The Bloody Doors Off

I have a hard time letting things go.

Example. My front teeth.

Clearly they gotta go. And the dentist was more than willing to yank them on Thursday.

But I couldn’t stand the idea of being without the dentures replacement. Even though it’d give my gums a better chance to heal.

One of them wiggles a little bit.

I’m praying it holds on until Monday, when I have my next surgery.

‘Cuz then I get the dentures.

Because I can’t let go of the vanity of missing teeth.

In the front of my mouth.

Which my wife would see.

And recoil from.

She says she wouldn’t.

But I know I’d look like.

That actor who played the alkie in To Have and Have Not.

Yep. There I go again, talkin’ about alcohol.

Clearly that’s on my mind as well.

Can’t let the past go.

I was what, eighteen, nineteen?

And I had a drinking problem.

I didn’t drink every day.

I binged.

Kept the bottle in my closet.

Went out to seedy bars.

Okay, I know I’ve told this story.

Yada yada yada, I hit bottom and went sober for over a decade.

The point is, I still think about it.

I can’t let it go.

My friend Maddy thinks I should self-publish my plays on Amazon.

For my legacy.

It’s a good idea.

But it would mean accepting that the plays I posted were finished.

I’d have to let them go.

I dunno if I can.

Why is this so damned hard?

The one thing I hadn’t done, because I didn’t know it had an on-off switch.

My wife solves my problems.

Of which I have many.

Zero to frustrated is a lot faster these days.

I’m not methodically thinking things through.

If it doesn’t work, throw money at it.

She saved me from buying a new keyboard.

If only the mouse wheel was fixable, eh?

I have to upgrade the desktop.

Did I mention?

Feels like I did.

Monday, the dentist is removing my four front teeth.

And I’m getting temporary dentures.

She offered to take them out yesterday.

Give my mouth a better chance of healing.

Because. Dentures.

But apparently I’m too vain. I’d rather it stay put for another three days.

I’m gonna make dinner for my wife.

That’s the least I could do.

So I can’t have coffee for 24 hours.

Do you know how much that sucks? I live on coffee.

Anyway.

Part 1 done.

Three teeth extracted. One on the top right, two on the bottom right.

I go back in Monday morning to take out the front teeth and get the temporary dentures put in.

On a related note, nitrous is the shit.

This is turning into an expensive week.

Dental surgery in less than two hours.

Turns out my upgraded desktop computer can’t handle the programs I need to run properly for my job. I’m running an Intel Core i3 with 8 gig RAM and I need an i7 with 16 gig RAM. Need to call the manufacturer and see if I can upgrade my current model or if I need to order a new one.

Serves me right for ordering online.

My mouse scroll button pooched yesterday. That’s a drop in the bucket compared to my other expenses.

And I can’t really focus on this shit right now.

Because.

Dental surgery in less than two hours.

To say I wanna run away is an understatement.

But I won’t.

I’ll be responsible.

And other words ending in ‘ible’.

Wish me luck.

Operation: Stumpy McCready, t-minus two days and counting.

(Stumpy was a character I wrote/performed as part of CSpOC’s “Gravestone Posse” for the Toronto Fringe, a few years back. He was a toothless, half-blind alcoholic who enjoyed giving women a pelvic massage.

“This here’s the wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiild west, and I intends to get wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiillllllddd!”

So clearly, in the intervening years, I’ve turned into Stumpy McCready.)

Damn. I was gonna upload the poster (artwork by Mister Sam Agro) but the files are on my other external hard drive.

You know. The one I can’t access.

Reason #42 to see if someone can hack the system and a data retrieval.

After weeks of scraping by on piecemeal work, stuff finally landed last week.

Monday and Tuesday were insane. Three reports, one needed Wednesday, the others by Friday. Two of them, created from scratch. The third, I’ve been working on (slowly, piecemeal) for months. (Yes. Months. End is in sight.)

Subtract my eye doctor’s appointment this afternoon.

Take away Thursday. (See Operation: Stumpy McCready.)

A third client ask if I was available to jazz up a presentation for Wednesday (even though the email headline said “Next Week”). I honestly didn’t think I’d have capacity. Turned it down.

First report is being reviewed by client.

Second report is awaiting final sign-off from PTB.

I’ll be getting the latest round of edits for the last one Wednesday morning.

Wondering. Will they give me pain killers for after the surgery?

Fuck. So goddamned nervous about this.

