Thoughts of the Intellectual Few

On seeing a condor off the coast of Big Sur

2006-01-18T11:49:00.000-08:00

From above Big Sur, home of my magical condor

For as long as I can remember I have wanted to see a condor in the wild.

Call it one of those silly yet endearing non-sequitors that kids come up with. One kid wants to be a fireman, another wants to be a pro baseball player and one wants to be made of pudding. I was the last kid except, instead of pudding, I wanted to be a condor. The idea of being the largest bird in the world that soars high on an eight-foot wingspan appealed to me. I'm sure a psychotherapist would see something significant in that .... but I digress.

I had seen condors in zoos, but that never did it for me. They looked so unhappy -- majestic creatures meant for more than an oddity in a cage. No, I needed to see one in the wild, high over rocky cliffs floating on thermals. About four months ago I finally saw one -- two actually, and it was everything I hoped it would be.

From left: Amy, Andy, Paul, Austin, Michael, Shannon, and Jackson in the woods at Big Sur.

The family and I went with a group of old friends camping in Big Sur. I had always wanted to see the place I had read about so many times. Plus, we had just moved back to the west coast and this was the first time we were going to see some of the wonderful friends we had made while living in L.A. It looked to be like a great beginning to our new life in the San Francisco Bay Area.
Well, in short, the trip was wonderful. The scenery was breathtaking, reacquainting with old friends was magical, and camping under the limbs of giant old redwood trees was regenerating to the soul. We swam and ate and laughed and drank. We showered with strangers, roasted marshmallows at night, drank some more, and all remembered what it was like to be that group of friends in our twenties -- priceless.

Of course the long weekend came to a close too quickly. We all had to get back to our lives, so we said goodbye to Michael, Paul, Laura, Megan, Amy and Andy. The boys showed their sadness more than the wife and I, but we all felt it. I figured all the good things had been seen, all the good songs had been sung. We loaded up the car and headed up the coast to Castro Valley.

Now mind you, although I had wanted to see a condor all my life, the thought of that great bird had not really entered my mind while on the trip. Maybe subconsciously I knew that Big Sur was almost the last place to see them flying free in North America, but it wasn't on my radar. But then, almost magically, while negotiating a rather precarious curve hundreds of feet above the ocean, it happened -- a condor floated up above the edge of the cliff about twenty yards out in the abyss. For a split second I saw nothing but the bird hovering almost motionless in the sky, seeming to stare back at me as if to say, "Wish granted young man." Then my wife gasped.

I almost went off the road. The PCH highway on the cliffs of Big Sur is not the best place to take one's eyes off the road. I straightened the course, calmed the family, and continued on. I kept stealing glances in the rear view, trying to fix on the bird. A couple of times I caught brief glimpses of her .... and presumably her mate, which was about five yards below hovering in that same hypnotizing, almost motionless state. And then they were gone -- one curve too many and the birds were gone from sight.

Since the trip the condors come to my mind sometimes. I see them floating in space, happy and free. When they do my heart soars a little as well. That first feeling of elation when I stared in to the eyes and heart of the great bird was one of the best moments of my life -- truly awe inspiring. That feeling doesn't happen much anymore. Thankfully I was there at just the right time, and I can cross seeing the condor off my list.

Jackson at Big Sur, feeling (I imagine) what I felt when I saw the condor.

A discussion about space

2006-01-17T14:58:00.000-08:00

Well, fair friends it's been a while.

I'm not big on New Year's resolutions, but I'm coming back in with the Intellectual Few. Things have gotten in my way up here in my lovely canyon in Castro Valley. I haven't made the time to share my thoughts since we relocated to the Bay Area. Life can get in the way of reflection, as I'm sure you know. Boys go to school, job searches take up time, chores have to be done, and this place can suck you in (I'll get to that later) ... that's the way with things ....

But reflection -- a look inside (and out) is essential, so the blog is back up and running. We may sputter at first, the pump needs to be primed, but the thoughts will be laid out, open and bare, for your observation and entertainment.

To that end, let me tell you about the wonders of space. Not the out-there-stars-in-the-heavens-NASA-type space, but having space to roam, watch animals and trees, and enough room to walk around naked.

When we moved to the Bay Area we were lucky enough to find a place to call home that I wasn't aware existed anymore -- at least not this close to a big city. Here in friendly Castro Valley, less than an hour from San Francisco and ten minutes from Oakland there is a canyon with one way in. If you go about two and a half miles up that windy road, you might find me in a big, beautiful house sitting on 165 acres of hills, creeks, canyon, and trees. Oh, and up here my friends, there is plenty of space.

It's a big house, the kind I pictured might be up in the mountains when I was in a one room apartment many moons ago. It's roomy and solid, with twenty foot windows and an eight foot stone fireplace in the family room. The kitchen is chef caliber, there are more bathrooms (four) than bedrooms (three), the ceilings soar and the floors are lived in, scratched hard wood planks. But it's not all wine and roses; it's colder in the house than out. In some places the walls don't quite square with th floors and ceilings, drafts come in uninvited, and running out of water is always a threat, but all in all, I can't find much to pick at.

However, the joy of this place is seen when you open the door. For about as far as you can see nature looks back at you. There are large fenced in areas for the dogs (not to mention the goats and llamas that have lived here since before we came) and a huge fenced in area for gardening, complete with raised beds and shade protection. After that though, it's just trees, trails, and land, both beautiful and wild, natural and unkempt.

Consequently, we get many visitors -- the kind that arrive on foor legs or by wing. A peacock and a gaggle of guinea hens has adopted us as well as a family of feral cats. Skunks and raccoons mosy down from the hills to eat the cat's food and eagles soar overhead in lazy circles looking for the gophers that are wrecking the one place that has a lawn. Foxes run around down by the creek and deer are always eating something by the barn and the driveway. Although the closest person is too far to see, we are never alone out here.

It's an amazing place. I'm in better shape, both physically and emotionally, than I ever was in Houston or for that matter L.A. Walking around up here, collecting firewood, amending the garden beds, feeding the animals -- it melts away the stress and cares of every day life. Sure there is a Starbucks less than five miles from here, and if you drive the eight minutes to get on the freeway, you'll get stuck in traffic, but up here there is space, room to breathe. I'm thankful my boys are able to grow up a little bit here.

Now I know I'm blessed, that most people don't have this kind of good fortune, but take some time to go to a big park or drive somewhere out in the country where you can find some space -- space to roam, space to smile, space to be. It'll take years off your life.

Thoughts of Scottie

2005-06-17T07:34:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a great deal about my old friend Scott Maitland. It's close to the fifteenth anniversary of my first meeting with Scott. You probably thought I would write something like, "but it seems like yesterday." No. Actually, it seems longer than that. So much has happened since then .... Still, I owe him so much.

In early fall of 1991 I became my own man. It happened as I held the hand of Scott Maitland, the grandest queen I ever knew, as he passed away due to AIDS related pneumonia and other complications. I didn’t know it at the time, but it changed my life.

I met Scott at the P & H, a bar in Memphis frequented by the theatre crowd of that fair city. I was enjoying a patty melt and some cheap beer when we were introduced by a mutual friend. Scott was directing a play called Eastern Standard for the upcoming season at The Circuit Playhouse. This was the summer of 1990, and Allanah Myles was singing on the Jukebox at the P & H.

Scott had seen my work as an actor. I was considered a somewhat mysterious and hot commodity, an image I tried hard to cultivate at the time. I was actually a little full of myself. I had won a best supporting actor award a couple of months before for a mysterious and hot role in Blue Window. Scott told me about the play he was doing and the role he wanted me to audition for.

