Go for it man.

Go for it.

Take the plunge.

Just do it.

Grab the brass ring.

Push the envelope.

Beat the odds.

Make your mark.

Hit that high note.

Strike up the Band.

Wait, that last one doesn't really apply.

Whatever.

I give up.

Chet

Chet has been my friend since 1994. Eleven years ago I was beginning a two year turn as a waiter at Planet Hollywood, Chicago. Chet and I started working for Arnold, Bruce and Sly the same week. I remember we were in the same training class of about fifteen waiters-to-be. I was not just a little bit overwhelmed by how immersed I was in gayness. And, this is coming from someone who grew up in theater. But, these waiters took being gay out of the minors and into the majors.

I immediately bonded with Chet. He, like me, attended Indiana University in the Radio and Television Department. And, he was a tech geek like myself. We talked about cameras and video equipment while the fruity waiters discussed sorbet and Cher.

However, Chet's level of knowledge and attention to all things audio and video go well far and above the term "enthusiast." Chet is part Rainman, part Forrest Gump and part Winchester.
The man, who at the time was well into his thirties, would go on for an hour on the difference between a Sony speaker and a Toshiba speaker. Don't be mislead by my description of Chet, his social skills may border on "oblivious" but his intellect and ability to recall information is computer-like.

Despite my inability to get a word in edgewise (especially if Chet was on one of his miniseries-lenghted tirades on the infinite talent of Elton John) I really got a kickout of him. In atuality, conversations with him were good for my ADD. I didn't have to pay great attention to Chet because he would stay on the same topic for so long. With normal people, I'm not allowed the pleasure of "driftin off" on my little imagination spurts.

In fact, he's on the phone right now. In the time that I've started typing he's covered the new tweeter he bought and already had to have repaired for about thirty minutes with a brief segue into the glory of Monster Cable and now we're onto something about issues between his brothers. I think another one just outed himself.

Oh yeah. Chey is gay. But like the straightest gay man you ever met. That's why I didn't really bring it up. However, right now he's describing his new tattoo. It's a rubber fetish dude in full fetish wear and it spans his shoulder.

Well, I'm going to try to reel him in. Later.

april 22, 2005

what I'm noticing around me.

Wow. There are a lot of great blogs out there. Someday someone's going to get smart and just publish best blogs of the year as an anthology series or something. It's crazy. I read one about a waiter that was just true and real and not poser-ey at all. It was brilliant.

I'm not a huge fan of most writers. They bore me.

I'm a huge fan of Shakespeare and Tennessee Williams and Raymond Chandler and even or perhaps mostly Stephen King. Reading Stephen King is definitely chasing the dragon. I mean, those first half dozen -- wow. Those weren't genre pieces. They were analogies. Metaphors.

And Gary Larson. Super genius. How do you make a one panel cartoon that funny?

You should watch Bill Maher on HBO. I have to say, the man is not my cup of tea -- but the artist is truly admirable. What he's doing is like primer. He's setting the tables for a whole new slew of comedians/journalists. I love Jon Stewart, but that ain't news. What Bill is doing is. And, it's fair and slanted at the same time. Great work.

You should pick up the graphic novel, "History of Violence" I hear that the David Cronenberg directed film is killing in Cannes or whatever big film fest is going on in Europe, impossible to care that much anymore there's so many awards and fests nowadays. I'm surprised that we don't have an "Awardees" awards show where they give awards... Aw, you get it.

I searched the internet today. It's really hard to find anything interesting. Why isn't there a referrral site? You know a best of?

The building I'm in today is Naktomi Plaza from "Diehard" and it's a "swayer." That is so unsettling. Especially since we're in LA. I mean if you're in Chicago, it makes sense with the wind and all. but how much wind is there ever really in LA? Creepy. LA is so going to sink into the ground soon -- the entire city landing flush in the seventh ringer of hell. Completely intact, the denizens of Hollywood not even noticing the lake of fire surrounding them. Before long, a seedy club promoter will put velvet ropes around the smoldering crevasse and charge $30 a person to get in.

Let's face it. If you could only see one, shich would you rather see? Heaven or hell? I'd have to check out hell. I mean heaven sounds nice, but hell has got to be a trip.

