Indigenous Beliefs

Friday the 13th: A Tale of Terror

2012-01-13T23:52:00.000-08:00

This morning I woke up to quite a sight. I had emails. Hundreds of them. All the emails were from Google. To be more specific, they were Google Alerts.

For those of you who are unfamiliar, Google Alerts are emails sent to you based on subjects you tell Google you are interested in. For some people that might be a favorite animal or sports team, for others it might an important news story or hobby. For me, it's my name. I have Google notify me whenever something's written about Daniel Bruckner on the internet, on the off chance some of those writings might be about me.

Most weeks, this self-absorbed behavior is hardly intrusive. Every once in a while a German guy with my name scores a goal in soccer. There's also an inside trader with my name in San Diego. He occasionally holds seminars I find out about. And there's also a landlord in Milwaukee with my name who was busted for renting rodent-infested apartments to Burmese refugees. That particular me also has seven felony convictions for child pornography.

Other than that, the internet rarely mentions my name. That is, until today.

Apparently today, someone named Daniel Bruckner won $208 million in the lottery. And that Daniel Bruckner also lives in California. As you can imagine, I couldn't be more happy.

Any time someone with the same name as you wins $208 million in the lottery, you go through a period of self-examination. You question every choice you've made in life. And you ponder the choices he (the other Daniel Bruckner) must have made. Here's a guy (not you) holding a giant cardboard check. What am I holding?

There's so much to consider. I mean, how many people with the same name ever amount to anything? Ask the 3,000 other Bill Gates in the world. Expect to hear me shout those last two sentences should you go out drinking with me over the next ten to fifteen years.

"It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy,' a co-worker of his was quoted as saying. So he's successful and beloved. I would settle for either. The best thing any of my co-workers could muster up today was, 'at least you're not in one of your moods.'

I suppose I only have myself to blame. Years of chastising my peers about the squanderous habit of buying lottery tickets. I can only imagine trying to make the same criticism now. For a day, every Mexican I know felt smarter than me. That can't last, can it?

And I can only imagine what my parents must have thought when they heard/read the news. 'Finally, our ship has arrived!' 'Finally, he can pay us back for the hell he's put us through!'

When I sat down to write tonight, I didn't sit down to write this. But with every word I summoned from the deepest, darkest cavern of my mind came the image of a man, a man holding a giant cardboard check. And so I find myself here: limbo.

Will I forever measure myself against my doppelganger from San Jose? I suppose it would be healthier to compare myself to the slumlord pedophile from Milwaukee. That's a comparison I would win, isn't it? Who knows on this topsy turvy Friday the 13th?

Maybe in a few years Dateline NBC or one of the other news shows will do a story on how winning the lottery wrecked Daniel Bruckner's life. Until then, I shall drink heavily and burn my stacks of losing scratch-off tickets to keep warm.

The moral of today's story: Don't buy so many lottery tickets that you can't afford to pay your heating bill.

2nd Annual Chipper Picture Post

2011-04-21T23:46:00.000-07:00

Chipper has a dead person in his left knee, whereas my sliver of necro-tissue performs dutifully in my right knee. Chipper has been living with his dead person six weeks longer than I have. In that time he has managed to hit two more home runs than I, but none today (unfortunately).

2011-04-21T23:27:00.000-07:00

I spent Thanksgiving at my brother's house in Texas. It was there that my family introduced me to the TV show Deadliest Catch. Discovery Channel was running a Deadliest Catch Thanksgiving marathon, and the Bruckner family watched nearly all of it. It's a very good show.

This week, the Atlanta Braves made their annual trip out to Los Angeles; which means I made my annual trip to Dodgers Stadium. As I settled into my seat for the first game of the series, I looked out onto the field and who did I see? None other than fishermen from the TV show Deadliest Catch!

And it brought back the smell of turkey all over again.

Road Trip: Tombstone

2010-12-04T14:02:00.000-08:00

Aaron Goodwin hid under this hearse during an episode of Ghost Adventures

Road Trip: Carlsbad Caverns

2010-12-03T23:25:00.000-08:00

Madonna and Child

some ghoulies

(sorry)

(sorry, again)

Road Trip: Roswell

2010-12-02T23:59:00.000-08:00

Road Trip: Grand Canyon

2010-12-01T21:53:00.000-08:00

The Worst Day Of My Life

2010-10-09T07:02:00.000-07:00

Everything started off innocently enough. At around noon, I went into the bathroom for what I thought was to be just another ho-hum bowel movement. Around 12:15, it became apparent that while I needed to go, it just wasn't going to happen. So I aborted the mission.

At around 12:40, the pain came. A discomfort in the seat of my pants which I was unable to ignore. What started out as intense pressure quickly progressed into full-blown agony.

Despite my best bathroom efforts, I was unable to alleviate any of the mounting turmoil. It only got worse.

Ninety minutes in and I realized I was dealing with a beast like no other.

Two hours, the shakes began. My entire body trembled uncontrollably as I sweat profusely. I became dizzy. It was now a struggle to even maintain consciousness. Time for reinforcements.

One, two, three glycerin suppositories were carefully inserted, slipped inside me like sticks of dynamite ready to blow-up the boulder-blocked cave entrance. But these dynamite sticks did not do the trick. Time to call the doctor.

He put in prescription for an industrial strength laxative. Unfortunately, it, too, failed.

At this point, I had begun to break down emotionally. It had become too much to handle. This was more than mere discomfort, this anal misery was threatening to rip me to pieces. So with my body in tethers and no foreseeable end in sight, I mentally cracked.

This being my first day off pain medication, I was completely exposed to the full breadth of the ordeal. My pain threshold long surpassed, I had now entered the outer reaches of human suffering, testing the limits of what the physical body could withstand. And my fortress walls were quickly crumbling.

Surely this exceeded what Guantanamo Bay interrogation torture feels like. And it must’ve certainly rivaled childbirth. Unfortunately for me, there was no bundle of joy waiting to get out.

Now my body tried. It wasn’t going down without a fight. Involuntarily, it went after the obstruction. I began to violently convulse, as though my entire body was being squeezed inside the hand of a giant. Each convulsion felt like it could cause organs to explode. I was on the verge of turning inside-out.

After a half-hour of this internal violence, the offensive ceased. My body had succumbed.

I was in tears. I had been for some time. This was the second time my live-in caretaker had ever witnessed me cry. The first being many years ago when I cried while watching the movie Searching For Bobby Fischer (don't get me wrong, I cry a lot of movies. This just happened to be the only time I was caught. I started to wonder if I’d ever get to watch that movie again).

For five hours I stood in the bathroom screaming. It was just too painful to sit. With my rehabbing knee, I was allowed to walk and stand for fifteen minutes at a time. Because of the surgery, it was difficult to stand for more than fifteen minutes. At this point, I had easily done over 200 minutes. It hurt more for me to sit than it did to stand on my wounded knee.