“Well, Jimmy, I’ve got this gay character, but I want him very macho, very butch. I’m looking for someone that is so blatantly heterosexual he drips testosterone,” Scott said.

I’ve never been accused of dripping with testosterone and I’ve actually been hit on quite a few times by men, but I wasn’t going to argue. I thought I was mysterious and hot, remember.

“So this guy at the beginning of the play has just found out he snagged the HIV. His journey is how he deals with it and how he reveals it,” said Scott.

I was intrigued. The role sounded rich. Plus I was flattered that I was being asked to audition by a prominent member of the theater community. I auditioned, got the part and got to work.
I don’t know if it was my best work, but it was my best experience in the process. My fellow actors were talented and giving, especially the man who played my lover, Kevin Jones.

About two weeks into the rehearsals I found out that Scott was HIV positive. So was Kevin. I was young and naïve. My whole world had been a rather sheltered, easy life, and here I was playing a homosexual man dealing with the reality of AIDS, lost loves and the fear of dying alone, basically telling the story of these two wonderful men.

The play was well received. I got a few good reviews, but mainly I got good friends out of the show. I kept in touch with Kevin and Scott. They both had wonderful stories to tell of glamorous worlds that I knew nothing about. Scott lived in Manhattan in the late ‘70s and early ’80s. Scott had lovers and sugar daddies and one-night-stands. He had beautiful fashion sense and the quickest bitch-wit on Houston Street, he said.

He told one story of living with a well-to-do lawyer in a high-rise apartment in Manhattan. He did the cooking and cleaning, always dressed in matching pajamas and an antique kimono robe, according to him. Every night before he would go to bed, he would open the doors to the balcony, step outside and at the top of his lungs shout “Goodnight New York!” in his best Marlene Dietrich impersonation.

A couple of weeks after the play closed, Scott started to get sick. He still had the same cynical sense of humor, but his body started to betray him. He lost weight, started breaking out with cankers and lost more and more energy. Finally after going below a hundred pounds, he checked into the hospital wheezy and sallow.

The shittiest thing about AIDS is that the people who really need to be there at the end, the lovers and life-partners, stayed at home for fear of going full-blown, as they used to say, by being exposed to the various viruses and sickness. It’s a cruel beast of a disease that denies a dying man the comfort of holding his truelove’s hand or looking in to the eyes of his longtime companion. For that reason if nothing else, AIDS deserves to be at the top of the please-don’t-let-me-die-of-this list.

So Scott was stuck with me, usually me only. I did my best to comfort him and distract him. He had recently told his mother the news, both his disease and the equally devastating surprise that he was gay. We were waiting to see if she was going to come say goodbye to him. It had been close to a week since he told her and she still hadn’t shown. Unfortunately, Scott was fading fast.

AIDS attacks the body, but it also devastates the mind. Scott’s once clear eyes were shrouded with dementia the last couple of days he was alive. He didn’t know me, the nurse or even himself. He would just cry, scream and drool, sometimes begging for “mommy, mommy, mommy.” It was heart wrenching, but I visited as much as I could. I’m not sure why other than wanting him to not be alone.

Scott’s mom finally came after about ten days or so. I was there when she arrived. She asked me if I was his “boyfriend.” I can still hear the confused and somewhat disgusted tone in her voice. I told her that I wasn’t, just a friend and left to get a cup of coffee and a smoke.

When I came back a short while later she was gone. Scott was still in his own gaunt, frightened world. I don’t know if he knew she came or if she even stayed to say anything to him. I doubt there was any sort of reconciliation, but I do believe that he was waiting to see her. Not very long later, he took his last breath while I held his hand.

I can’t really describe all the things that changed in me during the last six weeks of Scott’s life, nor do I want to. I do know that it was the first time in my life that I felt like my own man, and that it laid a foundation for all the future decisions I would make in my life till now.

Years later while in New York on the trip when I proposed to my future wife, I took a little time out from sightseeing, eating and planning the proposal to walk out on the roof of our hotel, raise my arms to the city and shout in my best Marlene Dietrich impersonation, “Good night, New York!”

I hope Scott was listening.

Thoughts of Scottie

Looking forward, looking back

2005-06-14T07:45:00.000-07:00

Hello fair friend ...

It's been a bit since I've checked in, and a great deal has happened in the interim. I am a college graduate. The odyssey that started in Memphis in 1989 has come to completion. My university studies ended with a whimper not a bang -- almost an afterthought. None the less, the family is happy and there is a sense of completion so that is fine.

We are relocating to San Francisco. My amazing wife was promoted again and we are headed back out west. That is definitely for the best. As my friend Michael said, it's about time we went back to a blue state. I see the move as Tom Joad once did -- full of possibilities and endless opportunity. I'm sure there will be more chances for writing and I believe I will try my hand at teaching if I can find a school that will have me. Yes, friends, the future's so bright I gotta wear shades (except in the summer, which in San Francisco is reportedly like winter).

Interesting though to look back at my time in Houston. We moved here in May 2001. An acquaintance asked me recently what I would miss most about Houston. Sadly, I could only think of a couple of eateries and the proximity to my parents house. Man, that is lame. Four years and that's all I could come up with? To be honest, I had a piss-poor attitude the first 18 months. I probably wouldn't have liked anything then, but after that? Why not a few friends? Wherefore the dirth of wonderful memories? Oh, I have a few recollections, but not even close to four years worth.

With the move I am moving forward. I will make friends, make memories. Past failures are behind me.

So here's to you San Francisco. I will see you shortly with flowers in my hair. And here's to you Houston. You are not the brightest light, the fairest maiden, or the best place to raise a family. In fact, you are most things that I dislike, but I should have given you a fair shake. To both cities -- skol.

Quentin Tarantino

2005-04-21T08:45:00.000-07:00

I was preparing to move to L.A. when I first saw Reservoir Dogs. I was venturing west to try my hand at acting and writing. QT was not the reason I wanted to be involved with movies. That spot on the influence list was reserved for Buster Keaton, Al Pacino, Stanley Kubrick, and Martin Scorsese among others. Still I, like a number of young members of Generation X, was blown away by the film. It moved and appealed to me in ways that I didn't see coming. It was as if all the movies I had seen were an appetizer to this cinematic feast. The movie galvanized my belief that acting and writing was what I was meant to do.

You see, I'm old enough to remember what movies were like before Tarantino. It's somewhat difficult to remember that action, horror, heist, or suspense movies were so different from today. They were, on the whole, mind-numbingly formulaic, predictable, and simple with generic unrealistic dialogue. The characters were two-dimensional, and the humor consisted of a punnishly stupid one-liner before or after someone was killed. Even the entertaining and successful ones like Die Hard, Rambo, and Terminator followed this easy and simple blueprint.

Then, with that first electric film about the men with the color-coded names and the the equally as dynamic Pulp Fiction, Tarantino chnaged it all. In what has become known as the "Reservoir Dogs watershed" the formula for those types of movies was thrown on it's head, beaten up, and replaced with a fresher, more genuine cinema style that jumped out of a noir setting in broad daylight. The story was so non-linear it was everywhere, the dialogue was as real and raw as could be imagined, the bad guys became the protagonist the audience identified with, and the entire package was laid out in all its gritty unHollywood glory with a 70's dance tune as the backdrop.