I like Las Vegas as a concept. I hate it as a city. It's like New Year's. All build up. No payoff.
I guess I'd like it more if... Naw, it sucks.

It's not Vegas so much as the whole "what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas" metality. It has ruined the city. People go there now to cause trouble. Trouble is not what Vegas is about. Cooling out is what it's all about.

I need a new mattress.

WHOT FM

The past two weeks were the greatest two weeks. Great. Great. Great. And, I'll tell you what, I have had a great year. I have worked for tremendous directors and producers and I've been working hard with Fred Willard's sketch group -- the MOHO's. I've been writing for comedians and actors alike. I wrote and directed a 33 minute (not-so) short film that turned out much better than I could have dreamed, thanks to like 40 talented people in front and behind the camera. I got married! In Ireland! In a freakin' castle!

Good damn year. But, the last two weeks took me by surprise. I had the opportunity to work as a comedy writer for a major market radio show. I know what you're thinking. But, these guys aren't a zoo and they aren't shock jocks. They come from a Chicago Improv background and they're freakin' great. The past two weeks I worked all day at 20th Century Fox and then wrote sketches and bits until 3am and then got to the station by 8(ish) for TWO WEEKS! It was grueling and by the last day I was speaking in tongues -- but I loved it! When I called my bro he said he wasn't surprised. And that I always come back to radio and Bren, my wife said the same thing.

I was a radio major in college and I have worked at a few stations as a writer and comedian, but I never really thought of myself as someone who wanted to get into radio. I always thought standup and tv writing first. But then I remembered WHOT. I grew up in Gary, Indiana. Home of Michael Jackson and that song from the Music Man. I was a complete dork. I wore big, thick plastic glasses and I was afraid of my own shadow.

One day as we were waiting in line at the cafeteria (fifth grade) I saw a kid in front of me holding a Smiley face pillow. I asked him what that was all about and he told me that he fell out of a tree and has to get stiches on his ass. He told me they accidentallyt sewed up his crack and poo came out of his ears. And we were friends ever since. The kid I'm talking about is the legendary Sheed. He's interspersed throught my sites. Can't tell a story about grades five through eleven without Sheed. Sheed's half brother was a dj and that was all that Sheed ever talked about. We of course, shared a love for music and would race to his basement every day to see if Sheed got a press copy of any album sent to him by his bro.

Soon, we set up a dj station in his laundry room and started spinning records every day. Then, his bro set up a couple of mikes to the speakers and we were golden. Every day, it was WHOT with Sheed and Tully. I still have tapes of us two boneheads doing no less than two hours straight of pure morning radio banter. It was hilarious. We would do retarded Star Wars sketches, lame near-perjurized Mad magazine rehashes... whatever.

Song parodies were huge. I still remember almost all the words to Toilet Surfing USA. A song about the Tidy Bowl man's best friend; a toilet bowl surfer. "I've got a toilet paper surfboard. Watch out for that poo." What can I say? Poo was huge in the fifth grade. Before too long, the kids in our neighborhood would come over after school to dance to the records. Gary was a predominantly black neighborhood, and I learned only later when I had to move to a white neighborhood that brothers & sisters weren't near the tight asses white folks are when it comes to dancing. So, sometimes we'd have like twenty kids downstairs just breakin' their asses off.

We even named the basement the "Diamond Club" and had dance off's where we'd tap out dancers until it went down to the winners. We were dorks. But it was pretty freakin' fun. Many days were spent in that basement spinning plastic. It may have been a way for us to stay off the incredibly tough streets of Gary; but we never saw it that way. We were just having a good time.

So, I guess I have always loved radio. Weird how long it takes to learn stuff about yourself you already knew. JT

This is a big old thank you to everyone involved in my short film. I know it's just a short film, but it was huge for me. I'm a better person for the experience and I feel that everyone came away with some good stuff from it.

