Look, I think you have to take the hit for the less than perfect honeymoon. That's just how it is. That said, I also believe in giving credit where credit is due. I've been doing what I do for a long time without much to show for it, then you come along and suddenly I'm interviewing for a job writing a disney/pixar animated feature. Ipso facto, baby mojo.
A little history since you're new around here. I'm what they call a 'not particularly successful writer'. That may be due to my being a 'not particularly good writer'. You pretty much have to know me to have heard of me. The names of the places my material has appeared are so obscure I forget the titles. Add to that the fact that the work itself appeals to a small population of family members and people with those patches on the elbows of their tweed jackets and even you, a brainless bundle of cells would rightly be confused why I'd be in the mix for a big budget mainstream project.
I do have another script that's ostensibly headed into production. According to those in the know, I'm weeks from being on set filling my pockets with food from the craft service table. But, there's a million ways for that to go wrong and only one for it to go right. When things require an alignment of the stars I tend end up in the dark eating rahmen noodles, so until someone says, "hey, those cookies are for the cast" I think we're both better of pretending like that one's not even happening.
But this, this is what they call legitimate work, and I sure as hell didn't have anything to do with it, so you get to take all the credit. Enjoy it. There's always more blame just around the corner.
So don't let me keep you. Whatever you're doing, it's shit for your mom's digestion, but it's working wonders for my career. You may feel someone rubbing you for luck in the morning. I'll need whatever you can spare.
P.S. I injured myself this weekend so the dunk training is going to be delayed. If you want to send some mojo to my hip flexor it would be much appreciated. I might not be able to dunk, but maybe I could get up the stairs.
Novel - Who needs a novel when you've got Disney?
Dunking - Infirm
French - Looking for my books.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Children Don't Make People Happier
I remember reading that a while back and being shocked. I mean, there you are, growing all your 'bundle of joy' faculties as we speak and someone is questioning whether or not you can really bring the happy? Please. Who would assert such a thing? What moron would make a claim so easily falsified by legions of smiling parents?
It turns out it was the parents themselves.
Crazy, right? I mean, I just spent eleven hours on a plane with your mother, who split her time lying on the floor at my feet and orally depositing airplane food into the toilet (I know that's disgusting, but she's throwing up so much I'm running out of fresh ways to say it), and she'll be the first to argue with these results. Impossible, she will tell you. Everyone with kids is happier. Their kids are the best thing that ever happened to them. They wouldn't trade them for all the tropical vacations and not throwing up in the world.
I've noticed that, in fact, most parents will tell you exactly these things. Usually right after you've suggested that you might not be interested in kids, or wondered aloud if changing diapers and fighting over nose rings is how you want to spend the next eighteen years of your life. Words to that effect tend to make parents defensive. You seem to be implying that maybe they've made a choice you're not going to make, and by extension, that their choice might be incorrect. Children are a blessing, dammit!, and if you don't think so you're horrible, selfish, and probably somehow involved in something illegal. Also, you're probably a communist.
Married people are no different. Get married and it suddenly becomes very important to get all your single friends into the club. Holdouts are suspicious. They're saying something about the rest of us. Something bad. We humans like have everyone in the same boat, even if it's sinking.
I'd just like to be able to talk to someone about kids and not feel like they're selling me something. The reality is that kids force you to do a number of things you don't want to and prevent you from doing a number of things you do. Is it so wrong to just be honest about that? It's a long, numbing, slog punctuated by transcendent moments of pure joy. I can live with that. It sounds a lot like being a writer. Just with less crying.
Kids are clearly a source of misery as well as joy. The problem is that until you have your own it's much easier to see the former than the latter. The moments that parents remember: first words, first steps, first indication of an athletic prowess that will allow them to retire early, are different from the ones non parents remember: the screaming toddler on the plane, the kid who keeps kicking their seat, the pregnant lady who's crawling back and forth to the bathroom for eleven hours. It's not surprising that they see the issue differently.
The bottom line is that despite what they say individually, in aggregate parents say their children make them less happy. I didn't say it, they did. But, if happiness were the only thing any of us were after there'd be much longer lines for crack. Am I excited about changing diapers and begging you not get a barbed wire tattoo? Hell no. But I'm not excited about writing outlines or reading rejection notices either. I do it because on rare occasions it leads to something that makes me happier than I can explain. If I have to pretend that I'm going to love every minute of being your father I think we're in trouble. The data seems to indicate that I'll love just slightly less moments than I hate. The fact that so many parents are willing to dispute that indicates that the one kind will be much easier to remember than the other.