Out of options and desperate for relief, I decided to take matters into my own hands, literally. Using my index finger, I dove in after it. My finger was immediately collided with the obstruction. The portion was clearly too large to fit through the opening. I began clawing at the immovable mass, managing to break free a few pieces. After thirty minutes of this, I looked down in the toilet and saw that my painstaking effort had only managed to scrape off a few fragments. And it was obvious I wasn't one or two fragments away from opening passage, that what I had done barely amounted to anything. I was as though I had removed one car from the scene of a 52 car pile-up. I decided it wasn't risk tearing rectal tissue over these measly results.

I collapsed and sobbed. I began to cry out to God. I'm not the most religious person in the world, but I wasn't going to be one of those stubborn people who refused to ask for help in a moment of need. If I was going to make it through this, it appeared God would need to intercede.

I began to make promises about how my life was going to be different, how I intended to change my ways should I survive this. But none of these assurances seemed to bring about rescue. The Chilean miners remained trapped.

I had now done everything I could. Apparently, this was how I was to die.

I absolutely thought I was going to die, on the toilet, after six hours of unbearable torture, with shit on my hands.

At seven o'clock, tears on my face and the smell of shit on my body, I was taken to the hospital. There's nothing like having to tell the receptionist in a quiet waiting room that the reason for your visit is 'severe constipation.'

I met with a doctor and she stuck her finger up my butt, at which point I was diagnosed with sever fecal impaction. Apparently the combination of weeks of pain pills and being bedridden really reeks havoc on the digestive system.

The doctor was concerned, but she wanted to try one last thing before we went on to more drastic measures: an enema.

The doctor disappeared and she was soon replaced by a very attractive nurse. The severity of my suffering prevented me from being embarrassed that such a beautiful creature was seeing me like this.

The angel led me down the hall to the bathroom, where I was asked to pull my pants down and lean over.

“After I squirt this in, you're going to want to release it. Don't. You have to hold on for at least one to five minutes."

She then inserted a device and liquid began to fill my anus; what seemed like a gallon's worth. When she was done, it was too much for me to hold in and some of the excess liquid sprayed out. While I have no way of knowing what this murky geyser must've looked like, the wide swath of splash marks on the floor indicated it was quite an eruption. I imagine my ass spouted that water out like a bathing elephant's snout.

To prevent further loss of liquid, the nurse quickly grabbed my butt cheeks and held them together.

“Hold on for as long as you can.”

As bad as this entire experience had been, I must admit I found myself suddenly roused by this tag-team effort. Her hands positioned the way they were, well, this was the most intimate I had been with a woman in a long time. There was something inexplicably thrilling about having her hold my butt cheeks together. She was amazing looking. And the fact that, without hesitation, she would jump in and do that, at the incredible risk of being sprayed herself, why that made her even more intriguing.

I couldn’t believe it. Here I am, in a hospital bathroom, in the state I'm in, still able to pause and have these thoughts. 'Hold on for as long as you can.' I wanted to turn around and say, 'You, too, honey.'

After what could have only been a minute, I couldn't take it any more and had to release. The enema was unsuccessful. And no longer in her loving grasp, my attention returned to the pain, which was now at its highest level. I began to scream. The nurse stepped out. The organ-smashing convulsions returned. This was it. I wasn't likely to survive another one of these episodes. I was going to die in a hospital bathroom, but I was going to do so with angel fingerprints on my ass. It was then that my insides emptied. After everything came to pass, I looked down half expecting to see a pancreas or section of intestines floating around in the mess. Luckily, this was not the case.

Back From The Dead

2010-10-08T06:20:00.000-07:00

I've been medically cleared to the next level of rehabilitation, which means instead of being hooked up to these ridiculous contraptions around-the-clock, with my only breaks being for tedious exercises and occasion urination, I am now free to take on more strenuous activities such as sitting and walking about. Which means I can now sit here and press these keys!

Not too much happens when you're bedridden and hopped up on Vicodin. While the sleep deprivation/pain pill combo certainly ignited colorful hallucinations (mostly conversations with dead presidents), as I sit here I'm unable to clearly piece together enough of any one delusionary episode to retell it here. But I will say that James Buchanan fellow sure has a lot of regrets.

At midnight, I took my last Vicodin so at some point soon I will begin to feel again. This also means it won't belong before I lose my excuse for babbling on incoherently.

Other than that, not much to report. Oh, my hard work paid off. My co-workers do miss me (or at least they've made an effort to make it appear as so). The Monday after my surgery I was the recipient of a delivery that included a card signed by my co-workers and this:

My live-in caretaker is a little disturbed by this. As of now, I am prohibited from placing it in the bedroom.

With a life-size cutout of Sylvester Stallone, I am now able to practice over-and-over again what I'm going to do the next time our paths should cross (this has not been medically cleared).

Well, my knee looks a lot more bumpy than it did when I sat down. Off to ice.

2010-09-23T03:19:00.000-07:00

I just got done watching a show called Ghost Adventures. In this particular episode, the Ghost Adventure Crew locked themselves into an abandoned hospital believed to be haunted by people who died in surgery. Using digital recorders, they actually picked up EVP (electronic voice phenomenon) from various spirits trapped in the building.

Should something happen to me later today please contact the cast of Ghost Adventures.

Final Preparations

2010-09-21T21:37:00.000-07:00

My ACL reconstruction surgery is Thursday morning, which means tomorrow is the last day I will be at work for a while. So I plan to be on my best behavior.

I plan on being very cooperative. I plan on being very patient. I plan on being very kind and supportive. I plan on going out of my way to spend time with my co-workers. I'm really going to take the time to get to know each one of them. I plan on telling a few jokes (that reminds me, I need to find my Milton Berle joke book). I plan on laughing at their jokes.

I plan on not talking so much about myself. I plan on shaving. I plan on sharing inspirational quotes. I plan on performing card tricks.

By the end of the day, I plan on being thoroughly exhausted.

'Why do all this?' you ask. 'Are you worried about the surgery and want to keep your mind off it by doing all these things in an effort to make God smile?' you ask. 'Are you trying to make the most of potentially your last day on Earth?' you ask. 'Are you really that nervous? I mean, come on, you're having arthroscopic knee surgery for Christ's sake.'

The truth is, I'm not at all concerned about the surgery. The reason I'm going to be on my best behavior tomorrow is because I want my co-workers to miss me. I want them to think about me (fondly) while I'm gone. This is important to me.

In fact, writing this now, I'm a little anxious that I didn't implement this public relations campaign earlier. By now, my co-workers have probably formed a strong opinion of me. What if it's the sort of opinion that a few hours of polite listening and Geritol jokes isn't likely to sway?

Vending Machine Jackpot!

2010-09-10T21:41:00.000-07:00

This was the sight that greeted me when I came into work this morning. One, two, three, four bags of Lays potato chips projecting out, seemingly suspended in mid-air. Have you ever seen such a thing? I had not.

Upon closer inspection it appeared the bags were somehow caught on the ledge above, clinging to this precipice like an expedition of imperiled climbers holding on for dear life. And here I was, come to rescue them!

Normally, I'm not one to frequent the vending machine. In fact, I can't remember ever buying anything from it. But how could I pass this up? When the lottery reaches $400 million you buy yourself a ticket!

