Wedded Blog. Bliss!! -or- Part Two

6 07 2008

Monday, June 16, 2008 – I can’t remember what time I woke up, but I know she was already gone. Off being girly, buying flowers and whatnot, her dad along for the ride, snapping pictures that I’ll see later. My friend, the chosen family member, and I get in touch. He’s been up for a while, I’m sure, probably bored out of his mind, waiting for me to wake up, but he doesn’t make a big thing of it, for which I am grateful. Or rather, will be grateful once the day is behind me, and I can think like a normal person.

I get ready for the beginning part of the day. I don’t like to change clothes in the middle of the day. In high school, when I was in choir and we had a performance in the evening, for which we would have to wear our uniform tuxedo-minus-jacket, rather than wear my standard jeans and tee during the day, go home, throw on my almost-tux, and then go to the performance, I would actually just wear the uniform all day at school, just to avoid having to change midday. Today, though, I make an exception. Not because I don’t want to wear a snazzy suit through the city of San Francisco, but because if I were to spill anything or smudge anything or heck, even breathe too harshly on the fool thing, then that darling, starry-eyed girl I came up here with would actually murder me. Coldly and premeditatedly, and she would likely be acquitted. So I’m thinking, two outfits today?… Being dead? After genuinely thinking about it for about thirty seconds longer than I should have, I decided on the former.

So, my friend and I meet up, and, being two mid-twenties males, we are — big surprise — hungry. We decide to go across the street from the hotel to Mel’s Drive-In. I’ve been to two different locations of Mel’s, and I still haven’t figured out where the “drive-in” part of the equation comes in. Anyway, we sit, we order, we wait, we talk, the food comes, we eat, my friend asks the waitress where the best place is to get this or that, she doesn’t know, the bill comes, he offers to pay, I let him, we talk a bit more.

Why do you need to know all this? Well, you don’t, actually. I guess I’m just telling you all the mundane little things to get you to understand how bizarre today is. Here it is, the biggest day of my life so far, the most significant, the most important and beautiful, and the world is just moving along like normal. Even in the moment, while I was there and my mind was racing, I was aware of how outside I felt. You know how when you’re sick, your head’s all congested and your voice sounds stupid? When you’re that kind of annoying sick, you know how it just doesn’t make sense that everybody you meet isn’t just as sick as you are? Most people you meet, they’re just normal, going about their business, and you maybe think, “Big faker.” But then you meet a genuinely cheerful person, and you just can’t wrap your head around that idea. You’re suddenly okay with the idea of gouging a cheerful strangers eyes out, just so that they’ll feel the same as you, and you can’t help thinking, “Showoff.” Well, my day was like that, but with fewer eye-gouging thoughts.

How can you possibly be a waitress today? Don’t you get it? Today’s kind of a big deal. Can you not feel that? That surge, that actual physical energy coursing through what I assume is the entire world. I mean, even if I’m wrong, and it’s actually just coursing through me, how are you not affected by it? When you get near me, Mr. Bellboy, sir, how are you not jolted halfway across this hotel lobby? Really, Mr. Drugged Up Homeless Man, today’s the day that makes sense for you to ask me for some change? Yes, random passerby, it is a silly shirt I’m wearing today, but wouldn’t you rather be talking to me about something else? Anyone? Come on.

But they didn’t come on. Like that Chris Gaines song, It Don’t Matter To The Sun, “This old world just keeps turning ’round, turning ’round, like it did the day before…”

We got back to the hotel, and started getting dressed for real. Talking some mindless small talk, pretending like a huge event wasn’t just moments away. Sandals giving way to loafers, jeans to newly pressed slacks. Silly shirts became an undershirt, a white, non-stained or -smudged or -breathed on button up, a jacket, and a tie that refused to tie correctly.

“Do I button all the buttons on the jacket, or just the top one, or what?” “All but the bottom.” Whether or not his answer was correct, it didn’t matter. I just needed an answer. I wasn’t nervous, know that. People often asked, in the weeks leading to today, “Are you nervous?,” and I’m simply not. I don’t really get why one would be. It seems to me that if you’re nervous about today, then today isn’t the right day for it. I don’t know. Not nervous; excited. So excited that I needed answers and didn’t care if they were correct.