It turns out it was the parents themselves.
Studies reveal that most married couples start out happy and then become progressively less satisfied over the course of their lives, becoming especially disconsolate when their children are in diapers and in adolescence, and returning to their initial levels of happiness only after their children have had the decency to grow up and go away.
Economists have modeled the impact of many variables on people's overall happiness and have consistently found that children have only a small impact. A small negative impact.
Economists have modeled the impact of many variables on people's overall happiness and have consistently found that children have only a small impact. A small negative impact.
Crazy, right? I mean, I just spent eleven hours on a plane with your mother, who split her time lying on the floor at my feet and orally depositing airplane food into the toilet (I know that's disgusting, but she's throwing up so much I'm running out of fresh ways to say it), and she'll be the first to argue with these results. Impossible, she will tell you. Everyone with kids is happier. Their kids are the best thing that ever happened to them. They wouldn't trade them for all the tropical vacations and not throwing up in the world.
I've noticed that, in fact, most parents will tell you exactly these things. Usually right after you've suggested that you might not be interested in kids, or wondered aloud if changing diapers and fighting over nose rings is how you want to spend the next eighteen years of your life. Words to that effect tend to make parents defensive. You seem to be implying that maybe they've made a choice you're not going to make, and by extension, that their choice might be incorrect. Children are a blessing, dammit!, and if you don't think so you're horrible, selfish, and probably somehow involved in something illegal. Also, you're probably a communist.
Married people are no different. Get married and it suddenly becomes very important to get all your single friends into the club. Holdouts are suspicious. They're saying something about the rest of us. Something bad. We humans like have everyone in the same boat, even if it's sinking.
I'd just like to be able to talk to someone about kids and not feel like they're selling me something. The reality is that kids force you to do a number of things you don't want to and prevent you from doing a number of things you do. Is it so wrong to just be honest about that? It's a long, numbing, slog punctuated by transcendent moments of pure joy. I can live with that. It sounds a lot like being a writer. Just with less crying.
Kids are clearly a source of misery as well as joy. The problem is that until you have your own it's much easier to see the former than the latter. The moments that parents remember: first words, first steps, first indication of an athletic prowess that will allow them to retire early, are different from the ones non parents remember: the screaming toddler on the plane, the kid who keeps kicking their seat, the pregnant lady who's crawling back and forth to the bathroom for eleven hours. It's not surprising that they see the issue differently.
The bottom line is that despite what they say individually, in aggregate parents say their children make them less happy. I didn't say it, they did. But, if happiness were the only thing any of us were after there'd be much longer lines for crack. Am I excited about changing diapers and begging you not get a barbed wire tattoo? Hell no. But I'm not excited about writing outlines or reading rejection notices either. I do it because on rare occasions it leads to something that makes me happier than I can explain. If I have to pretend that I'm going to love every minute of being your father I think we're in trouble. The data seems to indicate that I'll love just slightly less moments than I hate. The fact that so many parents are willing to dispute that indicates that the one kind will be much easier to remember than the other.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
I Know You're In There
My understanding is that you still lack sensory organs, so let me fill you in. Our honeymoon has vastly improved. We've changed islands and hotels so that your mom has a completely new place to throw up. It's so gorgeous here she doesn't even seem to mind. Finally, there are rows of loungers pointed at the sunset and they're willing to put a tiny umbrella in anything that comes in a glass. Sadly, no feather people, but I'm willing to give on that one.
Really, there's only one thing missing. Now, the minute you develop a brain (I'm told that's some ways off) the idea of physical intimacy between your parents is going to make you wish it came with an off switch. All I can say is, tough. This is my honeymoon. You're the one who decided to tag along. And really that's the problem. I don't want to say it's all your fault, but it is and the sooner you learn to be accountable for your actions the better.
Under any circumstances your mom is very attractive, but post wedding and despite a week of solid vomiting, when she's not hunched over a toilet she looks pretty damned incredible. She tells me that you're smaller than a watch battery at this point, but when I look at her I still keep seeing... a pregnant lady. Also, the vomiting isn't doing much for me.
She's pointed out that if I don't get over this we're going to be in for a long nine months. And in between sunsets and hurling we've managed to banish these thoughts for sufficient periods of time, but I admit to being worried about what happens when you're closer to the size of a battery for a car than one for a watch. Until then I'm going to point myself towards more glasses with umbrellas and try to ignore that you've come along. Something tells me I should probably be making the most of this time. It might be hard to forget you while you're in there, but it's going to be impossible once you're out.