Yes, I know this tantalizing spectacle didn't magically appear on its own. I'm fully aware that the hard-earned money of my fellow co-workers created this junk food miracle. No doubt these chips were meant to be a nutrient-barren substitute for the breakfasts my empty-bellied colleagues had to skip out on. But to me, vending machines are like the lottery. And it looks like the four people that came before me didn't turn out to be winners (at least that's what I intended to tell myself to stave off any guilt that might try to interfere with my enjoyment of this crispy treasure).

Now how do I go about doing this? Normally in situations like this (when I've helped out various office damsels with their clogged purchases), I shake the machine, tilting it until the whole thing nearly topples over. While I'm told this is an impressive sight, I'm not sure it's the right course of action. That approach is fairly loud and would draw me unwanted attention. Attention from starving people.

No, these chips were going to have to be won with craftiness, not brute strength.

I could try a sneak attack from behind and buy a fifth bag of Lays. One more bag thrust into the pile would surely send the rest of them tumbling! But something tells me this is the exact logic used by the person who bought the fourth bag.

I could go with an aerial assault and attack the cache of Lays from above with the Ruffles, allowing my hopes to lie with the mechanical gyrations from the row above pushing the Ruffles forward and eventually down onto the targeted Lays.

Another option would be to take the gyrations out of the equation and simply dive-bomb the Lays with the Vinegar chips on the top row. The Vinegar chips would plummet nearly two feet before striking the Lays, picking up steam the whole way down! My only concern is what the terminal velocity of a one-and-a-half ounce bag of chips might be.

Another alternative would be to try a glancing blow with the Rye Street Kettle Cooked chips.

So many choices. The Vinegar dive-bomb strategy might create the hardest target impact, but if it should fail, I would be forced to eat Vinegar chips. And that would be disgusting. I decided to go with the Ruffles.

So I reached into my pocket, only to find I didn't have any money. Now what? I decided to risk shaking it.

As I got into the most aggressive stance my flimsy knee would allow, a co-worker named Annie walked up. I quickly positioned myself in front of the machine in order to block her view of the chips.

BRUCKNER. Hi.

ANNIE. (a puzzled expression, no doubt sensing I'm up to something) Hello.

BRUCKNER. [lightbulb goes off] Do you have a dollar I can borrow? I'll pay you right back!

ANNIE. Let me check (digs in purse). No, honey. I don't.

BRUCKNER. Oh. Thanks anyway.

ANNIE. I have some money at my desk. I can go get you a dollar.

BRUCKNER. That's okay.

ANNIE. No, I'll go get it. Maybe you can get my chips unstuck for me.

BRUCKNER. Oh, one of these is yours?

ANNIE. (nods) I'll be right back.

Damn it! I can't borrow money from her. She's going to cut into my potato chip profits! I can't wait for her to get back either. As Annie disappeared behind the elevator doors, I went into a mad scramble to come up with the necessary change. In no time I was able to obtain a quarter from one co-worker and sixty cents from another. That's $0.85. The exact amount I need!

I made my way back to the vending machine. I could hear Annie's voice from the floor above. She was close! My hand shook as I inserted the coins. The elevator was coming down! I made my selection!

And this was the end result.

One Small Step For A Man of La Mancha

2010-09-01T21:04:00.000-07:00

Today, I tried to walk around without my crutches. It was time to break free from my metallic binds! Time to cast away my shackles! Today, I was going to take on the world with my wobbly right leg! Though my steps would be uncertain, nothing was going to stop me from taking them. For like Neil Armstrong exiting the Apollo Lunar Module, it was time for me to take my giant leap!

---

What I managed to accomplish can hardly be called 'walking.' With a pronounced limp and a hunched-over counter-balancing posture, I hobbled along. I very much resembled a cartoon henchman.

When you're on crutches, the world is your oyster. Men let you ahead of them in lines. Women hold doors for you. But if you're just limping, nobody cares. For all they know, your foot could be asleep. All of the sudden you're just a guy with a limp. And to women, that isn't very attractive.

So I went back to my crutches.

The one thing about crutches is they limit your ability to be chivalrous. Being on crutches makes it difficult to pull out a chair for a woman or to help chase down a purse snatcher. And this really bugs me.

To me, courage and honor are just as vital to a person's well-being as fruits and vegetables. Like ‘Don Quixote,’ I often stay up late into the night reading books about knights and nobility.

I take great pride in my gallantry. But not too much pride. A true gentleman does not boast. And even though I'm on crutches, I seek to maintain the same level of heroism so many people have come to expect from me.

Earlier today I was in line at a gas station convenience store. The cashier handed the woman in front of me her change. I watched in slow-motion as a quarter fell from the woman's hand and landed on the floor. It rolled around and came to rest under the front counter (but still visible to me). The quarter couldn't have been more than three feet from my right shoe.

The woman in front of me was slow to react (as a woman will do when she's in close proximity to a man (me) who might intervene, a man (me) who in an effort to impress should retrieve the quarter for her). After a few seconds passed, I pointed to the quarter with my crutch and said, 'There it is."

Elevator Showdown

2010-08-25T22:40:00.000-07:00

Today, I had to go up to the tenth floor of a building. So I hit the 'up arrow' button with my right crutch and waited. When the elevator doors opened, there were a handful of people already inside, including a man on crutches.

"This is a first," his wife said as I hopped aboard. And it was a first for me as well! This was the first time since I've been on crutches that I had crossed paths with another person on crutches. And I was excited.

For the first time I was going to get to compare injuries with someone else. Wait until he hears what I did to myself! What did he do, twist an ankle? Sprain his knee? I know this shouldn't be a competition, but I think I can win this!

And there was going to be an easy way to determine the victor. It appeared he and I were going up to the same floor. When a person on crutches arrives at his floor, he or she always gets to get off the elevator first. But in this instance, in the case of a tie-breaker, I guess the person who's been through the most, who's found to have suffered the greater agony, would be given the privilege of first-exit.

So not only did I have a strong desire to swap war stories, but I guess it was sort of necessary. And I wasn't afraid to embellish.

So I saddled up next to the man and smiled.

BRUCKNER. So what happened?

HIS WIFE. He was hit by a bus.

And without having to say a word, he got off the elevator first.

When Do I Get To Wear Tank Tops?

2010-08-22T23:37:00.000-07:00

Despite all the added arm exercise from getting around on crutches, I haven't noticed much in the way of muscle growth. I mean, I can see a little difference. But I was expecting to look like Hulk Hogan by now.

Vegas On Crutches (Part 2)

2010-08-19T22:27:00.000-07:00

As you may already know, Sylvester Stallone and I go way back. All the way back to the 2004 Olympic Torch Relay; where, using the ancient flame of Olympia as our guiding light, Sly and I ran together through the treacherous sands of Venice Beach.

Then there was the time I 'accidentally' dropped my cell phone in his office doorway (no photo available). And finally, there was the luncheon in Santa Monica where this abysmal photo was snapped:

In life, redemption comes in many forms. For me and the photographer of this fateful photo, redemption was about to present itself at the Las Vegas Premiere of The Expendables.