They won’t put me under. Concerned about the pills I’m taking reacting to the anaesthesia. Instead, I get laughing gas and my choice of television channels.

Though I suspect I’ll just keep my eyes closed the entire time.

I forgot to mention.

My new eye doctor says I’ve got the beginning of cataracts.

It’s very minor. Won’t need attending to for… 10 to 15 years.

Toothless. Half-blind.

Recovering alcoholic. (Story for a different post.)

I look in the mirror.

And I see ol’ Stumpy.

Looking back at me.

Tonight I was introduced to jammy dodgers.

Am I spelling that right?

I don’t know how I survived not tasting these before now.

This.

This is.

Oh god. This is the highlight of my day.

And it’s been a good day.

We visited with Marlo’s mom.

We have a Maddy hanging out with us tonight.

(Everyone should have a Maddy.)

We got awesome take-out from a great Italian restaurant.

Okay, they forgot my lasagne.

But I’m not disappointed by that.

They’re giving us a credit.

It evens out.

But this fucking cookie.

If only I didn’t have to travel to IKEA to get more.

I had a thought earlier.

“It’s too late to be having ideas.”

Who says?

I mean, okay. You’ve just built a ground level house, and decide, “you know what would be great? If I put in a basement.”

That’s too late.

But for a lot of things in life, it’s not too late.

I don’t know where the fuck I’m going with this.

I have absolutely no idea.

Too late now.

I’m committed.

Okay. I’m 55. It’s ridiculous of me to think about going back to school for a creative arts degree. No one’s gonna look at a 60 year old and think, “well now that he’s got his Bachelors let’s hire him to write movies!”.Nah, they’re either gonna think my stuff is dreck, or the second coming of Joss Whedon. (Without the misogyny.)

And that’s just roughing it out.

Oh who am I kidding.

I’ll never be famous.

And I’m fine with that.

If, every couple of years, I can put up a Fringe show or something, and get a good reception (unlike the now-defunct Eye Weekly review that tore my show to shreds because I came from -gasp- Scarborough), then I’m fulfilled.

Still.

It’d be fun to be part of a writer’s room, spritzing and pitching ideas for episodic television.

Which circles back to more education. Webinars, learn the tricks and whatnot.

My former dramaturg, Ron, was so impressed at how quickly I could turn around full edits in my play. He even said I’d be perfect in television.

Of course, this means I need an idea.

But it’s too late.

This is what I fear will be taken away with Lithium.

I am not throwin’ away my shot
I am not throwin’ away my shot
Hey yo, I’m just like my country
I’m young, scrappy and hungry
And I’m not throwin’ away my shot

My Shot, Lin-Manuel Miranda (Hamilton)

Well that dam burst.

Five pages. A sequel to State of Independence.

The Sacred and the Profane.

Coming soon to Sing For Your Supper.

Or some other venue.

I can’t stand it, I know you planned it
I’m gonna set it straight, this Watergate
I can’t stand rocking when I’m in here
‘Cause your crystal ball ain’t so crystal clear
So while you sit back and wonder why
I got this fucking thorn in my side
Oh my God, it’s a mirage
I’m tellin’ y’all, it’s a sabotage

Sabotage, Beastie Boys

I had an idea.

While folding laundry.

A beautiful idea.

For a short play.

Guy’s folding laundry and he’s bored and frustrated because you know, it’s laundry, who likes doing laundry? Let’s take it to get washed, fluffed and folded somewhere else.

He comes across an article of clothing that’s inside out. He attempts to turn it over.

But now it’s inside out.

He was right the first time.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath.

“Hi!”

The Son of God heard his name, and dropped down for a chat.

Kinda like hitting the holy lottery.

Every once in a while, someone’s number comes up and they get to ask one life-affirming (or life changing) question.

And dude stares him down. Shows us giving real thought.

Then he asks a simple question.

What?

Did you think I was going to spoil the scene?

I know what I’m doing.

I’m procrastinating.

Stalling.

Because.

What if it’s not as funny as it is in my head?

But I guess that’s the risk every writer takes.

And not all of them land.

“The Girlfriend Experience” was, by far, my worst. I wasted a perfectly good title for a wacky premise on a two-hander of a schmuck and a working girl with a gold-plated heart.

Yet I stall.

Because.

I don’t have an ending.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

First ever Fringe play, we were six weeks out from open and the director was asking me how the play ended.

I made it up right there on the spot.

It wasn’t the best play.

But the ending was.

So.

Let me go write, dammit.

Click publish already.