Really, there's only one thing missing. Now, the minute you develop a brain (I'm told that's some ways off) the idea of physical intimacy between your parents is going to make you wish it came with an off switch. All I can say is, tough. This is my honeymoon. You're the one who decided to tag along. And really that's the problem. I don't want to say it's all your fault, but it is and the sooner you learn to be accountable for your actions the better.
Under any circumstances your mom is very attractive, but post wedding and despite a week of solid vomiting, when she's not hunched over a toilet she looks pretty damned incredible. She tells me that you're smaller than a watch battery at this point, but when I look at her I still keep seeing... a pregnant lady. Also, the vomiting isn't doing much for me.
She's pointed out that if I don't get over this we're going to be in for a long nine months. And in between sunsets and hurling we've managed to banish these thoughts for sufficient periods of time, but I admit to being worried about what happens when you're closer to the size of a battery for a car than one for a watch. Until then I'm going to point myself towards more glasses with umbrellas and try to ignore that you've come along. Something tells me I should probably be making the most of this time. It might be hard to forget you while you're in there, but it's going to be impossible once you're out.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Are You Enjoying Our Honeymoon?
It's one a.m. and I'm on my honeymoon and writing to my unborn child. That's my problem in a nutshell.
The plan was to spend this trip making a child not gestating one. In truth, I'm not sure I would have been so ready to put the emphasis so much on procreation, but I guess that's neither here nor there since your mom's hurling grape leaves and humus all over our Greek bathroom. That's not entirely true. I mean, she's throwing up, just not grape leaves or humus.
We're at some hotel in a barren part of nowhere island. I think it was supposed to be nice, authentic, and private, but there's a huge difference between feeling secluded and marooned. Anyway, there's only one place to eat here, a little restaurant that this guy runs out of his house. He wakes up everyday and goes fishing in his little boat, then comes home and lovingly chops the heads off his catch and cooks them for the few guests who somehow get sent to this part of nowhere.
Your mom asked him to make her a cheeseburger. In her defense, you're working her insides over like a washing machine, so she was desperate for something familiar and comfortable rather than something scaly and headless. Sadly, he couldn't really understand what she was requesting. Then, the only other customer in the joint stepped in and politely suggested that since we'd come all the way to his country perhaps she should try eating something that didn't come from McDonald's (I had a Greek salad which I think just got me in under the wire). Then, in Greek, he explained cheeseburgers and a bunch of other stuff about Ugly Americans to the proprietor and your mom and I wanted in the silence of the damned while he prepared her one. I've never seen someone sit on the edge of tears for so long without actually losing one. They hung all around the edges of her eyes, but just when one looked like it was going to break loose, she'd somehow to gather it in and hold it tight. Either your mom's not really a crier or she was so dehydrated from the constant barfing that she just couldn't spare a drop.
Either way none of this has been very sexy. There are no drinks with little umbrellas by beach. No sun beating down on rows of comfortable lounge chairs. No one fanning me with a giant feather. Let this be a lesson to you: when you go on vacation, don't assume. Make sure they have the feather people in advance.
Hurling and cheeseburgers.
Things are not going according to plan.
The plan was to spend this trip making a child not gestating one. In truth, I'm not sure I would have been so ready to put the emphasis so much on procreation, but I guess that's neither here nor there since your mom's hurling grape leaves and humus all over our Greek bathroom. That's not entirely true. I mean, she's throwing up, just not grape leaves or humus.
We're at some hotel in a barren part of nowhere island. I think it was supposed to be nice, authentic, and private, but there's a huge difference between feeling secluded and marooned. Anyway, there's only one place to eat here, a little restaurant that this guy runs out of his house. He wakes up everyday and goes fishing in his little boat, then comes home and lovingly chops the heads off his catch and cooks them for the few guests who somehow get sent to this part of nowhere.
Your mom asked him to make her a cheeseburger. In her defense, you're working her insides over like a washing machine, so she was desperate for something familiar and comfortable rather than something scaly and headless. Sadly, he couldn't really understand what she was requesting. Then, the only other customer in the joint stepped in and politely suggested that since we'd come all the way to his country perhaps she should try eating something that didn't come from McDonald's (I had a Greek salad which I think just got me in under the wire). Then, in Greek, he explained cheeseburgers and a bunch of other stuff about Ugly Americans to the proprietor and your mom and I wanted in the silence of the damned while he prepared her one. I've never seen someone sit on the edge of tears for so long without actually losing one. They hung all around the edges of her eyes, but just when one looked like it was going to break loose, she'd somehow to gather it in and hold it tight. Either your mom's not really a crier or she was so dehydrated from the constant barfing that she just couldn't spare a drop.