---

Setting off on our journey, I had a good feeling (probably due to the pain medication I was on). My good feeling might also have had something to do with the fact that I was traveling alone with three women! Three women, one guy, that’s pretty good odds for any man!

As a result, my roommate packed me an unflattering pair of basketball shorts which I was instructed to wear to bed. Orange and baby blue with a checkered-stripe down the side, these were sure to temper even the most ravenous libido. But I had a plan. When it came time to put on my shorts, my plan was to become a flood of emotions, as if suffering severe mental trauma. These clownish shorts were going to become the shorts I wore the day I injured myself. And pulling out these shorts again was going to transport me back to the moment my knee exploded, causing me to experience that immeasurable pain all over again. This performance was sure to get those libidos churning into sympathetic overdrive!

---

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about crutches, it’s that they make women unbelievably compassionate. Hobble into a room on crutches and just see what women will do. They take care of you in whatever way possible. Just last week, a woman who was once my sworn enemy went and got me a hot chocolate! There’s just something about the sight of crutches that triggers an instinctive Florence Nightengale mechanism. And I love it.

Of course, the general consensus among people that know me is that I'm not really hurt, that I’m faking it, because, as it’s been repeatedly told to me, 'it seems like something you would do.' (whatever that means).

---

Before arriving at the Planet Hollywood Casino, one of the ladies in my company requested we stop at a gas station so she could buy some pads and tampons, which I thought was going out of her way to say 'Tonight, we're not sleeping together.'

---

After arriving at the casino, I temporarily left the ladies so I could play some poker.

---

Soon it was time for the pre-movie party. A VIP party (my regular readers already know how much this distinction means to me). This VIP party consisted of about thirty people, many of whom were just trying to swig as much complementary alcohol as possible. Among the attendees were Jason Statham (not swigging), Arnold Schwarzenegger (not swigging), and Sly (not swigging). Sly! There he was! This was it, my chance at redemption! I quickly grabbed my photographer and dragged her towards him.

But as we made our way over to Sly, something happened. I began to realize how silly this whole thing was. I’m a grown adult. I shouldn’t be behaving like this. I mean, come on, I’m a VIP for Christ’s sake! VIPs don’t beg for photographs. VIPs don’t nurture outrageous man-crushes. VIPs admire, they don’t worship. And so instead of burdening Mr. Stallone with an awkward fanboy photo request, I simply shook his hand and said congratulations. I tried not to stare at all the makeup on his face. I resisted commenting on how soft his hand was. And before I knew it, the moment was over. And I regretted not asking for the photograph!

Soon after, a co-worker’s girlfriend came up to me. "Let's go order shots," she insisted. Somehow, she looked more devastated than I did.

I didn't know it at the time, but apparently she and my co-worker had just broken up. I can’t imagine breaking up with someone in Vegas on the night of a movie premiere, but apparently the best way to rebound from this was to down vodka in mass quantity. And to do it with your ex-boyfriend’s closest office mate. So now my entourage of three women had become four, of which only one was known to be menstruating.

---

Eventually, casino employees asked all of us to disperse. It was time for the movie to begin. Everyone filtered out. A long day on crutches had made me weary to follow them as I knew how long a walk/hobble lay ahead. I noticed my boss leaving through a side door. Surely this was a shortcut. So I chose to follow.

As I walked through the doorway I found myself standing above an escalator, with thousands of faces staring up at me. I had inadvertently put myself on the path to the red carpet.

Unable to turn back, I rode the escalator down toward the glamorous concourse designated for the stars. As I descended, flashbulbs popped. All I could think of was how disappointed these tourists were going to be when they got home and found out I’m not in the movie. Or in any movie.

The red carpet stretched a long way. I couldn’t see to the end of it. I determined there was no way my depleted arms could carry me the whole way. I would have to stop to catch my breath at some point. And that was going to be embarrassing.

As I limped along, some people began to chant “Crutches! Crutches!” A woman stuck out her hand and waited to receive a high five. I complied. Then another hand sprung out. And another. These people were like marathon on-lookers encouraging a fatigued runner. And I found myself enjoying it. No longer was it enough for me to incite sympathy from a nearby female, here I was drawing it out of an entire crowd!

At the end of the red carpet, a man was interviewing an actor who played a Somali pirate in the film. I quickly prepared to introduce myself as the assistant stunt coordinator. But the pirate interview continued on and I was able to pass by without perpetuating a further fantasy. And I managed to make it to the end of the red carpet after all, with some adrenaline to spare.

---

As for the actual movie screening, my ticket and the one for my crutches were separate from the other members of my party. This gave me a much needed break, as I’d grown tired of answering the question, ‘Do you think my dress is prettier than hers?’ The idea of traveling with a handful of women seemed fun at the beginning, and it could prove to be fun at the end, but for now I welcomed the peaceful seclusion.

---

Sitting in the theater and waiting for the movie to begin, it occurred to me that the ‘Do you think my dress is prettier than hers?’ question is one women likely ask of a gay friend.

---

After the movie ended, there was another party. One of my co-workers, a well-respected man named Frank, insisted I come sit with him. I told him I would, but I wanted to get something to eat first.

FRANK. Sit. I’ll get you some food. You don’t need to be walking around.

Apparently there’s a little bit of Florence Nightengale in Frank, also.

So I sat.

Frank proceeded to stop the next few people who emerged from the kitchen carrying food. Through negotiations that were muffled by the loud party music, Frank managed to get each caterer to hand over their entire tray of food instead of setting out for the general public. Before I knew it, I had three overflowing trays of food to choose from.

The downside of sitting with Frank was that I had very little in the way of conversation to share with him and his fancy adult friends. Once I went over my harrowing skydiving spiel I was out of things to say, except for the occasional “Mmmm, this shrimp is good.”

I was beginning to miss my lady friends.

That’s when a friend of Frank’s (Tony) brought over a beautiful blonde. Her name was Frida, and she was from Sweden. And she was easily half Tony’s age. Tony met her at the movie screening. She had been seated just behind him. Before the movie began, they struck up a conversation and Tony asked her if she was going to the after-party. That’s when Frida told him she didn’t have a ticket but was desperate to get in. So Tony pulled some strings and here she was.

Frida sat down next to me and immediately we hit it off. She started things off by telling me she was Sylvester Stallone’s biggest fan. While I could have easily refuted this claim, I decided to let it go. Frida then went on to tell me the incredible chain of events that had led her to this velvet couch:

Ever since she heard about ‘The Expendables,’ Frida had been counting down the days until its release. And so it only made sense that she try and find a way to the premiere. Due to a traveling delay, she missed her chance at the Los Angeles Premiere. Bummed out, she decided to make the most of her trip to America. While taking a helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon, she found out from the helicopter pilot that another premiere was taking place at the Planet Hollywood Casino in Las Vegas. Hope restored, Frida zipped on over to Vegas, just in time to join the crowd along the red carpet. “I saw you on your crutches,” she said. She also spotted Stallone, but her hand was shaking so much that the photo she tried to take did not turn out. After Stallone was gone, she went up to a casino employee and asked if there was any possible way she could get a ticket to the movie. “I was ready to spend $5,000.” The employee reached behind a counter and said, “Here you go.” Frida said she stood there motionless with her jaw hanging open. There was a ticket to the premiere resting right in front of her. “So you see, it is my destiny to meet Sylvester Stallone.”