So, here we were, two best frieds since forever, now both in our suits, about to walk down to the lobby. His suit was nicer, more expensive, shinier. But mine was black, so I think I win.

Into the lobby, waiting. She’s not there yet. Still haven’t seen her all day. Her dad and her brother join us before long. We laugh a bit about how on time we are and how on time they’re not. “They” being every female in the group.

Finally, there they are. There she is.

A little something about her. She’s a bit of a photographer. Before knowing her, I never really understood what makes a photographer different from me with my Kodak disposable. I mean, point and click, right? Well, here’s the difference: I’ll point and click, and I’ll show the picture to someone and they’ll say, “Oh, that’s a pretty flower.” She’ll point and click and show the picture to someone, and they’ll say, “…,” because they’re absolutely speechless. Blown away. A photographer, this woman in front of me, finds the hidden beauty in beautiful things.

When I saw her for the first time that day, wearing a dress that I’d only ever seen in a garment bag, holding flowers that I’d later see pictures of her picking out this morning, all I could say was, “…”

Our eyes met, we smiled, and we led the party out the doors and down a few city blocks.

“Click, click, click!,” was about all I heard for the next hour or so. Well, that and, “Okay, now one with your mom, now your mom and your sister, now just the two of you, now you by yourself, now just the guys, now…” Also, in fairness, I should say that the homeless community finally started respecting the day a bit, by saying, “Congratulations,” and, in one case, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”

We finally get to the City Hall, and our professional photographer showed up, and we were posed, and made to smile those fake smiles that everyone accepts as genuine when they look at pictures. We went into this room and that, signing this paper and that, and then we waited. After a bit, we walked up the stairs that Indiana Jones walked down at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, and we found ourselves on a platform, just us… and the sleeping homeless man on the steps right over there. Atmosphere. Awesome.

Then the ceremony. This part you know. “Do you take her? Do you take him?” “I do,” and, “I also do.” And yet, even though there were no surprises here, and I watch a lot of TV and movies, and could have easily done all three participants’ parts, it felt like these words were being said for the first time. Written just for us, meant just for us, fulfilling their purpose in this moment, right here, right now. I smile and look down at my ring and smile bigger right now, as I’m writing these words. The rings. We put them on each other, and I realized that my finger had been missing something all these years.

The ceremony ends, but the pictures don’t. First, there are pictures of the reporter from the Associated Press, come to ask the newly married straight couple how we feel about being married on the technically-first day same sex marriage licenses are being issued. All I’m thinking as my wife (my wife!!) talks to the lady is, Four minutes married, and this’ll be the first time her new name appears in print!

After that, the photographer gets an idea. She’ll go up there to the balcony, and we’ll all gather in a semicircle, and she’ll get a whole group shot. Splendid. So, she goes up, and we all gather, and for just a moment, I look around. Here we all are, myself, my wife (!!), her mom, her dad, her brother, her aunt, her cousin, my mom, my sister, and my best friend. And in that moment, the world stepped up. In that moment, the world acknowledged the gravity of the situation, it did matter to the sun, everyone stopped and took noticed, tipped their hats and bowed, nodded in our direction, said a united chorus of “Congratulations!”

Or maybe not. Maybe instead, in that moment, this group of people, most of whom had never met each other before, this group of people, united just moments ago solely by their common knowing of we two, this group of people, in that moment, became family.


Laughing On The Verge Of Serious -or- Part One

1 07 2008

Friday, June 13 – Friday the 13th. I get off work at around three or so, the day having so far been a sporadic parade of “Congratulations,” and “I heard that… Is it true?” I finally walk out the door, though, and my ride is waiting for me. Together we begin our journey. Well, that’s not exactly true, is it? Our journey really began nine years ago, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.

The many-hour trip, broken up by the occasional meal and pit stop, started with a gnab, which is the opposite of a bang. The L.A. traffic at around three o’ clock on a Friday didn’t let us get out of Dodge for about an hour and a half. You know that Weird Al song, Traffic Jam? “I left home five hours ago, and I can still see my house from here.” That song was written for this day.