It was so different and exciting that it was quickly aped and plagiarized to the point that it created its own genre -- a "Tarantino script." Pretty soon, everyone was trying to make a Tarantino movie, so much so that there was an inevitable backlash. All of the Tarantino rip-offs (you know you saw them -- Killing Zoe, Two Days in the Valley, and even QT's Destiny Turns on the Radio) had the effect of a hit song being overplayed on the radio to the point that you don't even remember why you like the song in the first place.

The thing is, without Tarantino, the cinema that we know today would not have existed. There would be no Memento, Sin City, or The Usual Suspects. He laid the foundation for Robert Rodriguez, Alexander Payne, and a host of other talented directors that didn't want t0 play by mainstream rules. He revived the careers of talented actors that had fallen out of favor. Maybe most importantly he took independent movies out of the art houses and into mainstream. Before Tarantino, Miramax handled foreign films and small, arty films. Today Miramax is considered a beast -- a major player in the movie world.

Because Tarantino's movies became so much more than movies, some peolpe have forgotten what made them so special. Watch his movies again, especially the first two and it is crystal why they had the impact. The scripts are brilliant. The way his characters talk is blazingly real and precise, and the stories are just enough off the center of normal that they become addictive. It's apparent that Tarantino lives, breathes, and eats movies. His scene homages are legendary, crafted to a point close enough for some to call it stealing. But his movies are his own, his voice, and his vision. His enthusiasm and confidence are, to me, what is so infectious about his movies. He makes the movies he wants because he loves them and has fun with them. In doing so he made going to the movies better for all of us.

Iraq

2005-04-20T11:56:00.000-07:00

I can't believe we still have soldiers in Iraq. Even more, I can't believe that the war has become a background to other things going on. More coverage is devoted to American Idol, Michael Jackson, and Tom Delay. It's as if the American people have resigned themselves to the occupation with no exit plan and no change in the foreseeable future.

I'm against the war in Iraq, as you can probably tell. I have been since before it started. I didn't think we should invade the country back when WMDs and al Qaeda links were still accepted as probabilities and I sure don't think we should have gone to war now that we know the reasons were flat out lies. No, I was never going to be in favor of war ... any war, especially one built on deception. I'm for peace and tolerance -- two ideas in short supply here in Houston, deep in the heart of hatred.

So I understand why I was in the minority (although not as much of a minority as the conservative pundits would have you believe) and why a number of people were so bloodthirsty for some sort of revenge after the 9/11 tragedy. But what I don't understand is why we are still there and why a majority of the people don't see the problem.

I recently wrote a paper aiming to convince people to support getting out of Iraq, and most of the research pointed to people feeling like even though it may have been a mistake, we are already in there, it's too late now, so let's make the most of a bad situation. What a load of shit.

Certainly invading Iraq was a mistake. We invaded a sovereign nation and committed unspeakable acts of violence on normal, every day, wake-up-in-the-morning-go-to-work-care-for-your-kids people when diplomacy would have been a much better option. The claim was that Hussein was a bad man and the world would be better and Iraq safer with him gone. Now we see that even if he was a bad man, the world and Iraq is no safer. We replaced a bad man with a number of bad men and a horrible spiral of violence and lawlessness. Our mission, which was misguided, a lie, and morally bankrupt, was a total failure.

What made people think that we had the right to force our idea of what is right on a totally different culture in the first place? What arrogance. What greed. With practically no global support and a rush to arms we effectively destroyed a nation and alienated ourselves from friends and allies. What shame we should feel.

Yet surprisingly we don't. We continue along hearing the latest attack and the most up to date body count in the background on TV and read it on page six of the paper. In writing my paper I doubt I convinced anyone. I don't think many people are listening, and the few who listen are like me, growing more frustrated and numb at the same time.

We should get out of this tragedy now. Perhaps then the other problems like the economy, the chaos in Iraq, and the growing divide between the right and the left of the country could be dealt with. Because as long as soldiers and citizens are dying in Iraq America will continue to suffer at home.

Mystery

2005-03-13T07:02:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking a great deal about mysteries lately. As part of my comp class I've re-read Sherlock Holmes, watched CSI and other shows that incorporate logic. I've also been sort of revisiting books and movies that I've seen or read previously, thinking about how they did what they did.

Figuring out how the protagonists use logic and how logic eventually wins out is interesting -- fun even, but what about the bigger picture. Why mysteries in the first place? Are mysteries simply a mental exercise and form of entertainment, like a puzzle or Rubic's cube? Or do mysteries have a higher purpose?

I have a theory that all genres of movies and books mean more to the audience than entertainment, escape, or getting a story. I feel that any movie or book teaches us something mentally and emotionally -- both with knowledge and understanding. Let's say you see a comedy. Most likely you will learn something you didn't know that you may use later. For instance, if you include "Carneys"(the odd, smelly subculture that works as geeks and callers at traveling carnivals) in a story, that story will be funnier than if you left out the Carney reference.

More than the intellectual gains though are the emotional ones. You laugh (or groan), you smile and feel better. Laughter and a sense of humor are essential to a healthy, happy laugh. A comedy gives you laughter and humor and lets you know what makes you laugh and smile. The same holds true for the other categories. Drama, fantasy, western, history, etc. -- they all have a two-fold purpose at a minimum.

Mysteries are a little different. Mysteries teach people how to deduce on their own. Often times, the lessons are learned without the person knowing. When you read a mystery, you experience the story, learn interesting facts, get the emotional plus of perhaps a little fear, excitement, and surprise all rolled into one. On a different level, you also get the tools and blueprint for solving mysteries on your own. Someone who read Encyclopedia Brown or The Hardy Boys when he was growing up was exposed to logic and steps of deduction. Plus, the added benefit of seeing the self-confidence that is generated when someone can figure things out and solve mysteries on his own.

Another part of it is that the reader identifies with the protagonist, who is usually smart, resourceful, self-confident, and brave in mysteries. The reader sees what can be accomplished by someone that uses these tools. Mysteries are amazing teachers, and often times, creators of logical, self-confident people.

So long old friend

2005-03-01T20:57:00.000-08:00

It's been a long time since I had a day that was so emotional. Part of it is because my wife is out of town on business. While she's out kicking it in the Bahamas I've been here taking care of the boys, wandering around aimlessly, and trying to get to sleep.

I always experience this emotional nostalgia when the wife is out of town. I can't fall asleep, so I find myself reliving old memories and watching something on T.V. at 2 a.m. Daydreams and flips through photo albums take me back to times in my life that keep me company. The downside to that particular form of company is the insomnia.

The thing is, I just can't fall asleep when she's not sleeping next to me. We are not one of those couples that goes to bed at different times. We both turn in around the same time each night -- talk for a while, sometimes make love -- but we always nod off together, feet touching. I've had that warm comfortable presence next to me for close to fifteen years. When she is absent it's like a part of me, the part that lets me drift off, went in the suitcase with her.

Which brings me to today and the other part of this emotional turmoil. Today was the final episode of NYPD Blue. I popped some popcorn, TIVO'd the show, and waited for the kids to fall asleep so the experience would be without any interruptions. I was crying before they got through the opening credits.

The series has been outstanding since it's inception in September 1993, and tonight's episode was no different. It tied things up and sent off it's characters with class and dignity while still telling a good story and solving a mystery. But the quality of the show is not what made me such a wreck or why NYPD Blue was so important to me. No, it was much deeper than that.

You see television shows -- the good ones I'm talking about here, the ones that have substance and longevity -- are like frames for the chapters of our lives. They serve as signposts for us to anchor our memories, a way to see how far we've come and remember where we've been.

