love all my friends dearly, and I can tell them anything, but I might sometimes choose not to. Or I might fear that if I write something, void as writing is of inflection and tone, it might be interpreted as serious when I meant it as sarcastic. Or, and this was really my main concern, my little cousin was a reader of the blog, and sometimes I’m angry or upset at my family, or something’s going on that I don’t want them to know about just yet, and so I would have to choose not to blog about something for fear that it would get back to them. Didn’t I deserve a place where I could be completely who I am, without fear of hurting someone’s feelings just by expressing my own?

I thought I did.

And so I came to wordpress. And I was full of positive energy, thinking here finally was that place. And what did I do? Did I write honestly? Express myself truthfully? Well, yes. And also not yes. Everything I’ve blogged so far in this blog has been honest. I’ve not lied, but the thing is, going back through the small amount I’ve contributed, I realize that it doesn’t really sound like me. Everything is how I feel, but it’s not necessarily how I’d say it if I was talking to someone.

Thing is, I’m a funny guy. I wonder if that’s shown through here so far. Another thing about me is that I don’t always know what I’m saying, even as I’m saying it. And yet, with every post here, save for the dialogue with the two guys talking about finding a wallet, I’ve gone to great lengths to make sure that I was impressed with what I’d written. What I mean is that I’ve tried very hard to make you, the hypothetical reader, think, “Wow. Here’s a guy who is smart and sweet, and other things that I deem positive.” And the thing is, as much as I really do want you to like me, I want you to like me, and I’m not sure you know me yet.

Which begs the question, “How is blogging to impress you different than blogging to spare friends’ feelings?” I say it’s not different.

People so often feel the need to impress, no? Like, talk to a guy fancies himself a film-fan. Ask that guy for his top five favorites. You’ll hear things like, Welcome to the Dollhouse or The Seventh Seal or Casablanca. You won’t hear, for example, Freddy’s Dead: The Final Nightmare or Road Trip or the remake of Assault on Precinct 13. Which is not to say that that first group isn’t genuinely on that movie fan’s list, nor that that second group isn’t particularly bad. It is to say, however, that that second group would never even be considered as an answer because the guy answering is trying desperately to impress the guy asking. I’ll go obscure or classic or foriegn, they think. That’ll do the trick.

So, how to get over that and make this blog a genuine insight into my psyche? Well, I think I’ve figured out a way. See, one of the reasons I blog so rarely is that I always want to have something important-seeming to say. And then, on top of that, I want to say it in a way that sounds deep or wise. So what I’ve decided is that I will make a goal for myself to blog at least three times every week. What this will do is force me to sit down and say something. Chances are I won’t have three well-worked-out things to say every week, but that’s kind of the point. I’m trying to get over being “perfect,” and trying instead for genuine.

In real life, I stumble over words, I think I know things that I don’t and therefore make a fool of myself, I tell stories that don’t have endings or points. I’m flawed. I’d like to start reflecting that.

If you do know me, and I write about something in here one day and you’re convinced I’m talking about you, and you feel a certain way about it, let me know. Let’s start a dialogue. I’m a pretty open guy, so chances are you won’t read something here that comes as a complete shock, but like I said, I’m going to try not to censor myself because it might upset you.

Who knows if this whole thing will work out. For all I know, couple weeks from now, there’s another post, “I’ve decided to write a post a month, but it will be the most perfect, enlightening, eye-opening post ever… until the following month.” Who knows? Let’s find out together.

– ldi

Explain This To Me

Another Sunday Scribble, this time about what confuses me, what I just don’t get.

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You know, when you think about all the ways it shouldn’t have happened, wouldn’t have happened, couldn’t possibly have happened, it’s a wonder. When you think about all the things that had to line up in exactly the right way, had to fall into place just so, it’s pretty amazing.

And yet it did happen. You were at that camp, I was forced to go to that camp. I, the shy kid who never made any friends, felt a connection with you, the beautiful girl who has trouble being around large groups of people. That connection was so strong that we both got over our independent fears of being sociable, and we began to talk. There were others, sure, friends we made, phone numbers we exchanged. But I think, even if we didn’t know it at the time, when each of those other connections was severed, it made sense. Those other connections were never meant to be for the long haul. Those other connections were best friends, which eventually turned into camp friends, and again eventually into, “What was her name?”s. And it made sense. But, even as that was happening, and we were sad about the loss, I think we knew. We knew that we weren’t destined for that. Our connection was meant for the long haul.

And even once that was established, and we didn’t have to worry about losing touch, the world kept lining things up just so. Neither of us kissed the other first. Instead, we both just fell into the kiss, like it had always been there, waiting for us to find it. And who said, “I love you” first? In the darkness, I whispered it. Then you said it, slightly louder. I almost didn’t respond, assuming you were responding to me. In the silence, I said it again, only later learning that you had never heard me that first time. We are the only two people who have ever both said, “I love you” first. That makes us magical.

And even when nobody else understood us, when nobody else accepted us, the world still was on our side. When one of us would move to another city, making the distance between us even further, the other of us would just happen to be moving as well, keeping that distance the same. That is, of course, until the fateful move that shortened that distance to no further than the next room over. Yes, and even that was fated. Your job made the move to Los Angeles mandatory, while my career necessitated the same move.

Then came the real test: would living together, seeing each other every day, become a nightmare that neither of us expected? No. Instead, it led to neither one of us proposing marriage, but both of us knowing that day that now was the time to buy a ring. People ask us, “What’s the story? Did you get down on your knee? Did you propose to him?” But we don’t have a story. We don’t need that. We don’t need everybody else to “get” us. We just need to get each other. And we have.