After hearing all this, I realized this was not just some pretty blonde from Sweden sitting next to me. Oh, no. She was much more than that. She was me in female form! How many thousands of miles had she traveled? My God, I had truly met my match!

I offered her my tray of shrimp and went right into my plethora of Sly encounters, stories I’d normally be too embarrassed to share with someone I just met. And here I was telling her one after another, Frida’s eyes widening with each elaborate tale!

I got out my phone and I showed her the infamous blurry photo. Together, we made a pact. We weren’t leaving until we got our picture with Sylvester Stallone. Together, Frida and I were going to do this. Once and for all!

---

I noticed a tattoo on her wrist. Being from Sweden, I asked her if she had one of a dragon on her back. After all, she’s just like the movie character. Look at how crafty she is!

She said she did not.

---

For two hours I sat mesmerized by her. Long forgotten were the women I had arrived with.
Some of the celebrities started to show up. We spotted Dolph Lundgren. Frida decided she would try a Stallone photo practice run on Dolph. Being that Dolph was also from Sweden, she felt she had an in. So she ran after him.

Dolph touched her shoulder, but basically brushed her off. Frida came back and began fretting that she should have spoken to him in Swedish. She went over what she should have said. Listening to her, I never realized how enchanting the Swedish language could be.

As much as Frida wanted another shot at Dolph, she was afraid approaching him again would make her appear to be a stalker. No matter, the true prize was Sly, who I told her she should definitely speak Swedish to.

---

More time passed and the party began to fizzle out. With the likelihood of Stallone stopping by appearing less and less, Freda began to get anxious. She grabbed my crutches and placed them next to her. "You're not leaving without me." It was now clear that I was dealing with a hostage situation, and I was the hostage. But I’ve gotta tell ya, looking into her eyes, it took about five seconds for Stockholm Syndrome to set in.

---

Soon, the party ended. And the few drunkards left were asked to leave. As we were escorted out, Frida turned to me and said, “We must find him.”

And into the casino we went. I could barely keep up as Frida darted from one casino employee to the next, probing them for information. “You never know. The person who seems like they wouldn’t know, sometimes they do.” The investigation came up empty.

I spotted a friend at a roulette table.

BRUCKNER. Please, have you seen Sylvester Stallone?

ROUSLAN. No, but Jason Statham’s right here.

And he was. I pointed Statham out to Frida.

FRIDA. He’ll have to do for now.

And she began to slide her way over to him.

My boss, a girl, Jason Statham, Frida clutching her camera, a guy in a fedora, and off in the distance, me! As you can see, I’ve become temporarily distracted by a stripper dancing over in the aptly named ‘Pleasure Pit’ gambling area.

After Frida got her moment with Jason, our focus returned to Sly. But we had exhausted all our leads. There were no more events planned. There were no more casino employees left to interrogate. It was past 2 am and my arms were about to fall off. Rouslan then mentioned that there was one more party.

ROUSLAN. It’s not related to the premiere, but you never know.

He told us he wanted to go, but he didn’t feel like paying the thirty dollars to get in. I turned to Frida.

BRUCKNER. What do you think-

FRIDA. I’ll pay it!

So Rouslan led the way.

We approached a night club and the casino employee working the front entrance immediately shook hands with Rouslan.

ROUSLAN. They got you over here now.

CASINO EMPLOYEE. Yeah. You folks come on in.

Apparently, Rouslan met the gentleman earlier and had promised to pass a demo reel of the guy’s acting work to our boss. Because of this, we were now getting into the party for free.

CASINO EMPLOYEE. (To Frida and I) Oh, I just need to see your IDs.

But Frida didn’t have her ID. She guessed that it was back in her room. The problem was that she was staying at a different hotel, a resort just off the main strip. Suddenly, my world stopped. Frida looked up at me.

FRIDA. Now what?

I could have offered to drive her to the resort. I could have suggested we try another spot. I could have suggested anything, but all I managed to do was stand there.

Looking into her eyes, I no longer saw the exuberance of a wide-eyed optimist. For the first time, I saw despair. There was a sense that this might be the end of the road, that things weren’t going to work out after all.

FRIDA. I guess this is goodbye.

Daniel, what’s the matter with you? Say something! She will follow you anywhere, all you have to do is suggest it! Come on, man. You’ve spent three hours with this person, with the female version of yourself! Think of the incredible paths that brought you two together. Think of the odds of you ever meeting! It can’t end like this. Don’t let it end like this!

FRIDA. Bye.

BRUCKNER. Bye.

And just like that, she disappeared into the Vegas night.

I’m not sure why, but saying goodbye to Frida was one of the most gut-wrenching things I’ve ever done. But it's possible our paths will cross again. For wherever there's Sylvester Stallone, there’s a chance Frida will be close behind.

Vegas On Crutches (Part 1)

2010-08-19T20:49:00.000-07:00

As quickly as my crutch-worn arms would allow, I made my way over to the poker room. There, a casino employee sat me down next to a person with a tattoo on his hand of a playing card surrounded by fire. 'This isn't going to turn out well.'

I found myself getting nervous. I hadn't played poker in a while. And sitting down at a table with a hundred dollars worth of chips made me feel a little uneasy. Usually I'm not a worrier when it comes to money. But with these doctor visits adding up, I'm certainly not in a position to carelessly dismiss my earnings.

And looking at my chip stack didn’t instill me with any confidence either. The dealer changed out my hundred dollar bill with twenty $5 chips. My stake of twenty chips looked pretty minuscule next to the Flaming Poker Demon's towering mounds.

I folded my first couple hands just to give my nerves some time to settle. This also afforded me the opportunity to get a feel for the other combatants. Sitting directly across from me at the far end of the table was a guy who looked just like Toby from The Office. He and an acquaintance to his left were guarding chip stakes of equal meagerness to my own. And they didn't seem to be in a hurry to bet any of it.

Beside them was a big tough guy, a weathered man. He looked like someone who had spent time on a whaling vessel. Looking at his big scruffy hands there was no doubt in my mind he knew his way around a harpoon. And apparently months at sea had effected his sensibility as he fired at least $25 into the pot with every bet.

And then there was the Flaming Demon sitting next to me, just waiting for the right time to strike.

After a few hands, the big blind finally makes its way around to me. When you’re the big blind you are forced to bet a couple bucks to insure there’s action for the hand. In this case, being big blind was going to cost me $2.

The dealer tosses out the cards. I find myself with pocket queens. 'I guess it's time to get down to business.' Being big blind means you are last to bet in the first round of wagering. So I get to watch as the betting action makes its way around to me.