I think that's why people develop such attachments to television shows. When a show ends it is more than the finale of a particular entertainment we have shared. It's like putting a picture in a frame and setting it to the wall. The show becomes a fixed piece of history of a special time in our lives when we had successes, failures, joys, and disappointments. With that ending though comes the realization that, in a way, we have framed up another piece of our lives, a piece that we have to let go and relinquish to the past.

So you want to know what I was doing in September of 1993, when NYPD Blue first premiered? I'll tell you dear friend. I was unpacking boxes with Shannon in a shitty apartment in Glendale, Calif. two weeks after we had drove out to Los Angeles searching for our dreams. I had nothing but optimism in my head and the City of Lights in my sights. I was going to be a famous actor, a writer of some respect. It was all mine for the taking.

Since then, I spent eight years in L.A. pursuing that dream, married the cute girl who helped me unpack those boxes, had two boys, gave up my dream, became a man, and went back to school. During that entire time, Det. Andy Sipowiczs and all the good people at the 15th squad have been there with weekly visits, fine entertainment, and good company. It's been a bumpy ride for both of us, but wonderful all the same.

So, perhaps you can see why the emotions have come fast and furious today. Up until today, because of NYPD Blue, that chapter in my life -- the chapter that has been the most fruitful and poignant has been ongoing. However, with the final episode of NYPD Blue, the frame of that chapter has been set. Those days are over.

Turn the page.

New chapter.

So long old friend

My beautiful boy #1

2005-02-26T19:50:00.000-08:00

Austin Jameson -- on the Sound outside of Seattle -- 2003

Beautiful boy # 2

2005-02-26T19:49:00.000-08:00

How can you not laugh? Jackson seriously tried to talk to this angry duck for five minutes. Finally, the duck settled down and listened after Jackson started talking to him on his level.

Sherlock Holmes vs. Gil Grissom

2005-02-26T14:00:00.000-08:00

Just this week I re-read "The Red Headed League" by A.C. Doyle. It's such a classic Sherlock Holmes mystery. I must confess I'm a big fan of London's greatest detective. My grandfather used to read me his tales when I was just a young lad.

Holmes is a pretty easy guy to admire. He is wicked smart, likes his brandy and pipe, and prefers a good riding crop over a hand gun. It was from Holmes and his singular adventures that I first realized brains beat braun, wit beats foul play, and logic always wins out over violence.

My composition instructor is using Holmes to illustrate his teachings on argument and logic. I would venture to say Holmes is one of the best examples you could give for deductive logic -- the inclusion of Holmes in the class is elementary, if I do say.

However, the other example Mr. Lee used was CSI (the original, not the crappy, ego vehicle of David Caruso) and specifically Chief investigator Gil Grissom. Now I have always admired the work of William Peterson, specifically in the underrated Manhunter, the original Hannibal Lecter film, but I was skeptical about comparing this T.V. character with the legndary Sherlock Holmes.

But you know what, I wouldn't mind seeing a deductive battle between these two. Call it an assumption, obeservation, and deducing throw down.

After watching a few episodes of CSI with the express purpose of analyzing the logic I came away impressed. First off, the show is different than other crime shows. The crime, and more specifically, the evidence is the story. Grissom is a careful observer. He is equally as eccentric as Holmes -- a key chracteristic of a great detective. Grissom figures things out based on evidence. Most importantly, he questions the assumptions that make up the base of his logical conclusions.

Now to make this competition fair we would have to take technology out of the equation. I mean imagine what Holmes would have done with a DNA centrifuge and some high-end digital photo enhancing software. Hell, imagine what he would have done with a camera and fingerprints. Had Holmes access to the Las Vegas crime lab, there would have been zero crime in London gauranteed.

No, we would have to present the two of them with a singular event told to them by an unwitting and hapless victim (I'm thinking of a curvy red-head in a low cut dress; I think we are safe including some technological advances in clothing). Then the two of them could face off looking for clues, interviewing suspects, and setting up a fantastical trap to catch the evil-doer red-handed.

I would watch that. I would read that story.

The thing is, both detectives are gifted at what they do. All criminals make mistakes. And in the end, with careful reasoning and deductive locic, these two role-models of any age always catch their crook.

Logic always wins out ... elementary, my dear reader.

Sherlock Holmes vs. Gil Grissom

Fate and the Golden Girl

2005-02-25T20:48:00.000-08:00

Today was a big day. An important day. In fact, it could be one of those four or five days you have that change your life.

I don't remember where I first heard that idea, but it goes something like this -- throughout your entire life there are only four or five days that truly matter, the days when you stand at a crossroads. A decision looms. It may seem insignificant or you may realize its weight. Regardless, the path you choose shapes the rest of your life. And, except for those four or five days, everything else is just fate.

I'm a firm believer in fate. I can point back to times in my life where I was led to a destination, not by my own devices but by the overarching guidance of something else. I've thought something was meant to be in my life only to see it fall by the wayside and reveal something even better smiling at me. I've made sweet mistakes that turned out to be gifts. I've looked back on things that I wanted so badly at the time and been thankful that they weren't mine. Call it what you want my friend but it is true and it is real. Destiny. Kismet. Moira. She leads you where you don't know you're going.

Anyway, today could have been one of those four or five days. I'll let you know how it turns out. In honor of the day and of fate I thought I would share a story I wrote last year.

It's a story of love and wonder, dreams and connections.

And fate.

The Golden Girl Behind the Fence

My earliest memory is of a woman. Go figure. She was a little girl actually – the golden girl behind the fence.

My mom tells me that I couldn’t have been more than two. That sounds about right. We were living in Austin, Texas. My father was back from the war and attending the University of Texas on the G.I. Bill. Everything about that time seems golden to me. It was the early ‘70s and Austin was still holding on to Hippy values. Both of my parents worked at Garner and Smith, a college bookstore on the Drag. Like so many things of that time, I don’t believe it is around any more, certainly not the way I remember it.

My father did the books for the place and my mom worked behind the counter. My father would drive the bright orange Vega to work early in the morning -- the one that he purchased in Vietnam and was shipped to the states for him. My mom and I would ride the bus to the bookstore later in the morning. We had to change buses and almost always stopped in a park by the river to feed the squirrels a bag of nuts my mom purchased from a man that sold things out of a cart. If you’ve never seen a young boy feeding a bag of peanuts to squirrels in a park, then you haven’t lived. I can’t tell you how much joy that daily feeding gave me at the time and in the years since while looking back.

We entered the bookstore by the rear entrance. Everything was cool and glossy in the back. My dad’s desk was tucked back in a corner amid boxes of books. There was such a distinct smell about the place. It was the smell of new books, the spine yet to be cracked, the pages yet to be turned. It was a clean, crisp smell that makes me think of metal and knowledge, acrid to the nose but far from unpleasant.

It was a great time. We were surrounded by hippies and intellectuals, but I always just felt I was surrounded by love. My father, being a few years older than the average student, got along better with the professors than the students, something that has been passed down to me interestingly enough. There were always people around that embodied that peace and love value system. And I was right there with them.

I was walking and talking by then. I apparently had a pretty large vocabulary for a boy not yet two-years-old. Picture if you will a tiny little boy under two-feet tall walking around dressed in delicious leisure suits that my Granny had sewn for me, using words like “enunciate” and “cumulus clouds.” I was the hit of the party.

It was just my parents and I. A brother and sister would come along four and six years later, but then I had them all to myself and I relish those memories. It’s selfish and embarrassing to admit, but I would guess that most people with younger siblings secretly hold the time before the brother or sister arrived like hidden gold or the last piece of candy from Halloween. It’s not something to share.

