Free at Last, Free at Last!

My wife, Patti, and I traveled around Italy for a month recently.  A freakin' month, dude!  I just love that.  I remember when a vacation lasted two weeks, if you were lucky.  You'd just get to the point where you stopped giving a shit about how things were going back in the real world, and you'd be on the phone confirming your return flight.  

When you first start working, you can't even get four weeks vacation; but you're getting laid enough and it doesn't really matter.  Then you get to a job where you get enough vacation time, but through the year, your kid gets a cold and you stay home for two days; or you wake up to find you left the door ajar on the car and the interior light has been on all night long and the battery is drained and you have to call AAA and, by the time they get there, the idea of going to work has lost its charm; or you have to add a day to a long weekend so you can take something that feels like a vacation, but isn't really because you spent half the days driving wherever and back. So you never really have a whole month available. Then, maybe you get lucky and you land one of those jobs where you get six or eight weeks, but you never want to take more than a couple weeks at a time because, if you're absent longer, you might come back and find someone else sitting in your office and yourself assigned to a "special project." 

Even when I was an actor with far too much time available for vacations, I never took four weeks off to go anywhere because, I knew, as all actors do, that unless you're on a series, or making a LOT of money when you DO work, you live every day waiting for the phone to ring  -- for the audition, and if you're lucky, the call-back, the second call-back, the confirmation, the call from wardrobe, etc -- with the deluded expectation and dread that, if you were on vacation, Spielberg would call your agent because he was up till all hours of the morning -- so late that it clearly impaired his judgment -- and when he saw your stunning performance in that infomercial for the all-herbal hot flashes cure, he knew you would be perfect for the lead in his next epic effort, but he'd have to see you within eight hours or it'd be a no-go.  Besides, very few actors can afford a vacation that takes them further than Anaheim.

Retirement is great.  I can't identify in any way with those people, and there are more than a few of them, who say that they can't imagine what they would do if they were retired.  My wife tells me that, when she was a teenager, there was a man who lived in her neighborhood who retired and the following morning, got up, dressed in a suit and tie and sat down in the living room and waited for . . . whatever.  Two days before I retired from my job at the Metropolitan Transportation Authority in Los Angeles, I ran into a guy in the elevator -- white-haired, certainly older than me.  I didn't know him, but I was so overjoyed at the idea of never again working for "DA MAN," that I wore the idea, all day long, like a gigantic boner, strutting around the building, starting conversations about retirement with anyone who would pay any attention, just so I could tell them I was retiring, often starting the conversation myself by asking them about their retirement plans, pretending to listen, but not really giving a shit except to the extent that, if they told me they had a lot of years to work, I felt better.  (Sorry.  That's who I was.)  And everyone of them was envious -- from the guy who had six months, to the woman who had twenty years to go.   

So, I said to this guy, "You got a lot of time left?  When do you plan to retire?"

He said, "I don't plan to retire.  If you're gonna retire, you gotta have interests?  I don't have any interests."

Normally, by this point in the conversation, I would have heard plenty and I would swing the discussion back to MY plans, but I was so stunned by the response, I actually got interested in him.  He hadn't used the word, "hobby."  He hadn't said, you gotta have hobbies."  Here was a guy devoid, not only of hobbies, but interests.  Working at that company -- his life experience -- had actually sucked the life force completely out of him.

All I could think was, "You're not interested in reading a book?  Having a lazy cup of coffee in the morning?  Talking to your wife, a friend? Taking a walk? Going to the beach? Playing with the dog?  Having a glass of wine at lunch? Cruising the internet for porn?" 

I mean, really!

I may have been witnessing a pre-suicidal last cry for help from a desperate soul and perhaps I should have called Suicide Prevention or offered a hand of hope; but frankly, I was really more interested in getting back to talking about MY retirement.

It was a great vacation.

Spit and Whistle

I have to spit when I pee.  It's completely unavoidable.   I can't pee unless I spit.  It's never happened once.  I always spit when I pee.  

I've tried not to spit.  I've done it like an experiment.  Indoors, outdoors, cold weather, hot weather. I've checked when I have little urge to pee -- thought it might sort of desensitize the situation -- take out some of the urgency, relax me a little.   I've pushed the envelope a couple of times trying not to spit when I really had to pee badly.  It hurts a lot, but I still can't pee. 

I just stand there with my dick in my hand feeling increasingly more uncomfortable and . . .  and salivating.  Yes.  My mouth gets full of saliva and I can't swallow it.  I'd like to give you a good reason for that.  I just can't.  And then I have to spit.  Otherwise, I'd begin to drool and drooling is generally considered odd restroom behavior, even though spitting, which is little more than projectile drooling, is common, acceptable, and even encouraged in restrooms. 

Luckily, anywhere you can pee, you can spit.  I can't imagine standing in a restroom, spitting into the urinal, and having the guy next to me say something like, "Oh, man.  Did you spit?  That's disgusting!"