I worked my butt off and I never settled for anything less than my best effort. Yet, when we screened the movie and all of my buds (most of whom are very successful as artists in their own right), I felt like an impostor. Like someone was going to figure out that I didn't deserve any praise and that it was all a fluke. Maybe the movie was good only because I surrounded myself with really talented people who cancelled out my own ineptitude and mediocrity. And the script; maybe it wasn't my script at all... What if I have ESP and at night while sleeping I plug into the brains of Autistic dudes who can't communicate out loud, but have genius ideas just waiting to be plucked out of their heads like big, ripe peaches off a tree?

It's really weird. Even though I know I deserve so much more in life; part of me is so freakin' scared I'm going to get it. Because there is a comfort zone in not achieving. You know, if you don't get off the bench, then you can't strike out.

I guess since I had a pretty f'd up childhood, I might be one of those people that is partially a victim of his own self fulfilling prophecies. I guess I need to tell you a little bit about my male genetic donor for you to understand what I mean.

Dick.

Dick was born in like the 40's I think. He came from a really great couple; one irish and one german. They were the sweetest pair you could ever meet. But, they had like 12 kids -- which to me is a mild form of child abuse. I mean, school is hard enough -- imagine having that same kind of social structure at home. You know whit 12 kids, there's definitely a cool part of the siblings and then a poor splinter group of the uncool brothers and sisters. Dick contracted Polio at like 12. It stunted his growth. I'm fairly certain that Dick probably would have achieved anything if it weren't for this tragic turn. By the time his was a late teen he was a pretty successful guitar palyer in 50's rock groups. I hear he was the man in his hometown. Did commercial jingles and a couple albums. But, he went to school, got a job, married his high school sweetheart and left his dreams before they ever got started.

From my earliest memory of Dick; he was the Great Santini. I remember I was in the finals for a spelling bee and one night I was going over words from a coloring book my mom had bought me. This was after the divorce mind you. Let me also explain that from a very young age I was pretty much a prodigy in the art dept. So, this coloring book -- GI Joe, the cooler 12 inch GI Joe was filled with my artwork and such. I was the kind of kid that not only colored in the coloring book but added pictures and captions to what was in there. At this point in life my Mom lived in a rat hole and this fng coloring book was like the coolest thing I owned. It wasn't one of those ten pagers. It was a double sized thick ass book with a super cool cover.

You see where this is going?

I remember the word. Ironic, because the word was memorization. I couldn't get it right. One other thing before I get to the part where he goes apeshooey on me.

I was in a spelling bee as a finalist for the city of gary, indiana. Pretty big deal. Here's the important part -- Dick lived in Maryland and had done so ever since my Mom and him split when i was four. Yes, the Maryland that is half a country across from Indiana. So, pretty much Dick has no hand in my achievements as artist or speller extraordinaire during any of my nine years of childhood.

But, that doesn't stop Dick from really coming down on me like a ton of bricks because I couldn't spell memorization. On like the third attempt, I was definitely bored and not trying becasue even then I was amused at the ridiculousness of how frustrated Dick was getting. I think I was even purposely spelling it wrong just to push his buttons. He is a ridiculous little man, as most white men are silly when angry -- he really is. Why do white men think their anger scares anyone? Besides women, children, and people stuck in cubicles -- worried about losing their dental plan? Little advice for sons - if you are the spitting image of your father, don't try to push your pops buttons. Know why? Because when the traits are that similar, you don't have to try. You are a miniature walking and talking mirror -- reflecting all the millions of tiny images that remind men of who they are or aren't. In this case, Dick only chose to see those little cracks and fissures that were his own imperfections. And instead of choosing to lead by example and maybe put a little spackle on the cracks; he chose to tear it all down into dust and rubble. I suppose to rebuild from the ground up. Still, I didn't see it coming, even though the wrecking ball was inches from my face. I wasn't scared at all of the funny little angry man.

Well, I should have been scared beacuse all of a sudden Dick rolls up my GI Joe Coloring book. The horror of just that move reduced me to a trembling mess. You gotta' understand, comic art above all other art is hallowed to me -- even now. Anyone can paint a flippin' haystack. Have Monet or Picasso try to draw GI Joe and his Tank, rolling over the broken bodies of masked invaders -- I don't think so.

Suddenly, things go from angry white man to Defcon 5 in like a second. The man starts beating my nine year old head neck and body with MY rolled up double-sizedGI Joe coloring book. Beating me with that which I love. By a man whose love I would never have.