Anyway, back to the golden girl behind the fence.

As I said before, it is the first memory that is truly mine. There are some memories that I call merged memories. You’re not sure if they are truly yours because you remember them or because you heard the story so many times that you convinced yourself that, yes indeed sir, I remember that. No this one is real, there was only her and I on that golden afternoon.

We lived in a small house, the kind a young couple in college could afford. I must have gone out back to play. As I ran around in circles looking for butterflies, a glimmer caught my eye from next door. There standing on the other side of the fence was this little blonde-haired girl in a flowered dress. Her hair was blowing gently around her face from the breeze, and the sun had her backlit so that this golden glow emanated from around her, shining through her hair like a simulated sunset through a theater scrim. She had something in her mouth. It could have been a lollipop or perhaps a barrette that she had taken from her fluttering hair for something to chew on. She didn’t say anything. She might not have even been able to talk; she really was only a toddler.

I walked towards the fence and she did the same. It was a chain-link fence, dull gray. I always associate the smell of chain-link fences with having a bloody nose, a combination of a metallic smell and taste at the same time. When you look at one, the wire squares always seem to be smooth, but inevitably there are imperfections on the surface of the links that surprise your hands with a prick or a scratch. I don’t like chain-link fences.

We met at the fence and stared at each other through the squares. We studied each other for what seemed like hours but was probably just seconds. She put her hand through one of the links and touched my shoulder. I put my opposite hand through the fence and held her hand. In my mind she smiled. At some point her mom or grandmother – whoever it was looked really old to me – came out to get her. She went in and that was the end of it. I don’t recall ever seeing her again.

It was years later, probably about 25, when I realized that little girl turned out to be my wife. Probably not actually the same person. My wife, Shannon, assures me she never lived in Austin. Still, throughout my life I seemed to be always searching for the golden girl behind the fence. She represented all that was beautiful to me. That little smile with a lollipop or something stuffed in her mouth, the flower print dress, the human contact and her ethereal glow; all out of my reach, beyond the chain-link fence. I often thought of my golden girl during times of depression, which I’m not ashamed to say, I’ve had more than a few times. It was one of those black periods that I made the connection between the golden girl and my wife.

My wife and I had been married for about a year and were living in Los Angeles. The week had been one of darkness and depression, the kind where I would slowly sink inward and tune out the business of life about me. I came home from bartending late, after 1 a.m. I was looking at a room screen that was actually a frame for fifteen eight by ten pictures that we had received for a wedding present. We had decided to display our wedding pictures in it.

Our wedding was a wonderful, happy day. We were married in an old Victorian house in Pasadena, California. It was a great party filled with friends and relatives and dancing children. Almost all the people that needed to be there were, and it still ranks as one of my three best days.

As I looked over our wedding pictures in the screen frame it hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. The golden girl behind the fence and my wife were one and the same. It was the center picture, a black and white nostalgic looking print of my wife alone by a big window in the upstairs of the house where we were married. The dress was a simple, white, classic style. There was no flower print little girl’s dress but everything else was the same. Shannon is looking down at her bouquet, but you can see a faint smile one her face. There was the magical glow of sunlight coming in from the window and lighting up her veil like a halo. The depression fell off me as I realized I had found what I had been looking for all my life.

It’s funny how things work out. I married my wife because she is beautiful and smart and funny. I married her because she is a great complement to me. I married her because I love her, not because I thought she was the golden girl that first touched my heart. It turns out that I got both, which let me put to rest that need to find something I never felt I could.

I finally got over that chain-link fence.

Fate and the golden girl

Sunday morning skepticism

2005-02-20T09:54:00.000-08:00

I woke up pretty early this morning ... too early actually. But that's what happens with two boys. The wife and I kept them up late last night, tired them out during the day -- hoping in vain that they would sleep past 7 a.m.

Yeah, well it didn't work. They were both crawling and clamoring in to our bed, making noise and putting cold feet in places they shouldn't. I had to resort to starting a video in the playroom. The boys watched a couple episodes of Blue's Clues while the wife and I stared at the back of our eyelids wishing for a few more minutes of sleep that wouldn't come.

Naturally, while staring at the ceiling, I daydreamed about the old days. The days before children when we could sleep in on Sunday, rise mid-morning to a strong pot of coffee, and leisurely peruse the Sunday paper reading interesting tidbits and facts to each other as the a.m. became p.m.

Those were the halcyon days, the days when I was well-rested, the days when peace and quiet were not foreign concepts, the days when a nap on Sunday was likely not a pipe-dream ...

Those were also the days when I believed almost everything in the Sunday paper.

For our most recent blog assignment we were supposed to tell someone the "bathtub hoax" and see how that person reacted. Did they believe it, when did they figure it out, etc. I told my wife. However, she knows that I am both skeptical and full of shit, so she quit listening less than 20 seconds in. I figured as much.

The idea of the assignment was to start a discussion about the verifiability of the news and history. Well, I have worked in a news room. In fact, one of my main duties as a news assistant was to fact-check -- to make sure that everything in the paper was true and verifiable. Let me tell you, I caught many mistakes nightly. Most were harmless mistakes, spelling errors, style and the like. But every now and then I would catch a big one -- a whale-sized, lawsuit-inducing mistake.

For example, imagine the fallout if a picture on the front page of the City section depicting an accused sexual offender was actually a local high school coach that was awarded for helping inner-city kids. Someone in the art department had accidentally swapped the photos in setting up the page. Fortunately that one was caught, but there were plenty more that I and others missed.

The point is, don't believe everything you read -- current or historical. Little mistakes or hoaxes can grow to become accepted as fact, just like the supposed visit by Millard Fillmore to Adam Thompson's "first" real bathtub in Ohio.

When I read the Sunday paper now (earlier than I used to and not so leisurely thanks to the boys) I'm skeptical. I see a factual or spelling error and I doubt the entire story. If I read an article that is especially flattering to a company, I discount the piece as a P.R. release.

I don't enjoy my relaxing Sunday mornings anymore ... but maybe that is for the best. Now they are full of skepticism, noise, chaos, little cold feet and little sticky hands. Sunday morning is much less peaceful and infinitely more complicated ... but a hundred times more wonderful.

Advertisements abound ...

2005-02-11T11:13:00.000-08:00

So I took my dog (the big Great dane) for a walk to look for advertisements and logos. She got tired out and I counted 83 product placements. My math could be off a few, but you get the idea ... it was more than I expected.
Most of these were brand insignias -- car names, clothing labels, etc. There were a few billboards and those funny signs on stakes about gauranteed weight loss and real estate success. I realized I mostly ignore all that stuff. It's sort of like white noise, I just gloss over it. Still, advertising messages are everywhere.

Suburban Madness

2005-02-10T08:40:00.000-08:00

I have a little love affair going on with Canada.

Toronto to be specific. I was fortunate enough to get a gig as the dialogue coach for a Movie of the Week that was shooting there. It has since become one of my favorite cities. Toronto has a life and vibrancy that affects you when you walk down the street or ride the rocket (the subway) or sit in one of the many beautiful parks. The people are friendly and liberal -- both in thought and in behavior. I would go back anytime.

It's funny how things work out. I thought I had left the film business behind. When my wife and I left L.A. for different prospects in Houston I left my dreams of acting and writing in the little house we had just off Melrose Avenue. It took a while to reconcile that decision. Sure enough, just as I had come to terms with things, I got the call about "Suburban Madness." Call it a twist-of-fate, cosmic irony, small world type of event. A friend of mine recommended me to be the dialogue coach for this film about Clara Harris, the woman who ran over her cheating husband three times with her Mercedes. The movie was being shot in Toronto and they needed someone to add a little authenticity to the production.