Anyway, we’re finally on the wide and open, and just about as day gives into night, we arrive at our motel. This motel, whose name escapes me, was apparently voted the best motel in the area. I suppose. I don’t travel much, so sometimes I’ll think to myself, “What, really, aside from the fact that motels have many fewer rooms, are cheaper, and have an ‘m’ where the ‘h’ should be, is the difference between a motel and a hotel?” The answer, my friends, is this: at a motel, the guy you check in with will not have any readily available idea that you were supposed to be checking in tonight, there will be at least one mouse- or door knob-sized hole in the wall, and you will have the distinct feeling that probably there’s a hidden camera in your room that is connected to monitors on which greasy and sad, creepy men are watching your every move. That last paranoia, I blame squarely on Luke Wilson and Kate Beckinsale. Thanks, jerks. Aside from those things though, you got a bed, a bathroom, something resembling a desk, and the best basic cable has to offer.

Saturday, June 14 – This is the day that officially makes it so that I don’t have to help anybody move for at least a year. Martina McBride once sang about The Day Of Reckoning; today was The Day Of Traveling. A lot. First, we leave the “m”otel and continue on our way, stopping just once for lunch. We check into the “h”otel, and I promptly break the TV. “It worked just a second ago, I don’t get it. Now the channels won’t change. Weird.” “Maybe if we unplug it and plug it back in.” “Sounds good to me.” *BLINKK!!* “Well, now it doesn’t even turn on. Damn.”

Broken TVs, though, pose no threat to The Day Of Traveling. For The DOT will always persevere. “Don’t worry about it.” This from the girl who clearly encouraged the present state of brokenness. “We have to pick up my mom and dad.” And so we do. Hey, you know what’s fun for a guy who literally gets lost trying to figure out the shopping mall map directories? Trying to navigate through a foreign airport. Especially when he’s trying desperately to keep up with the girl in front of him who doesn’t slow down, even though they both realized, upon parking in the garage, that neither of them knows on which airline her parents are traveling. Fun: the other “F” word.

So, we’re running frantically through who-knows-where, leaving messages on her dad’s phone, “When you land, hopefully you turn on your phone. If you do, please tell us where you are, because we are dumb in a cheesy-farcical-comedy-that-nobody-believes kind of way. Thanks.” Things work out and we collect the parents… but then, wouldn’t ya know it, we don’t know how to get back to the car. “We think we came from there…” “Where it says ‘Do Not Enter’?” “Yeeees…” “Wait! Wasn’t there a red 1974’s-version-of-the-future neon hallway?” “Yes! There was! Okay, everybody. Look for something that wouldn’t seem out of place while you’re waiting in line for Disneyland’s Space Mountain!” And, strange as it seems, we found it, and it led us to the car. Success!

So, we get back to the hotel, and now the TV works. TV elves? Makes you wonder. No time though, because, “Okay, my aunt’s already here, but she’s spending time with some friends, and we have to get my brother.” “Right, but my theory on the elves… oh, never mind.”

Off to the bus station. Where’s the brother? “Where are you?” “I’m here.” “No. We’re here; where are you?” “Here.” “Not here. ‘There,’ maybe?” “Pretty sure if anyone’s ‘there,’ it’s you.” “No, we’re definitely here.” “’Here’ here?” “Probably not. Ah! There you are.” He gets in the car. “Where were you?” “I was right there.” “Exactly.”

Back to the hotel. Rest for a few, and then it’s off to dinner. Hey, you know what’s fun-with-a-capital-“FU” for a guy who can only really talk at length about movies and TV, and doesn’t really do well in groups of people? Going out to dinner with a girl he cares deeply for, her brother who he doesn’t know very well, her parents who he’s met about three times, her aunt who he doesn’t remember meeting, and her two friends who he’s never met. Yay!