Like GI Joe says; "war is hell."

I hate to put you throught this, but the second event that summer is where it all lives and breathes. I call it "model airplane '79."

Dick's new wife was pretty cool. She actually met Dick while Dick was on a "mental break" in some kind of "mental institution." She was a patient as well. Although, for years we were told she was a nurse. We were also told for years that he met her after my Mom and Dick broke up. It wasn't until I was fully grown Mom told me the truth. Dick had a melt-down (no shame in that, I suppose) went to the looney bin, came back with another mixed nut and kicked out my 22 year old Mom and her two kids. Nonetheless, my Mom files this allunder HUGE FAVOR.

So back to "Model Airplane '79", Dick had bought me two model airplanes. He left them out on the back patio on a table. Dottie tells me that the idea is for us to do them together. Well, I don't wait. I put one together myself. I guess it didn't turn out that great because when he got home; he pounds my ass. But moreso, it's the speech that chisleled it's way into my ego for decades to come.

"Jeff, look what you did. This is a disaster. It looks like S. Pathetic. You know what this is? This is a HALF ASS job! Half ass. You are a HALF ASS! You will never amount to anything because you can't do anything right. You do it all half way!"

And then he made me clean out all the garbage cans and mop floors and clean out toilets. When it was all over -- he was waiting with the other airplane and ice cream and we made it together. Classic behavior modification by a tiny dicked manipulating dictator. He's not unique, nor is his technique. There are thousands like him and most of them have a moustache and thier own country.

And those two experiences are not even near the last of them. But, they are the highlight reel. I bring all this up like the septic line running out of my long term memory because these are all little elements that lead to my overwhelming tendency to stand at the threshold of completing any task for fear that I will be punished with reckless abandon. Literally pummeled with negative criticism and Giant GI JOE Coloring Books the size of tabletops. Smashing me down, ridiculing me -- telling me not to even try. So, when I do try and succeed -- I keep looking overhead, expecting a giant piano hovering overhead -- hanging only by a tiny withered thread. And Dick sitting atop, hopping up and down telling me I missed something... "it's not ready, you're not ready! Don't show anyone your work you halfass, it's not good enough and they're all gonna' know it!"

However, and this is a HUGE however... These events are not an excuse for my failures or personality flaws, only a roadmap. I refuse to blame Dick for who I am. I only seek the clues that lead to these flaws. I face them and then I set them free. I can't judge Dick, I can't hate Dick. I can only learn from Dick. Otherwise we both lose.

Peace.

Tully

Plunged.

A few notes on the sitcom spec I'm writing.

Anne is the kind of girl who had it all and then some. Instead of using all that to get ahead for herself -- she has a tendency to ride sidecar. Anne is extremely sexually active and progressive minded. But, she's an old fashioned girl as well. Anne is the kind of woman who is sexually fierce, but emotionally a bit drawn to alc's and aholes. Typical father abandonment issues. She is the caretaker. Anne is very strong and very driven. But, she also is extremely commitment-phobic. She can't believe she's married. It scares her to death.

Ben is solid. Ben is a survivor. You name the catastrophe and Ben has lived through it. Ben is completely convinced that Murphy's Law does apply to him. Instead of being all negative though, Ben is like the Irish; a healthy cynic. He takes it all in stride and mainly teaches us all that coping can be fun. Ben's biggest problem is that he is just too good natured - he lets people take advantage of his ability to pick up the slack. For all that Anne is afraid of, Ben is usually oblivous.

Shelby. Shelby is that girl every guy wonders about. Shelby is the midwest. She's cool and adventuresome and always cool with everything. Shelby has absolutely no gauge for trouble and or impending doom. She's not stupid. She's reckless. She's still living under that cloud of immortality most 23 year olds have. She's not a city person. She's not jaded.

Melody. Melody is a know it all. She wants it all, gets it all and to hell with anyone who gets in her way. Melody is your best friend as long as you are on the same boat. You even look in a different direction and Melody will have your ass. Melody wants it all; the cars, the house, the curtains, the rugs, whatever it is --she wants it. Is she Martha Stewart? No. She's a consumer - a nester, a trend follower.