Most of the actors in the film were Canadian, except for the leads -- Sela Ward, Elizabeth Pena, and Brett Cullen. It seems that the cast (who were supposed to be residents of Friendswood) didn't sound like they were from southeast Texas.

Well after some negotiations, some soul-searching, and encouragement from loved ones, I left for 28 days to work on the film. And I loved it. Besides the fact that the cast and crew were wonderful, both professionally and as friends, I was reminded that I have something to offer.

Since leaving L.A. I had felt adrift. I wasn't sure what I was going to do or even if there was anything I could do. Those 28 days in T.O. (that's Toronto, Ontario for those in the know) taught me a lot about myself. Obviously I missed my family the entire time I was there, but I came back a changed person. A better person I think, someone that you might like to be around, someone that my wife and kids could smile about.

The film was OK. To be honest, I thought it was going to be better while we were filming. But the experience, the process was magical, and one I am thankful for.

So I would like to say thanks to all the friends I made while in Toronto. I was happy to be a part of it.

Some cast and crew of "Suburban Madness" at my goodbye party overlooking downtown Toronto.

Lahey and Borel

2005-02-03T20:09:00.000-08:00

1. Summarize the Lahey essay on Borel's essay "The Decorated Body."

The idea that the human race, regardless of culture or geography, modifies the body to brand themselves as human -- to show that they have evolved and are more than animals -- is well reasoned, both historically and in Borel's essay. However Lahey seems to argue that the claim should delve deeper. The motivations and reasons behind the modifications and the political, cultural and moral implications of those manipulations need to enter into the discussion.

2. Discuss at least two ideas from the Borel essay that Lahey either ignores or misunderstands.

I happen to agree with Lahey that the argument leaves one lacking. As is the case with most anthropological studies, Borel focuses on the big picture. He takes on humanity as a whole. His claim is broad and simple -- humans decorate themselves to publicly brand themselves as a human, part of an organized group. And he does a solid job of supporting his claim with a wide and varied parade of mainly primitive cultures that, in often startling ways, accomplish that feat.

The thing is though, any moderately intelligent person, with or without an Intro to anthropology class, probably knows this. Since the first Cro-whatever-man threw on a Cave Bear skin to keep out the cold, modifying the body has declared us as above beasts and members of a group. I bet back in the Cro-whatever days, that guy who killed the Cave Bear probably shared the pelt with the rest of his clan signifying they were part of a group. Don't mess with that tribe; they killed a Cave Bear.

Seriously though, although Lahey wants more from Borel's claim (and me too by the way), the claim is what it is. I believe Lahey misunderstood what Borel was trying to say. Borel is claiming that humans do this, not why. In fact, he states in paragraph 8 that "The fact that such motivations and pretexts depend on aesthetic, erotic, hygienic, or even medical considerations has no influence on the result, ..." He acknowledges that there are other, deeper reasons behind his claim but doesn't dig into them.

So Borel supports his claim adequately, but by making a blanket statement he is bound to run into trouble and the sort of misunderstandings that came the way of Lahey. In paragraph 10 Borel says that "The absolutely naked body is considered as brutish, reduced to the level of nature where no distinction is made between man and beast." However, most of the examples he used were from cultures whose idea of the "naked body" is much different than that of the Western cultures. In the next sentence of paragraph 10 he states that a decorated or clothed body "if even only in a belt" exhibits humanity. For a long time "only a belt" did not signify humanity to Europeans and Americans. It was still a brutish, naked body. Without putting his examples into some context, Borel makes his case murkier than it needs to be.

Going Sideways

2005-02-01T07:14:00.000-08:00

I'm a firm believer that the impact a movie has on you has almost as much to do with timing as it does with quality. Sure, a good movie has to have the goods ... good script, strong performances, direction that doesn't insult the viewer. But for a movie to become great, the viewer has to believe it. I don't mean believe it intellectually, but with your heart. You form a connection to the film because of the type of person you are and where you are in your life.

Sideways was one of those films for me. It has all the nuts and bolts needed -- amazing performances; a beautiful, genuine and original script; stunning camera work; and a brilliant yet underappreciated director. That is enough to make it a very good movie. But for me it was great and I'll tell you why. It could have been my story.

I'm happily married, but there is always that "what if." What if my marriage hadn't worked out. I saw myself in Paul Giamatti's character, a man who has reached middle age with not much to show for it except disappointment. He dreams of being a well respected author, yet his novel, what he has poured his soul into is not very well received. In essence, the things he saw for himself have come up as failures. In the story he searches for some sort of success or redemption -- not just professionally but in love, relationships, and himself.

I'm getting near that middle age and although I have had success in a number of areas, I have more than my share of failures. I know that many of the things I saw for myself have gone away. Either changed to something else or simply expired, failed. Sideways moved me. For me, it was a great film, but if I had seen it 10 years earlier I doubt it would have meant as much to me.

The list of my "all time great movies" includes a few staples -- pantheons of the screen, if you will. Yeah, Casablanca and Scarface are there. The General sits right alongside Chinatown, and Dr. Strangelove and Citizen Kane came to the party. But a few others are there because of what they meant to me when I saw them.

The Piano, Jane Campion's masterpiece, is one of those films. I was a struggling actor in Hollywood having some success, but not quite enough. Time had been passing me by and I was starting to realize that some dreams don't come to fruition. When I saw Holly Hunter pouring her heart out in silence, a number of feelings and fears and wishes coalesced into an unforgettable two hours in a dark movie theater. Everything fell away except me and the movie. When I got up from my seat I was forever changed. I realized that life is unfair sometimes and you can't, as Mick sang many years ago, always get what you want.

Big Fish, the labor of love by Tim Burton, affected me even more. It's number one on my list. My wife took me to see it on my birthday. I had already gone back to school, and I had realized that I was here to tell stories. That is what the acting was about and why I added a Journalism major. I had been writing my memoirs for about a month before I saw the film -- reliving old memories and getting reacquainted with my family and friends through reflection.

The mystical joining of mind, heart and movie happened at the theater. Everything fell away from me but the movie. Here was this story of an old man that told stories and the son who becomes a friend during his dying days. I balled throughout the film and couldn't stop thinking about it for weeks after. That's the beauty of movies. Some of them, because of their art and your willingness to let them in at a particular time, wrap you up in a celluloid cocoon and leave you changed when their magic falls away from you.

Austin and Jackson

2005-01-26T07:32:00.000-08:00

I've made mention of the boys. Here they are in sunny SoCal. Austin is lying down. Jackson is standing. They both seem to have the contemplative nature that their father is famous for.

A little background ...

2005-01-21T15:55:00.000-08:00

Following Through

Close to half the 34 years of my life has been spent pursuing a college degree. In that time I have seen two Gulf Wars by father and son presidents. I’ve seen the explosion of Grunge music led kicking and screaming by Kurt Cobain and Nirvana, the suicide of Cobain and the 10-year anniversary of his death.

I have seen the cell phone, HDTV, the Internet and the SUV become entrenched in the vocabulary and consumption of society. I’ve seen the stock market and a few of my own investments rise to unheard of heights thanks to the late ‘90s dot com companies and seen the market and those investments fall just as fast when Clinton left office and Enron became an adjective for greed.