Captain Ahab only raises it $7. He gets five callers. The action is on me. I raise it $20 more. Only the Flaming Demon and Ahab call.

The flop:

K, 9, Q

A potential dream flop If either of these players has a King, then they’re about to lose a lot of money.

It's my turn to bet. Some people will bet a little here, just to get money in the pot. But me, I live for setting traps. When it comes to poker, I am the proverbial snake in the grass. So I only check, with the intention of raising any bet that comes behind me.

The Demon raises it $30. Ahab calls. Suddenly, I'm tempted to also call, and drag both these fellas along for the ride. But there’s a potential straight-draw on the board. If one of these guys has a Jack or a 10 then they could really cash in. Hell, one of them might have ‘em both already But not likely. Who calls a large pre-flop bet with J, 10? What I have to worry about is A J or A 10. So I decide to go all-in.

Observing me from another table, a co-worker and poker advocate of mine named Lonnie runs over to watch. Lonnie is always encouraging me to play poker. He has a lot of faith in my ability. Listening to him you would think I was God's gift to poker. So it’s very exciting to him that he caught me pushing all my chips in.

With Lonnie looming over the table, the Demon calls and Ahab folds.

In one hand, I’ve pushed all my chips into the pot. That money seems so far away from me now. The dealer asks us to turn our cards over. I display my Queens. And the Flaming Demon turns over Ace King.

The dealer flips over the final two cards, they are of no help to either of us, and the pot is mine. Just like that, I had nearly tripled my money. And my nerves were settled.

The Flaming Demon then calls over an employee of the poker room and requests to sit at another table.

Sometimes when I’m sitting at a poker table I start to feel like a magician. I make money appear where it wasn't before. I’m a conjurer of currency, a master of a dark art. And here I was, off and running once again. I give my drink order to the waitress and told her to “keep ‘em comin.’”

Part of enjoying poker is not to outwardly enjoy winning. Nothing puts a bigger target on your back than basking in the glow of an ego-driven high. You may very well be God's gift to poker, but you better resist parading around like you are, saying things like “keep ‘em comin’” to the wait staff.

After an hour of playing (and winning), I felt like I was ready to write a book on how to play poker. And after two hours, I had made enough money that I could almost afford to publish it myself. And it took all the self-control I could muster to keep from blurting this out.

Before I knew it, it was time for the movie premiere. And I had made enough to cover more than a few doctor visits.

The MRI Results

2010-08-05T22:12:00.000-07:00

“You’ve done quite a number on your knee.”

These were the words of Dr. Golden, a preface to a dire verdict. It turns out I have, in fact, torn my ACL. The same injury suffered by Tom Brady.

The way it was described to me, Dr. Golden’s going to drill three holes in my bones, insert tissue from a dead man, and voila, I’ll have my ACL back. Well, not my ACL. But ‘an’ ACL. And I guess not really an ACL, but the tissue of a dead man acting as an ACL.

At hearing the phrase ‘tissue from a dead man,’ my mind began to wander. I’ll admit I have a certain amount of apprehension over having any part of a dead person inside of me. Who was this person? What did they achieve? What crimes did they commit?

I’m sure I have nothing to worry about. After all, it’s just tissue we’re talking about. It’s not like I have to fret about ending up with the liver of an arsonist or a murder’s heart.

I kind of feel whoever I get will have some influence upon me. Perhaps I’ll receive the tissue of a missionary or someone more benevolent than me. I’d love to be more understanding and charitable. Then again, that might not be a good idea. Come Christmas time, I might find my knee pulling me towards every Salvation Army bell-ringer (people I’ve spent a lifetime managing to avoid).

No, perhaps I don’t want that. Maybe I can get the tissue of a dead Kenyan marathoner, or a former Olympic high-jumper. But not too former. I doubt it will do me much good if they lived to be 87.

No matter what I get, I definitely want to know the tissue’s source. I don’t know if Dr. Golden will give it to me, but I’m going to try to get it out of him. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life like a test tube baby who grows up wanting to know the name of his sperm-donor father.

So I’m going to have the essence of another being inside of me. But maybe it doesn’t have to be human tissue. Maybe I can get tissue from a lion or shark! I don’t just want this to be a surgery; I want it to be an upgrade.

Then Dr. Golden brought me back to reality.

“I’m just going to tell you I’ve had the surgery, and it’s the most painful thing I’ve ever been through.”

Suddenly, I don’t care as much about the dead man. This guy, this Dr. Golden is going to put me out of commission for six months! I just met him five minutes ago and I’m supposed to entrust him with the fate of my walking ability? How do I know he’s even capable of performing the surgery? Yeah, he’s had the same procedure done. But he didn’t perform it on himself!

“And you’re looking at a recovery time of six months.”

I think he can sense I’m judging him. I better say something.

“Yeah, I’m familiar with the recovery time. The same thing happened to Tom Brady.”

Dr. Golden pauses.

“Oh, you’re a Pats fan.”

“Yes.”

“Are you familiar with my background?”

“No, sir”

“Did you see the walls on your way in?”

“No. I’m still getting used to the crutches. I have to look down when I walk.”

“Well, I used to work for the Patriots. I was the one who helped Drew Bledsoe off the field.”

“After the hit by Mo Lewis?!”

“Yes.”

“Holy crap, I don’t believe it!”

“I left the team in 2002. I have a (Super Bowl) ring.”

“I don’t think you understand. I really am the biggest Patriots fan.”

“Well, make sure to look at the walls on the way out.”

Dr. Golden is second from the left.

I really couldn’t believe it. I went on to tell him that I had tapes and DVDs of pretty much everything the Patriots have ever done. “You’ll see me on there.”

I had gone from being down in the dumps from hearing some of the worst news I’ve ever been given to absolute jubilation, all in less than two minutes. This wasn’t just any doctor I was talking to; this was a former member of the New England Patriots!

So when I shook his hand, it was like I was shaking hands with the Vince Lombardi trophy. When I shook his hand, it was like I was touching Willie McGinest’s thigh!

Dr. Golden, how could I ever doubt you?!

On my way out, I made sure to keep my head up. The walls were covered with signed photos of Patriots. It was like I was walking through the halls of my dream house!

People in the waiting room must've thought I had been the recipient of magnificent news, as I couldn’t help smiling from ear-to-ear.

I think I’m going to ask Dr. Golden if I can wear his Super Bowl ring while I’m undergoing the surgery. I know I’m at least wearing this.

Life On Crutches

2010-08-04T22:43:00.000-07:00

One of the most challenging things I've found about moving around on crutches occurs after using the bathroom (especially #2). It's quite a balancing act to go from the toilet to the sink without using the fingers you've wiped with.

But not everything is as laborious. Last night, I attended to world premiere of The Expendables. Before I could even get in the long, semi-chaotic line for tickets a woman came up to me and said 'Sir, right this way.' Without getting my name, she handed me a ticket and led me to the theatre's entrance.

After asking for a water at the concession stand, the concession operator handed my drink to an usher who then escorted me to my seat.

'If this seat isn't to your preference, let me know.'