Little side note. What did I eat for dinner, I know you’re dying to know. The answer: barbeque. Here’s how you know you’re me: you’re thinking, “Oh. You had a barbeque?” Here’s how you know you’re everyone else at dinner that night: “No, silly. Barbeque is the name of the food. It’s meat done up a certain way, and it’s actually called barbeque.” Here’s what I think. Barbeque is allowed to be a noun when there’s an “a” in front of it. In fact, it can be two different nouns. It can be the actual device that you use to barbeque things. You know, the thing with a lid and charcoal, there’s a grill, and you through some lighter fluid in there. It can also noun out to the event. “You’re invited to a barbeque,” but you should spell it Bar-B-Q. If you don’t want an “a” in front of it, that’s fine too; just understand that you’ve just verbed it. To barbeque. “How’d you cook this meat?” “Oh, I barbequed it.” But what you can’t do is then call the meat barbeque. You don’t call a grilled cheese sandwich grill. A blended smoothie does not become blend. You can’t just have something that’s orange and call it an… okay, wait.

So, after dinner, into the hotel bar. More awkward for me, trying to smile and nod, but always in new, more convincing ways. I don’t drink, either, so there’s really not a lot going for me here. Maybe now you’re thinking, “Well, that wasn’t so bad. A little dinner, some folks had a nightcap, you’re about ready for bed now, right?” Oh, no, no my friends. You underestimate The DOT.

Off we go to pick up my mom and sister, not from the airport or the bus stop, but from the train station. One day, and we’re covering an entire John Candy/Steve Martin classic. We collect them, and on the way back to the hotel, we get to go over a toll bridge. Maybe you’re used to this, I don’t know. I, however, am not, and it was awesome. I know it’s not really any different from paying to get out of a parking garage here in L.A., but somehow it feels more magical. Also, there’s the slight possibility that you’ll come out the other side, and you’ll be a cartoon. Anyone? Phantom Tollbooth? Just me, then? That’s cool.

To the hotel, depositing my mom and sister, and now to bed? Noooo! Because we first have to drive back to the airport to pick up the aforementioned aunt’s daughter. The cousin. Which is where this happened.

“You’re kidding. Seriously? Again?” What prompted that scorn from me? This: “Heh. Hey, guess what? I forgot the paper that tells me which airline she’s flying in on.” So, we drive round and round, and it’s all very déjà vu, except no Space Mountain hallway and also no Denzel Washington. We finally find the cousin, and back we are to the hotel, I marvel at how little I actually care about what’s on TV, and so, finally, sleep.

Sunday, June 15 – Just for kicks and giggles (I heard that phrase from a woman recently. I thought it was awesome. I bet she has kids.), we decided to start this day off with an homage to yesterday. First thing, it’s back to the airport to pick up the honorary family member, my best friend since eighth grade. We know which flight he’s on, we find him no problem… and then we get more lost than all of yesterday’s losts put together. For about forty minutes we three looked for our exit. Thing is, so many of those damn passageways look the same. Stupid design flaw.

We finally do escape, and we meet up with most everybody back at the hotel, and The Day Of Adventure officially begins! (Side note: I’m not shortening The Day Of Adventure, because it acronyms out to The DOA, which, frankly, sets a tone that I’d rather not set, thanks.)

Off we all (minus the brother, that is, who will meet us later with a friend in tow) go to Fisherman’s Wharf. Oh, did I mention where we are? We’re in San Francisco. So, we get there, and I don’t know what to expect, because remember how I don’t travel? Well, it turns out it’s like, a little outdoor shopping center. Tourist trap, it’s a tourist trap. It’s like the 3rd Street Promenade here in L.A. Thing is, I frickin’ love the 3rd Street Promenade here in L.A., and this place is like that, but different enough that it feels new, and… good for you, San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf. Good for you.

So, we eat lunch, various members of the party depart, but the brother and the friend have now arrived, so we almost break even. We shop around a bit, and my sister and I harshly judge the guy performing magic at the magic shop. Really though, he’s pretty bad. That is an objective statement, not at all fueled by the fact that my sister and I used to sell the exact same trick – er, “illusion” – at a magic kiosk a few years back, and we took pride in our presentation, and… I digress.