But imagine if I were afflicted conversely:  if I had to pee before I could spit.  It's a nice summer evening.   You're on the patio, having a beer with the boss and his lovely, if a bit anorexic, wife, and you've just stood up to deliver some kind of hypocritical tribute to your guests  and a moth flies into your mouth. 

Here's the kicker:  I really can't spit.  I mean, I do spit; but I can't. 

It's horrible.  I can fill my mouth with saliva and I can project it from my mouth, but not cleanly.  I almost always end up with some kind of residual hanging from my lip down to my shirt.  This has been the case since I was a child. 

When I was twelve years old, every guy I knew could spit.  There were spitting competitions.  My coolest friends could "hock a loogie" -- I'm not sure about the spelling on loogie.  I'm not even sure there is one -- twenty feet with a muffled snapping sound at take-off and a good, honest splat upon landing.  I couldn't hock a loogie for my life.  I'd make a sound like a baby giving someone the raspberries and scatter saliva in about a three inch radius on the front of my shirt.  I have never once felt the pleasure of hocking up and hanging a loogie on somebody's car door handle from ten feet. 

As best I could tell, the technique involves sucking a . . . well, hunk of . . . something with a little heavier texture out of the back of your nose, forming it up and wrapping it in your tongue and flingin it.   And therein lies my problem.  Anything with a "little heavier texture"  that's on its way from the back of my nose to anywhere does not need to be in my mouth with my tongue wrapped around it.

And speaking of things I can't do . . . I can't do that two-finger (or alternatively a finger and a thumb) whistle that guys do at ball games and coaches like to do in really short, hard blasts to get people's attention; the same technique is used with the intention of attracting the notice of a really hot woman, only the sound is different for that -- more tweet-T-WEEEEEEEEEEEET-oo . (At least that's the way  it is in the cartoons.  The guys' lips always get real big and they lean forward way off balance.  and let 'er rip.)  I always feel inadequate in situations where I want to objectify a woman without using real words.  And even my non-fingered whistle is so weak I think a woman would feel more confused than offended.

Anyway, I can't do it.  I've talked to people about it.  I've gotten all sorts of instruction.  I remember my metal shop teacher, Mr. Rinaldi, actually spending a lot of time trying to get me to make that whistle.  I remember him looking intently into my mouth when I tried, trying to figure out what was wrong.  He seemed really perplexed and a little frightened, as though it might be a sign of something much more troubling (a learning disability? late onset retardation?  cancer of the palate?  latent homosexuality?)  He really wanted me to learn to do it, as though learning might cure whatever it was that ailed me.

It's a good thing I don't have to whistle like that every time I pee. 

A blog? Really?

I've resisted blogging for so long.


First of all, I never like to do anything that "everyone"  is doing -- even if it's a good idea.  The only reason I brush my teeth regularly is that I'm positive most people don't.  I used to ride the bus a lot.  Secondly, I never do anything that will require me to do that thing on a regular basis.  I start a blog; I write something witty;  I tell all my friends, who tell all their friends, etc..  Then what?  I don't need the pressure.


Then there's the question of what one should blog about.   I have to have a theme, a point of view, a 'hook.'


I could blog about food.  I like food.  I know a little bit about cooking.  I know more about eating.  Yeah, that's it.  I guess I could do food reviews.  But then I'd have to go out and eat at a lot of restaurants and nobody wants to read anyone's opinion about a taco place that's changed names six times in the last five years or the local Cocoa's.  So you've got to review the really good restaurants and they can be pricey for an old guy on a fixed income.  Besides, everybody is a freakin' food blogger.  You can't throw an empty coffee cup into the middle of any crowded restaurant without hitting a blogger.  Believe me, I know.  They're everywhere.


I was in a restaurant in Sienna, Italy, where this guy -- young, tech worker/finance guy/Portuguese translator sort, and his wife -- yin to his yang (She might actually be yang to his yin.  Who am I to judge?) -- walked in and sat down at the table next to ours, upon which lay two identically-folded napkins, shaped into two little white, linen tuxedo jackets, lapels and all, in the neckline of which was placed a piece of dry black bow-tie pasta.  Simultaneously and wordlessly, the two stood at their places, stared down at the napkin artistry for a moment, then exchanged wide-eyed, hot, pre-orgasmic looks, smiled, and nodded; the gentleman took a small, flat, compact camera out of his pocket, flashed a picture of the tiny tuxedo before him and sat down with a look of boyish anticipation.


My rabbit was dry (but isn't it always?) and I found the polenta grainy.


I could write movie reviews.  I am actually immensely qualified.  I was an actor who starred in two films -- one written and directed by a non-English-speaking, gay, Korean lunatic and purportedly financed with Korean Mafia money, the other directed by a dentist who's large-breasted, small-brained girlfriend played the ingénue biker chick.  I also appeared in fifty plus television shows, delivering such memorable lines as,

"Will you be having wine this evening?" or


"We have, Your Honor," or


The unforgettable, gripping, "No." 