Before I could protest being sat in the front row, I spotted a microphone stand. And I knew I was right where I wanted to be.

Tunnel of Love

2010-08-03T14:23:00.000-07:00

After my X-Rays indicated a fracture that is common with an ACL tear, my timetable for getting an MRI was changed from having to wait a week to getting the first available.

So I made the trip from the doctor's office to the hospital, which is where I met a nurse named Nadine. I can't remember ever being attracted to a nurse before. Though it's not like I've seen hundreds of nurses. There haven't been too many situations in my life where nurses have been present. Which is a good thing. And if I was going to pick a nurse to be by my side, I doubt I could do better than Nadine.

She had one of the biggest smiles I've ever seen. And she's a nurse, which seems like it would have lots of advantages. I can't tell you how excited I was when she took into a room and asked me to undress. I mean, it's been a long time since a woman's told me to strip. And I can't recall it ever being done with such authority.

But just when things were getting good Nadine handed me a gown and left.

As I took off my clothes it suddenly occurred to me that I should make it a habit to get more sun. And work out more.

Now let me tell you about this hospital gown. It wasn't one of your run-of-the-mill backless hospital gowns. Oh, no. This puppy wrapped completely around my body. Utilizing an innovative third arm-hole, once I had the gown on I simply slid my arm through the extra hole and the gown suddenly went from a loose-fitting cloth to a body-gripping vise. It fit more like a dress than a gown. The sort of dress that leads to no good.

As I sat in the corner waiting for my date to arrive, Nadine entered and led another man in. A well-tanned muscular man with an Australian accent. She seemed especially taken by him. I thought her smile was big before!. She told the stud all he need to do was take off his shirt.
And without any hesitation, the shirt came off.

After taking a moment to admire the ripples that ran across his shoulders, back, and arms, the nurse asked me to come with her.

Walking with crutches and an utter lack of coordination do not go together.

NADINE. (watching me struggle) Would you like me to get a wheelchair?

BRUCKNER. No thanks. I need the practice.

NADINE. You’re going to get big muscles with those.

Clearly she still had the Aussie on her mind.

BRUCKNER. I hadn’t thought about that.

I had spent most of the day thinking about that.

When we arrived at the MRI machine, I was instructed to lie down. Nadine rolled up my dress and applied sensors to my knee. Despite our complete lack of chemistry, this was very much a seduction in progress.

NADINE. It’s very important that you don’t move. You need to hold as still as possible. Any movement and we’ll have to start all over.

I've never been known for my steadiness. And upon hearing her command, I began to notice my every twitch.

BRUCKNER. Okay.

NADINE. This will take about thirty minutes. What kind of music would you like to listen to?

Great! Perhaps I can resume with Nadine where I left off the other night with Jessica!

BRUCKNER. Classical.

NADINE. Classic rock?

Uh, oh.

BRUCKNER. No, classical. Beethoven, if you’ve got it.

NADINE. Oh.

And with that, Nadine handed me a headset and disappeared into another room.

That’s when the machine came to life. I must admit I found the jarring vibrations and intense, death-ray sounds rather soothing. And it’s a good thing I did, Nadine apparently forgot to activate my music.

After what felt like the full thirty minutes, Nadine’s voice entered my headset.

NADINE. Remember not to move.

Here I was laying in my back, dressed in my undies, and a woman's voice was whispering into my ear. My body reacted to her soft words in the only way it knows how. Suddenly, a 'part' of me was moving and I couldn’t stop it.

The machine stopped.

NADINE. Please try to hold still.

After a moment, the machine started up again. Surely, my accidental arousal was not responsible for contaminating the data. Surely, Nadine was not picking up on it in the other room, with alarms going off and monitors zeroing in on the disturbance. Then again, it wouldn’t say much about me if it all this technology was unable to detect it.

And of course the more I thought about ‘it,’ the more I lost control of the matter.

And how am I going to face Nadine when all this is over? Oh, the embarrassment. Maybe this sort of thing happens all the time. Where’s that damn music she promised me?!

Soon, I was able to return to normal and the MRI concluded. That’s when the door opened and another nurse came in.

LAURA. I’m Laura. I took over for Nadine.

Before I could even consider the notion that a freaked out Nadine had asked to be relieved, I laid eyes on Laura. Wow. So it is possible to do better than Nadine!

LAURA. How'd it go?

BRUCKNER. Fine.

Laura removed the sensors from my knee.

LAURA. Basketball, huh?

Hmmm, it would appear my file is being passed around. I can only wonder what other information has been shared.

BRUCKNER. I know. It’s lame. I’m still trying to decide what I’m going to tell my co-workers.

LAURA. You could tell them you hurt it on a slam dunk.

BRUCKNER. And the rim gave way.

LAURA. Good one. Shows you don’t know your own strength.

Oh, I like her. Much more chemistry than with Nadine.

BRUCKNER. No, I think I can do better than basketball. I want people to be impressed.

LAURA. I know what you mean. Most people tell me they tripped or something and I always think they can do better than that. I tell guys to at least say they hurt themselves skiing.

BRUCKNER. (recalling the previous day's brainstorming) What about a skydiving instructor getting tangled in my parachute?

LAURA. (laughs hard) I like it. Never heard that before. I'm going to start telling patients to use that.

If it wasn't in so much pain, I think I could have fallen in love.

Confined To A Bed

2010-08-02T00:07:00.000-07:00

I’ve been dreaming up fanciful scenarios all weekend. About how I pushed a pregnant woman out of the way of a speeding bus. About how my skydiving instructor got tangled in my parachute. About how I fell off a spooked horse during an equestrian show.

A hundred different scenarios, each helping pass the time, each more impressive than what actually happened.

On Saturday, my basketball team decided to hold a practice at the Cheviot Hills Rec Center. As the gym was in use, we were forced to conduct our business on the outdoor courts. It was there, during a scramble for a loose ball, that I landed awkwardly and my knee gave out. My leg made an audible ‘pop’ as I went down. The pop heard ‘round the playground. And just like that, practice was over.

I see a doctor tomorrow. Until then, I pass my time in bed. My mobility is limited to a meager hop and swinging from door frames (up until now I had now idea that they were designed to hold my weight). Travel time from my bed to the toilet is no less than five minutes. So I’ve decided to cut down on my water consumption.

I’ve never been bedridden before. I always envisioned I’d have more visitors. And flowers. Perhaps it was a mistake to go around the office on Friday afternoon telling everyone what I really thought of them.

I have no idea as to the extent of the injury. That will be resolved tomorrow. A former teammate went down in a similar fashion and tore his ACL. I wanted to call and ask him about it, but he’s still upset with me for not coming to his daughter’s baptism which took place on my birthday. And I’m not apologizing for that.

I talked to a nurse on the phone. There wasn’t much he could tell me. But he did commend me for saving the pregnant woman.

So I just lay here, unable to budge. I’ve watched a couple movies. One of them was Touching the Void. It’s about two hikers and their disastrous climb of a 20,000 foot mountain in the Andes. On their descent, one of the hikers slammed against a cliff and his tibia splintered into his knee cap. I’ve never screamed so loud in my life.