We find a little arcade-y place, and so we stop in for a bit. Oh! If you ever are there and you find this place, do yourself a favor. Find the machine that is a closed in glass box, inside of which is a miniature desolate landscape: dusty horizon, ragged wagon, lone wooden wheel. It will ask you to give it a quarter, and you simply must. You may think that the wagon will start to shake, or the wheel will roll, or everything will burst into simulated flames, and little people will spill out screaming for their lives. But no, my friends. What happens is so much better. You ready for this? Wind blows. Uh-huh. Wind blows and the flaps of the wagon cover sway in the wind. Which blows. For, I have to admit, quite a long time, considering it was only a quarter. After we were duped into the thing, my friend and I waited around for some other poor sap. And sure enough, two girls happened by, stuck a quarter in, and then probably wondered why two random guys were snickering behind them.

We then found a pretty inexpensive boat tour that took us around Alcatraz, and to within good photo-distance of the Golden Gate Bridge. Because you can’t spell “mind-bustingly silly and/or embarrassing tourist” without “boat tour”. But it was cool. By which I mean cold. I dig the cold, but even I had to borrow my mom’s sweater (she had a jacket as well; I didn’t make the woman freeze to death.). I also mean it was cool, because we saw a seal or otter or sea lion with half of a dead fish in it’s mouth. A conversation ensued about the very fine line between “half of a dead fish,” and “a half-dead fish”. Awesome!

Back to the hotel to collect everybody, and then off to China Town. Which was fine, except I didn’t know that’s where we were going, and I specifically requested a buffet once I did figure it out, which didn’t happen. I have a hard time finding things I like to eat, and then also everyone seemed to be sharing their food, so I felt all obligated to put my food on the Lazy Susan, even though I didn’t want anybody else’s food; I wanted my food. But I’m not bitter. I’m also, apparently, not a big, whiney baby, so that’s good.

Back to the hotel, where we played a really fun game of Loaded Questions, which we knew from experience is a delight to play with stupid people, and now we found out that it’s almost equally fun with non-stupid, but sleepy people. Yay, games! And really, yay grown up grown-ups who still want to play board games, and laugh, and share some silliness. Because I’m going to be one of those grown-ups one day, and I’m glad I won’t be lonely about it. Yay, me!

Gone our separate ways now, and my friend and I find ourselves in his room. Talking about what tomorrow holds, being cavalier, but wise and sage and nonchalant and meaningful about it. Being two guys who have known each other forever, talking about how one of them is doing this thing tomorrow that will be the biggest thing either of them has ever done. Being two best friends, on the verge of incredible seriousness, laughing into the wee hours.

Other Worlds

28 03 2008

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.


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

Remembering Sleep

15 03 2008

So, there’s this thing exists called Sunday Scribblings. Have you heard of it? Actually, I assume if you’re here reading this, you’ve probably either informed me of Sunday Scribblings, or you’ve linked from there. Just in case you happened to just stumble upon this blog though, I’ll explain just a bit. Basically, from what I understand, Sunday Scribblings gives bloggers a prompt every Thursday. Participating bloggers then have until the following Sunday to make a post about the prompt. Cool, no?

My question to regular Scribblers: when you link to the appropriate post, do you tend to stay a while and look at previous posts? Do you always leave a comment? Do you usually become a regular reader of the blog? I know everyone does something different, but I’m trying to get a sense of the norm, so I don’t step on any toes, this being my first Scribble and all.

And what a first Scribble! This week, the prompt is “smorgasbord”. Kinda. See, the prompt is indeed “smorgasbord,” but the details are actually themselves a smorgasbord of a sort. What’s happened this week is that we are allowed to choose from all the other prompts over the history of Sunday Scribblings, as long as we don’t just copy and paste an old post. Since this is my first time, there’s no temptation for me to do so, and so the prompt that I’m choosing is “Sleep (and/or Teeth)”. I’m choosing the “sleep” part of the equation.