I’ve lost loved ones, dear friends and valuable mentors. I’ve had great fortune and bitter disappointment. I’ve kissed movie stars and won big in Vegas. I’ve been on national television and in neighborhood theatres. I’ve had a full career as an actor and a writer and I have given it all up more than once.

I’ve led a pretty full life up to the present and had some amazing experiences, but all of those developments and moments in time seem like estuaries and inlets in the river of my life. More importantly are the things I have seen grow and change within the main channel of myself. I’ve become a man, husband, father – a more complete person, and little of it has been because of my time in college – a span of roughly 15 years of on-again-off-again study where I made many small mistakes and one big one.

The beginning started out well enough. It was the fall of 1989. I was a cocky, smiling freshman ready to soak up as much knowledge as I could find. I was an idealist. I wanted to heal, save and change the world. I enrolled as a pre-med major, but I had a passion for acting and performing.

From the start, I enjoyed the entire collegiate experience. I made friends – good friends that fed me intellectually, socially and emotionally. I joined a fraternity, dated girls and tested the limits of my freedom.

I performed in my first play at Rhodes College my second semester there. For the role, I was chosen Best Supporting Actor in town by the Memphis Theatre Awards, a poor man’s Tony award for the river city.

Somewhere along the way I realized I spent more time in the theater and less in the biology lab. I liked the people better in the theater and liked the activities more as well. Theater classes never seemed like work to me. I thought it was my life’s calling, so I changed my major to Theater in preparation for my future career as an actor and writer.

All my life, or at least since I can remember, I have had a passion for acting, for performing. I was good at it and the craft fulfilled me. When I was on stage I could affect people. I could take people on a journey and show them things that they couldn’t see by themselves. Acting was never about being famous for me. It was about sharing something that might make a difference in someone’s life.

As for medicine, at Rhodes I started envisioning myself as an unhappy orthopedic surgeon. In my mind, I saw myself as this 40-year-old, depressed, isolated person that was drinking too much and empty inside. I knew I didn’t want that future. With no fear and no regrets I turned to the silver muse of acting.

With my life path in focus, I pursued the dream with zeal. I walked the boards at the theater with purpose. I honed my craft. I embraced the idea of learning for learning’s sake so that I would be a well-rounded person with enough understanding of liberal arts to be a credible character in whatever role I took.

My grades were average, not what I was capable of but good enough. I took classes in philosophy, literature, art and writing. I stayed on a degree plan, but I was there to learn, remember, so I took a number of classes that had nothing to do with graduating. The diploma was a by-product of the process not the endgame.

Then during the last semester of my senior year things fell apart. The center could not hold. I had put myself in substantial debt. My grandfather passed away. I was drinking too much, and I had broken up with my fiancée. Things were dismal as I remember, and hope had left on a barge down the Mississippi river.

Six weeks before graduation I withdrew from all my classes.

I have told people that I left school so that I could move out to Los Angeles and become a professional actor. That was a lie. The actual, true, down-to-the bone reason I dropped out was that I couldn’t and wouldn’t follow through.

I’ve been living under the shadow of that failure ever since.

Fortunately my story doesn’t end there and I’ll tell you why. I had an angel that helped me back to my feet. The angel was Shannon – the fiancée whose heart I tore and my current wife. For reasons I’ve never been able to understand, she took me back after I foolishly left her and we moved to Los Angeles.

Shannon gave me a second chance. Shannon was the one who paid my bills and got me out of debt. Shannon was the one who brought love and happiness back in to my life. Shannon was the one who helped me put my grandfather’s memory in perspective.

Let me say this. My wife is a better person than me. She works harder than me, is prettier than me, smarter than me. She makes me want to be a good person. To be sure, she has gained from me as well. She is more outgoing and more confident since we have been together. She laughs because she thinks I’m funny and has learned that not everyone is a perfectionist like her. She is more easy-going and content. But I’m the one who has benefited most from our partnership. Without her I wouldn’t be half the man I am today.

So we drove out west in a U-Haul till we saw the Pacific, parked on a beach and started our new life together.

I did my best to put my university failure behind me. I came out to be an actor, my dream, and set about trying to break in. I busied myself with finding a job to pay the bills and getting an agent and manager for the acting. After the first few months, the sting of Rhodes diminished to a throb and I fell in love with southern California.

Tom Joad went to California. So did Led Zeppelin and I can understand the reasons. The area is beautiful. Mountains, beaches, rivers and the desert are all within about an hour drive. The people there are friendly, although you may have heard different. With the exception of my wife, I met my dearest friends in L.A. For someone that is young and unencumbered by a lot of responsibilities, I would recommend highly going to that city.

Shannon and I settled in to L.A. like a well-worn pair of Levis. We both found jobs. I found a manager and then an agent. I started going on auditions and performed in little theaters to showcase my talent. Acting – or rather auditioning – became as much a job as my nighttime bartending gig. After the first year in which I unlearned all the foolish things I thought I knew about being a professional actor, I could finally call myself an actor and mean it.

The auditions became more numerous and soon the callbacks outnumbered the first looks. I booked a Volkswagen commercial and then a series of national commercials for Coors Light. I was getting looks by major casting directors and read for television shows and wide release movies. I was meeting people at auditions that I regularly saw on the big and small screen, and became known enough to warrant auditions by reputation.

My relationship with my wife was growing and deepening as well. After our first pass at engagement we were both a little wary of marriage. She wanted to make sure that I was true to my word and I didn’t want to make another mistake. But the message was clear. Shannon was perfect for me. So on a vacation to New York, after looking at the city from our hotel rooftop, I proposed with 10 rings – one for each finger.

We married on May 25, 1996 in a beautiful old Victorian house in Pasadena – the real Pasadena if you ask me, the one in California – surrounded by family and friends. The night was wonderful. The bride was beautiful. Most people cried and everyone danced and drank more than they should have. Many of my friends and family still speak of it as one of the best weddings that took place in the ‘90s. I would agree.

Yet with the success, good fortune and deep love I was enjoying, that old failure to finish school never stopped gnawing at me. I still told my parents that I was going to finish school, that I would start classes just as soon as my schedule eased up. I let friends and co-workers believe I had graduated. All of the people I met in L.A. thought I was a college graduate and I went along with the lie. I was too embarrassed to tell even my closest friends, the friends I shared almost everything with, that I had dropped out. I lived the lie so well that I even fooled myself into thinking that I would finish my degree sometime, but deep down I knew I wasn’t going back to school.

So I kept on keeping on as an actor. Hundreds of auditions came and went, and some jobs came out of the work. I also found a writing partner and started writing movie and TV scripts. I joined a comedy improv troupe called The Groundlings. I was doing all of the things I had set out to do except getting regular work. There had been a few times when I felt like I was just at the cusp of making it when something would set me back.

Twice I thought I had landed a lead role in a major picture. Both times I had auditioned and read and screen tested more than 10 times for the part. In both cases the decision came down to me and one other person. Both times it was the other person. Both of those actors still have strong careers and anytime I see them in a magazine or on screen I feel that disappointment.

In the back of my mind I started to feel that college failure coming on again. I had tried and worked hard, but I wasn’t making it over the hump. In fairness, making it in Hollywood is tough. Many times talent and drive are not enough. There are countless people I met in my time in Hollywood that were wonderful actors, supremely talented. They worked and networked with the best of them, but they still went back to whatever small town they were from with failure sitting next to them on the Greyhound.

The auditions became scarcer and I lost my commercial agent. Thanks to Dawson’s Creek, most of the shows on television were looking for actors in their early 20s. I was past that. My time to break in to the business had passed me by. The reality of the situation was frightening because once again I had failed to follow through.