After falling into a crevasse and being left for dead, the injured hiker then crawled and hopped five miles down a glacier and over boulders. Three days later, he finally arrived at base camp.

And I barely make it to the toilet.

Intermission Without Incident

2010-07-27T23:12:00.000-07:00

No Jessica sightings. No Brent sightings.

A Momentary Maestro

2010-07-21T22:26:00.000-07:00

Yesterday evening, I attended a program entitled ‘Magnificent Mozart’ at the Hollywood Bowl. This is not the sort of thing I make a habit of doing. This was strictly for research purposes. Hardly qualifying as a pleasure outing, I plunked down the bare minimum of eight dollars for a ticket.

Eight dollars doesn’t get you very close to the action. In a row not too far from me I believe a family of hawks was nesting. And there aren’t any ushers up there to assist you (I’m sure that has something to do with the oxygen-thin air at that elevation). Not that you really need an usher, as each person has a row to themselves. Up in the cheap seats you can really stretch out. And as the night dragged on and the fog rolled in it became harder and harder to see down to the stage as I was slowly consumed by cloud.

---

During intermission, a half-full water bottle landed against my shoe. I picked it up and turned around to hand it to whoever had dropped it. And that’s when I met Jessica. Seated behind me, she, too, was resting comfortably on a bench all to herself.

She thanked me. And from there, we talked. Below is a transcript of our conversation.

(Please note, that my first few replies were preceded by a fair amount of hesitation. And awkwardness. With each response, the durations of my awkwardness diminished)

JESSICA. I guess you’re writing a report.

She must’ve seen me scribbling away in my notebook.

BRUCKNER. Yes.

Report, screenplay, what’s the difference?

JESSICA. (fascinated) What do you play?

Uh-oh. It appears I've misled her into thinking I’m a music student. I should tell her what I’m really here for.

BRUCKNER. Piano.

What? Why did I say that?

JESSICA. Nice.

Alright, she’s impressed. Now let’s get the conversation off me.

BRUCKNER. Are you a musician?

JESSICA. I am.

BRUCKNER. What do you play?

JESSICA. Guitar, mostly. (the briefest of pauses) So where do you go to school?

Damn. Now the ball's back in my court. I should just confess now and get it over with.

BRUCKNER. Oh, it’s a school in Orange County.

JESSICA. Which one?

Oh, fuck. I’m done for. Admit your lies and move to another seat. There are plenty available.

BRUCKNER. Ravenhurst.

Ravenhurst? My God, what the fuck is Ravenhurst?

JESSICA. I wish I had gone to school. I know I’d be a better songwriter.

I’m actually pulling this off. This is starting to be fun. I know I’m in over my head but I can’t stop now!

BRUCKNER. I like to think songwriting comes from within.

What’s the matter with me? Someone’s getting carried away in his own momentum.

JESSICA. Do you compose?

She just asked me if I compose. A beautiful woman, alone at the Hollywood Bowl, is asking me if I compose! And you should have seen the look in her eyes when she asked this. It was a combination of intrigue and hopefulness I never dreamt I could provoke in another being.

BRUCKNER. (in the most modest tone I could muster) I dabble.

Look at the way she’s smiling. She now knows a composer, in the flesh. My God, her heart must be racing. It won’t be long before her behavior shifts from professional admiration into borderline idolatry.

JESSICA. So what do you like about Mozart?

Uh-oh. I don’t know a thing about Mozart. At least not enough to fool her. I wish she would have asked me about Beethoven. That’s someone I can talk about.

BRUCKNER. Actually, I prefer Beethoven.

Phewww. Disaster averted.

JESSICA. How come?

And with that question, I was given the opportunity to test out the depth and authenticity of the research I’ve done over the past month. Not only that, it also gave me the chance to use some of the razor-sharp dialogue I’ve written.

And so we talked. I managed to hold my own, though my goal quickly became to have her take over the majority of the conversion. Luckily, she did. And she did so with such an enthusiasm that she made me forget all about this not being a pleasure outing.

We talked even as the lights dimmed and the orchestra warmed-up.

And that’s when her boyfriend(!) returned from the bathroom (or wherever the hell he had wandered off to).

As I was made to politely shake Brent’s hand, reality set in. And with that, I would no longer get to play ‘composer.’

Next Tuesday’s program is ‘Heroic Beethoven.’ Which, as far as I’m concerned, is a very encouraging title.

2010-07-19T20:46:00.000-07:00

I have spent the last two days reading a most cumbersome library book. It's not that the subject matter isn't engaging. After all, that's the reason I checked the book out. The reason this book is a particularly frustrating read has everything to do with the author's approach to the subject matter. More specifically, the frequent substitution of her own personal opinion in lieu of actual fact.

And I'm not the only one offended by this. Barely a chapter into the book, I found this defacement of public property.

And then there was this:

And this:

Such intense retaliation!

Looking at the handwriting, I think it’s safe to assume that these words were written by a female hand. But what could drive a woman to do this?

Sometimes there were so many things to be outraged about on a single page that the peeved individual simply resorted to using exclamation points to highlight offending passages.

What could provoke such passionate refutation? This author could; through her misinterpretation of the most vital of all human emotions: love.

As I made my way through the text, I found myself echoing the same sentiments as the book defiler. I began to understand the motivation that drove this young woman to vandalism. In fact, I found myself more intrigued by what scribbled-in remarks lay ahead than I was with the actual published information.

Page after page, the dissidence raged on.

I began to think about all the times I’ve been upset with an author, and how I’ve always kept my hostility to myself. I’ve thrown a book from time to time, but I’ve never sharpened a pencil and went to town in one. What would be the purpose of doing that? It’s not like the author is ever going to read it. That’s when I realized, this vandal had written these things so I would read them. These aren't just heedlessly-written critical remarks, these are the groundwork for a destined romantic connection.

Much like Beethoven himself, placing his 'Immortal Beloved' letters next to his will intending that they be discovered and read, this female reader was not just venting frustrations, she was communicating to her potential soul mate.

I began to add my own remarks:

Notice a departure in the handwriting style. I had to establish myself as a separate voice. Observe the firmness in the lettering. These are obviously the words of a person (a man) who is equally distraught over the author’s negligence. I even traced over it a second time (as a way to emphasis my frustration)!

I went on to write a second sneer:

I love how she [the author] has the uncanny ability to get inside Beethoven’s head and interpret the exact meaning of his every word.

And over my mystery charmer’s final barb, her final stab at the author’s claimed understanding of Beethoven’s longings, I wrote:

It is impossible for a woman to fully comprehend the inner workings of the male heart. As it is for a male to comprehend a woman’s.

And below this, I left an email address.

To Explain My Absence

2010-07-16T23:22:00.000-07:00

I have been spending all my hours vigorously writing about this man.

This impressive statue of Beethoven is tucked away in the corner of a small park frequented by drug dealers and vagrants.

A magnificent sculpture. Upon seeing it, one feels compelled to pause and admire the artistry. But the smell of urine makes that difficult.

Now back to writing.