So, they say when you get older, you need less sleep. When does that kick in? Because really, I remember a time when it was no problem to wake up at six in the morning. Sure I would grumble and moan, maybe hit the snooze once or twice, but I was never even once late for school. Never once. And I was a good student! So, this means I not only got up before the sun, but was awake enough to be attentive enough to listen and comprehend well enough to be “the smart kid”!

And on the weekends, or on days off, I literally could not sleep past the ten o’ clock hour. Some days I might wake up at nine, some days 10:55, but never into eleven o’ clock. It was impossible.

My sister and I had bunk beds, and I remember vividly waking up and lying in bed. I wondered if she was doing the same in the lower bunk. So, I would shift, not yet announcing officially that I was awake. Maybe she would shift then, too. And that’s when I would realize the error of my subtle plan. If my shifting left my state ambiguous, then her’s did the same. So, I would get a little more blunt: I’d shift and clear my throat in a grunt-y kind of way. Those, in case you don’t know, are totally sleep-affiliated noises. My sister, for her part, might reciprocate in kind, or she might just shift again with no noise connected. Ooooh, sneaky and crafty, that sister of mine. Finally, one or the other of us would pull out the big guns: we’d crack the knuckles of our toes. Yeah, it’s gross, whatever. Judge us if you will, but we knew what it meant. It was a code. A carrier pigeon from one bunk to the other: “You awake?” If the other one of us heard that, and cracked back, it stated clearly, “I am, thanks for asking.” Upon hearing the verification, the original craker would break the verbal silence of the day: “Good morning.” And the day had begun. Maybe she and I would argue, fight, hate each other by the end of the day, but in those moments between asleep and awake, it didn’t matter.

All that before eleven a.m. Invariably.

So, what happened? Maybe it was bed times. Those arbitrary limits set by parents who clearly just wanted to make our lives hell. I mean, what other reason could there have been? What do you mean, I have to be in bed by eight o’ clock? Don’t you know 90210 is about to start? This is so unfair! Then the next year, What do you mean, I have to go to bed at nine o’ clock? Don’t you know that 90210 just got over? I’m jazzed and excited! I mean, who will Dylan choose: Brenda or Kelly? How can I sleep at a time like this?! Then the next year, What do you mean I have to go to bed at ten o’ clock? Don’t you know there’s an hour of news followed by some late night talk shows that I don’t really care about? This is so unfair!

But those bed times were fair, you know? I mean, I actually used to take pride in not being able to sleep until eleven. I was proud that for the most part, I didn’t even need an alarm clock. On school days, the morning that I wasn’t awake moments before the alarm was rare. Those bed times helped make me a good student. In a sense, those bed times helped make me who I am today.

And who am I today? Well, today I’m a guy who is amazed when, just this morning, I dragged myself out of bed at 11:20. Amazed, because that’s about an hour earlier than usual. When I don’t need to be somewhere, or don’t need to do something, I tend not to. The alarm clock might go off at yesterday’s time because nobody re-set it, and I’ll just shut it off, roll over, and go back to sleep.

When I finally do get up, I’ll go to work if I have to, and don’t get me wrong, I’ll do a good job, but I won’t do much else. On days I don’t have to go to work, I’ll promise myself that I’ll work on the outline for that script I want to write, but usually I’ll just get lost on line, and then watch old Yes, Dear and Just Shoot Me! re-runs. I’ll lose entire days just like I seem to have lost my internal clock that would wake me up moments before the six o’ clock alarm.

So, when does it happen? This “adults needing less sleep” thing? I’m not saying I want to go back. I truly do love my life. I’m about to be married to an unbelievable woman. I know I’ll soon finish that script. One day, I’m sure I’ll be the successful working actor I’m destined to be, if for no other reason than pure stubbornness. I have aspirations, dreams yet to come true. I’m in a pretty good place, and I never forget that.

It’s just that, some days, when ten o’ clock a.m rolls around, I listen for shifting, throat-clearing, and knuckle-cracking.


So, that’s my first Sunday Scribble. Was it okay that it wasn’t necessarily all about sleep, but rather inspired by the idea of sleep? Is that how this works? Please do leave a comment, feel free to look around and leave some more comments.

— ldi