I co-wrote the story for an episode of 'Star Trek The Next Generation,' as well as a stunningly "B" suspense film and a western script that has been under continuous option since 1984, but has never been made.  I've written educational and industrial films, student films, infomercials and even porn.


Yes, my children, there was a time which we now know as the 'Late Hypocritical Period,' when porn producers and the courts did battle in the fields of reality.  The pornographers pretended their products had value beyond pure titillation and the judges feigned horror at what they beheld, whilst jerking themselves off under their black robes.  And in those times, there were writers and characters and plots.


On the other hand, there are plenty of people, both qualified and not so, who write movie reviews and I think, for the most part, they are read and ignored, as they probably should be.   Here's my advice on movies:

Listen to the people you know who have good taste in movies.  If you're not sure which of your friends have good taste, just ask them, "Do you think 'Titanic' was a good movie?"  If they hesitate at all, pay no attention to anything they have to say.  If they answer in the affirmative, never speak to them again about movies or anything else.  If they make retching noises or spit, find out what movies they like.  For me, this is the cinematographic litmus test. 

I could write a political blog.  I have politics in my background.   In 1977, The San Diego Reader identified me as one of the top twenty political "movers and shakers" in San Diego because of my work with . . . guess!  No, really.  Guess!  I'll give you a moment.

The poor?     Huh? 


Fair housing?     You're killing me. 


Save our Libraries?     Who reads anymore? 


Tree planting?    I don't garden.

 No.  All wrong. 

Nude Beaches.  I was the President of the Nude Beaches Committee in San Diego for six years.  I was the go-to guy in California for nude politicking.  I appeared on radio and television shows and I was asked to judge beauty contests at nudist camps.  You might ask yourself why I chose that particular issue upon which to bestow all my creative political energy.  It's simple really.  

I like naked! 

My political life didn't exactly end there, but it has consumed a lot less time than it did in the day.  I now get political in short bursts.  In 2008, I walked the grim and grimy streets of wrong-side Las Vegas in ninety degree heat for five days on behalf of Barack Obama, and will do it again, if necessary (Please, god, don't let it be necessary!), in 2012.

But still, the political blog might be a good idea.  If I wrote a political blog I might even end up as a talking head on one of the twenty-four hour news channels.  It doesn't seem that hard to get a gig.

CUT TO:

INT. CNN SET - MORNING

An attractive, thirtyish, half-Asian, half-African-American woman, ANTWANET SHANG TSU, sits in the broadcaster's seat and addresses Camera 1.  As she does, JANET WHITTLEY, overweight, middle-aged and dazed, fiddles with her earpiece and checks for stray nose hairs in her reflection in the camera lens.

                                                            GABRIELA
We're talking today with Janet Whitley, who not only writes a political blog called "Death to Politicians," but among other things, was once a political consultant to Clyde Balluga when he campaigned for mayor in Orville, Kentucky.
                                                (then, to Janet's image)
Janet, how do you think the economic crisis in Greece might affect President Obama's chances for re-election?

Still, the political blog thing is just not a good idea for me. I have only one opinion about the nation's problems and, for that matter, the world's problems: 

Republicans suck!

And if I wrote a political blog, my answer to everything would be the same.  I can't think of any problem that can't, with a little clear thinking and analysis, be laid at the foot of some Republican, somewhere. or all of them everywhere.  So, my political blog would get boring.

I could write a travel blog.  In fact, the reason this blog got started is because I wrote a bunch of emails while traveling in Italy recently.  They were generally well-received and I heard repeatedly that I should be blogging.  But, maybe the encouraging, "You know, you really should be blogging,"  is just the latter day equivalent of one of Bertha's party guests telling her, "That was some pot roast.  You really should open a restaurant."   And we know how that turns out:

Gordon Ramsey is trying to talk Bertha off the roof of the quaint Drop on Inn!, where she's got her former dinner guest bent over an air vent, pants down at shoe level, the nozzle of a sausage-making machine anally enshrined, and she's cramming large pieces of cooked, grey beef into the grinder, and screaming:

"How do you like that pot roast now, bitch!?

I could write a travel blog, I guess.  But I'd have to travel a lot and, while I generally enjoy seeing different things in other places and meeting new people, who wants a hobby where you're continuously packing and unpacking your shit and hanging out in airports with Nazi customs officials, humorless (and I know this from experience) TSA rent-a-cops, and 10,000 bored, cranky, jet-lagged, nicotine-deprived, frightened (Nobody gets on a fucking airplane without thinking -- if only for a millisecond -- "This plane could go down.") and I might add, often smelly, people just like yourself?

Consequently, this is a blog about nothing.

Welcome.