...In Which Anthony Vamps While Saying Nothing...

Driving around Compton and Long Beach for no other reason than to get out of the house which I've only been in for an hour and a half. That's how I spent the evening. Blasting Ray Charles, Grandmother in tow ("Hey Doggie, Let's go Walking!"), and just cruising at 11pm at night.

Gas is up to $2.55 and 6/10 if you're lucky. $2.41 if you pay attention to the AM/PM on Del Amo Blvd. and Bellflower, but I wasn't looking.

So much on my mind, and not willing to write it, or say it, or speak it, because there are too few willing to listen with an open heart, non-judgmental ears, or a still tongue.

There are a couple, but only a couple.

Must restrain myself from yelling at people who don't know how to read me any better than the back of someone's unmarked Poker Deck. I'm not simple, nor am I bubbling over on the surface with clues. I'm not stressed about what you think I am, so, before you try and tell me to chill, I offer this: "Fuck off."

I read a tale of a little girl who wanted to become a boxer, and of her father who was struggling to stay off of drugs and out of trouble so that he could be a father. And I wept. And wrote a letter to the author, who replied back in thanks. And that was good.

Bought two DVD's on Amazon, and am still shopping for more. Forget that I've not paid all my bills yet. Forget that I'm going to be spending several hundred bucks this weekend. Forget that I'm just broke. "Blood of Heroes" is just worth getting. Rutger Hauer is King of Pain.

I itch. Not just in the "Damn, I need to scratch" sense, but in the "I need something more than this crap" too. I need more. I need more from my life. I'm greedy for it. I'm trying to grab life by the collar, scream and holler until it's right. But I may have to take the wheel, to mix several metaphors at once.

I wrote a short story a little while ago, and was pretty happy with it. It was really the first piece of fiction that I'd penned that I was really happy with in a long while. And it felt so damn good. Like sex (it's been a while, what's that like again?), or a good high of alcohol, or other such gems of the natural world. It wa good. It felt good.

But why does it take an hour to figure out how to write 4 bloody sentences for a letter for work? I can write a story hook off the top of my head in 15 minutes, but not a "hi, how are you, won't you tell me your name?" I don't understand.

Late last month, I was told that I might be layed off. I had a freak out. And then I resigned myself to being let go, and was ready to deal. Now I'm not being let go, and actually been given a good deal to do. And I'm empty like Pooh's Honey Jar.

Funny thing is that even though I've done so much over the past six months or so, I feel like I've done nothing.

I've been to Disneyland, I've been to TJ and seen a Bullfight, I've produced 2 short films and directed a third, I've been to the Playboy mansion, I've danced, I've written short stories, I've been to VEGAS! and jumped from 17 stories up on a bungee cord, I've read some of the best fiction that I've had the honor to read, I've reconnected with SEVERAL old friends, been to a wedding, felt a baby kick in the womb, watched movie after movie after movie--but what have I really done? I mean really...?

Blah. It's the late night tiredness talking. I'm not unhappy, not meloncholy, just numb at the moment. I need to vanish from the world for a while. Maybe next weekend.

This weekend will be spent partially in San Diego for Comic-Con International, stalking my favorite comic book writers (and a couple of artists...mostly writer/artists), and then in Anaheim, celebrating 50 Years of Disney Magic on Sunday.

But first I have one day to survive. Sleeping prior to dealing with it might prove wise.

I wish I were a smarter man.