I was still at The Groundlings and was still writing. In fact, I sold one of my screenplays. I still auditioned when one came along and booked a couple of jobs towards the end. The truth though was that my heart wasn’t in it anymore. Shannon had become pretty successful in her job. Through an amazing stoke of luck I won a house, or actually enough money to buy a decent house. Shannon became pregnant; we got a dog. After our first son, Austin, was born we had a great little family. Everything outside of my career was roses.

Subconsciously I had made the decision to give up the dream of being a working actor long before I admitted it to Shannon and myself. Giving up a dream is one of the toughest and loneliest decisions one can make. No one cheers you on or pats you on the back when time comes to let go. But giving up dreams is part of growing up, and I made a difficult decision. I wanted to be more for my family than a struggling actor running around to auditions during the day and slinging gin at night while my son grew up without his father.

I also missed my parents, brother and sister. I had grown apart from them while on the West Coast. I was always close to my family but distance and lifestyle had let me drift from them. Plus, my son needed to be around his grandparents.

Shannon seemed to be growing tired of L.A. as well. To advance in her career she needed to be able to relocate. When a promotion opportunity became available in Houston, she applied and got the job.

As we prepared to leave our home of nine years, I tried to put things in order. I was giving up my dream and admitting I was a failure yet again. I was also leaving a few dear friends, special people that could not be replaced. I knew I was doing the best thing for my family, but it was still painful. I had no career direction, and since I had dropped out of school, I didn’t have a lot of prospects. I went to Houston blind and fearful. The only thing I knew was that I was a husband and father. I didn’t know what I was going to do with my life, but I figured I would find out in Houston.

I will always cherish my career as a Hollywood actor. I look back at tapes of my work and I’m proud. I was good. I did affect people. I was brave enough to try to make it in that cannibalistic, fake, egocentric and unforgiving world. Although I wasn’t a success I count my time there well spent. That isn’t to say I didn’t come away without any scars. I’m not close to the same person I was before L.A.

I’m no longer idealistic. I’m cynical to the point of bitterness in many areas. Don’t try to convince me that life is fair and people are generally altruistic because I have seen with my own eyes that is not the case. My skin is thicker than a Kevlar vest. Nobody can be rejected thousands of times and told you were too fat, too skinny, too dumb, not charismatic, unfunny, too plain and not good enough over and over without it having a detrimental effect. I don’t smile much anymore and I’m not good at making friends. In many ways pursuing acting in Hollywood emptied my soul. The soul is ever replenishing though, and since I left that town I have been steadily filling it up.

We moved to Houston, bought a nice house and began our new life. We see my parents more, which is a blessing. Shannon settled in to her new position and excelled. But I wasn’t happy. I had no direction, no focus. Obviously I had to do something. In the end, one choice stood out like a lighthouse beacon. I had to go back to school. On one level, I had to find a career and the only way to do that was to get a degree in something, but on a deeper level, I had to make up for that foolish decision that had been weighing me down for so many years. Pride and fear were the only things standing in my way, and after what I had gone through and experienced, they both seemed silly at that point.

So I enrolled at the University of Houston, and guess what; getting my degree has been a wonderful experience. I went to classes eagerly and made good grades. I’ve kept to myself and studied. I have learned a great deal, more than I thought I would. I found that I was a decent writer to begin with, so I studied journalism and have become a better one. I enjoyed classes like political science and logic that would have bored me when I was 20. I ended up being a much better student than I was at Rhodes.

With the exception of a couple of teachers, I didn’t make any friends, but that’s fine. As I said, I don’t do well at making friends anymore. But I have made a difference in some people’s lives while at UH, specifically in the theater department where my experiences have left me with a unique perspective about becoming an actor. I hope that some of my hard-earned wisdom was left just south of Cullen Boulevard.

So here I am just a couple CLEP tests and two classes away from finally getting a degree – two of them in fact since I am a double major. I should graduate summa cum laude, which is absolutely hilarious. Apparently UH only calculates grade point average on the classes taken here, so I was given a clean slate.

A clean slate.

That’s one of the better ironies I’ve heard. My slate is far from clean. I have enough baggage to make a trans-Atlantic voyage by dinghy. Still, by finally graduating I can, in some way, make up for the mistake that has spent 15 years as a monkey on my back. A degree won’t make up for all the time wasted since I dropped out back in April of 1993, but it will be a worthy piece of paper – something to show for my efforts. I have worked hard for it and know the value of a diploma. For all my faults and failures, I will no longer be a college dropout.

Don’t misunderstand me here. I don’t want to appear sappy about this. I’m not particularly proud of finally getting my degree. I’m not walking for graduation, and I’m sending back any gift that someone would be deluded enough to send to me. I don’t feel I should be lauded for finally finishing something I should have done years ago. I’ve disappointed a lot of people along the way and wasted tens of thousands of dollars. Instead of hearing “congratulations,” I expect to hear “it’s about time you dumbass.”

I would also like to dispel the belief that a person must truly want to do something for himself to accomplish his goal. I have heard this said about giving up alcohol or quitting smoking. I think it’s bunk. Far more power and commitment can come from doing something for others.

No, the decision to go back to school wasn’t made for me. To be honest, I didn’t want to be a student again. Sure there was the fear of starting the entire process again and wondering how I would do, but deep down I felt (and still feel) that a person can learn as much or as little as he wants wherever he happens to be.

My loved ones were the impetus for my return to school. My parents spent a great deal of money during my first four years at Rhodes, taking out loans and doing without things they deserved. There has been a cloud hanging over the relationship with them. Although they have always supported me and been a part of my successes, I could see the disappointment in their faces – especially my father’s – anytime the subject of college arose. My father was the first in his family to finish college, and my mom is the most brilliant woman I have ever known. They deserve a son who graduated from college after they worked so hard to get me there.

I also went back to school for my lovely wife. The magical women that has always worked harder than me, she who is smarter and better looking than me. She finished what she started in regards to school, and I knew she believed I should have done the same. For all she has done for me, I owed her at least that much.

And I did it for my boys. They need to have two parents that have graduated from college. Austin and Jackson are being raised in a house that values and encourages education. They are expected to be brilliant and diligent – by the way, they are … and funny and handsome as well. They have two intelligent parents, and they both are curious, inquisitive and introspective. For me to tell them they need to graduate from college would be rather hypocritical if I never ventured back to remove the “drop out” label.

My time at UH has been some of the most fulfilling years of my life. Mainly because I have spent the past two and a half years correcting a decade old mistake, but also because I have learned more about myself than I would have without going back to school.

I’m still not sure what I am going to do for a career. I feel confident that I could be a good reporter and I’ll have the degree to prove it. I would also be a good teacher. I might try that. Whatever I decide to do, I’ll be better able to approach it. I don’t have that feeling of failure hanging over me anymore. I’m still a failure, many times over, but I wear it like a badge now. I have exercised a lot of demons, and I know that it is possible to succeed. I have succeeded with my family and now I’ve succeeded at school.

I’ll show you the diplomas when I get them framed.

A warm welcome

2005-01-19T11:28:00.000-08:00

Good morning. Pull up a chair, grab a cup of Joe.

This is the first in what will hopefully be many postings, musings and observations on the way I see things. This is starting as a part of my composition class at the University of Houston. The blog is that but also an excuse to start something I've always wanted to do ... to tell stories, to let you in on little observances and to discuss what's going on -- both in the class and the world in general.

Feel free to comment. I always will ...

Till next time, take care.

2005-01-19T09:24:00.000-08:00