So, what is it that I don’t understand? What boggles my mind these days? I was going to talk about how I don’t understand why you love me. But the truth is, I do understand. It’s the same reason I love you: we fit, plain and simple. So then I was going to question how two people who are so right for each other could, despite the odds, actually find each other. But I understand that, too: the world said, “Yes.”

So I guess what I don’t understand is that, though I’m aware of all the bad things in the world, the hardships, the sadness, how can it be that there are people in this world who can look out into this crazy place, and genuinely not believe in love?

– ldi

You Know, They Do Comedy While Standing Up

All right, readers, today I try something out for the first time. I’m trying a “3 Word Wednesday”. Just like the recent Sunday Scribble, 3WW was recommended to me by the lovely This Girl Remembers, who can be linked to right over there. No, to the right. Down. No, too far, back up a bit. Okay… stop! Yeah, there’s her link.

Anyway, 3 Word Wednesday is, as far as I understand, exactly what it sounds like. Three words are given out every Wednesday, and those three words are then incorporated into each participating blogger’s blog. I have a feeling I’m supposed to tell you what those three words are each week, but here’s what I’m thinking. Chances are you’ve linked here from the 3WW site, which means you already know the words. If you happened by this blog some other way, then maybe not knowing the prompt will encourage you to check out 3WW for yourself, which would totally ripple. Also, if I tell you the words, you may be taken out of the post a bit, since you know that there are these specific three words I had to include, and so you might be questioning whether or not they actually fit in, or if I had to twist some stuff to make it fit. So yeah, I think I’m not telling.

Anyway, here’s my post. I hope you enjoy.

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LIGHTS UP.

A man, FRANK, is on stage, clearly searching very hard for something. There is also a table with a WALLET on it, center stage. After a few seconds of searching, Frank’s buddy, JOE, enters.

JOE: Hey, buddy. You ready?

FRANK: Do I look like a man who’s ready, Joe?

JOE: I’d say you don’t. (beat) You lookin’ for something, Frank?

FRANK: Wow. You should really be a detective, Joe, what with your keen observational skills and all.

JOE: Yeah? And you should be a… jackass-head, with all the… stupid. (Joe considers his insult, settles on feeling good about it.) Anyway, the implied question was, “What are you looking for?”

FRANK: My wallet.

With Frank’s back turned, Joe spots the wallet quickly, since it’s clearly in the middle of the room in plain sight.

JOE: Say Frank, this wallet you’re looking for, it wouldn’t happen to be brown, would it?

FRANK: (back still turned) It would.

JOE: With a chain attached to it, perchance?

FRANK: That’s right.

JOE: Any money in it?

Without looking, Frank reaches out, grabs the wallet, and tosses it to Joe.

FRANK: I don’t know, see for yourself.

Frank goes back to searching, leaving Joe confused.

JOE: So, you knew where it was?

FRANK: (still searching) Of course, it was right there in the middle of the room, in plain sight.

JOE: Well, I know that. It’s just, you seem to still be looking for it.

FRANK: Right.

JOE: Hey, quick question: Why?

FRANK: Oh. Because I hate stand-up comedians.

JOE: Oh, okay. Hmmm… you know, usually Frank, I dig being your friend, I really do. But sometimes, it’s like our friendship is a tangled ball of Christmas lights, and I’m just looking for the plug. You know, the one thing that’ll make sense of it all. (Frank looks up, confused, so Joe is blunt) I have no idea what you’re talking about.

FRANK: Stand-up comedians. You know, they do comedy… while standing up.

JOE: (boiling) I know what a stand-up comedian is! I just don’t know what the hell your hatred of these beloved clowns has to do with us being late to the movie because you can’t find your wallet that you already found!

FRANK: Okay, okay. Good grief, calm down. Stand-up comedians, they’re always like, (mimicking a stand-up comedian) ”I was talking to my friend the other day, and he said he was looking for his wallet everywhere and finally he finds it in the last place he looks.” And the the comedian pauses for the supposedly humorous punchline, “Well, I sure hope it was in the last place you looked, because once you found it, you stopped looking.” Frickin’ hate those smug bastards.

Joe takes all this in. Quietly seething. Then, through gritted teeth:

JOE: So, you’re telling me that we’re late to a movie that I really wanted to see because you, what? Want to prove a stand-up comedian wrong?

FRANK: (simply) Well, I refuse to live in a world where a joke – that I never even understood, by the way – goes unchallenged and is just assumed to be correct.

JOE: Get your coat on, we’re leaving! I’ve had enough of this, for crying out loud!

 Joes yelling spooks Frank into submission.

FRANK: Okay, geez. Keep your pants on, I’ll get my coat.

As Frank EXITS to retrieve his coat, the tension subsides, the room calms down.

JOE: You know, I always heard that joke with your keys, not your wallet.

Frank ENTERS, coat on.

FRANK: Really? (he considers the difference, starts laughing) That’s actually really funny. (he picks up his wallet, while decidedly not looking at it; now he’s cracking up with laughter) Keys! Because of course you would stop looking after you find them. It’d be the last place you looked because you already found them. And you probably have to be somewhere important, right? I mean, of course you’d stop… that’s hilarious, how do they come up with that stuff?

Joe shakes his head at his good friend, as the two men walk toward the door, and EXIT. As the door closes behind them:

JOE (O.S.): You got your keys?

The door slams shut.

FRANK (O.S.): Crap!

As the men shake the door voilently from outside,

LIGHTS OUT.

– ldi