Either way none of this has been very sexy. There are no drinks with little umbrellas by beach. No sun beating down on rows of comfortable lounge chairs. No one fanning me with a giant feather. Let this be a lesson to you: when you go on vacation, don't assume. Make sure they have the feather people in advance.
Hurling and cheeseburgers.
Things are not going according to plan.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Hello
You're busy, I know, what with growing limbs and organs and all. It makes me feel sort of lazy for having watched football all day. But I've already grown my limbs and organs, so I've earned it. Anyway, I'm writing because, quite to my surprise, I just heard you were on your way in and this seemed like as good a time as any to say hello.
Hello.
Look, this is awkward, so I'm just going to completely honest. I'm afraid of you.
I haven't met you, but I know your kind. Small, loud, needy, constantly crapping in your pants. If I told you someone like that was on their way to live with you, how would you feel? Exactly. I mean, I knew we were officially 'trying' I just didn't think it would work. When I was like eight I jumped a big dirt mound on my bicycle and landed more or less directly on my testicles. I thought that would buy me more time. And while we're being honest, I don't find your kind particularly cute. I know I'm in the minority here, but frankly, I think you guys are a little freaky in a shrunken down old people kind of way. When it comes to cute, I'll take your average kitten or puppy. I'd even take a baby monkey. If your mom had just told me she was nine months away from birthing one of those, I'd be excited. A little confused, but excited.
But that's not the situation we're in. Instead, you're getting all fired up to start your life and in some way it feels like mine is coming to a close. I know, I know, it's a blessing. Circle of life, all that. But I said we were going to be honest, right? Remember how I just sat around and watched football today? You think you'll let me do that next season? You think you won't need something, or want something, or hate something, or break something, or make something. I can't afford a Swedish nanny to raise you like so many football fans are doing these days. And right now, with you being so abstract, it's hard to imagine all the things you'll be bringing to the table that will be more interesting than a top five team losing in an upset. I'm sure you've got countless tricks up your sleeve, but right now it looks like diapers vs. sportscenter. Wouldn't that make you want to run?
There's a host of other reasons to be terrified, not the least of which is that you're stuck with at least half of my genes. That's a hill we're both going to be climbing for some time. In fact, I could tell you things that would have you looking for a way back where you came from, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. Today isn't about you, it's about me. There's going to be lots and lots of days all about you in very short order, so let me have this one. Part of the reason you're so terrifying is that not only does it feel like a part of my life is over, but I'm not sure I spent it all that wisely. I don't think I went enough places or did enough things. I've never even smoked pot. So it feels like while you're on your way I should make an effort to shovel some things in. Would I love to go around the world climbing mountains and learning to surf for the next nine months? Of course. But I don't think that's going to fly with your mom. So I'm going to have to set my sights a little lower. Nothing crazy, just some flags I'd like to plant while I'm still a person instead of a parent. They're not going to seem like much, in fact when you open your eyes and see all this world has on offer, they may seem downright pathetic, but I've thought about it, and if I've only got time to scratch a few more things onto my resume before you show up, these are it.
I want to finish my novel.
I want to dunk a basketball.
I want to learn a foreign language.
Easy right? Well, not really. You'll learn we're not a tall breed soon enough, so the dunking thing is going to call for some Spud Webb (before your time) style magic. The language I've flirted with since high school, but right now you speak better English than I do French. And the novel, well, it's been in the works for a long time. To the degree in which procrastination is hereditary, I wouldn't be surprised if it took you ten years to get out of there.
Anyway, it's your first day, I don't want to overdo it. I'll keep you posted as we go. You just keep doing your thing, I'll belatedly get started doing mine, and with any luck, by the time you show up we'll both be almost fully formed.
Hello.
Look, this is awkward, so I'm just going to completely honest. I'm afraid of you.
I haven't met you, but I know your kind. Small, loud, needy, constantly crapping in your pants. If I told you someone like that was on their way to live with you, how would you feel? Exactly. I mean, I knew we were officially 'trying' I just didn't think it would work. When I was like eight I jumped a big dirt mound on my bicycle and landed more or less directly on my testicles. I thought that would buy me more time. And while we're being honest, I don't find your kind particularly cute. I know I'm in the minority here, but frankly, I think you guys are a little freaky in a shrunken down old people kind of way. When it comes to cute, I'll take your average kitten or puppy. I'd even take a baby monkey. If your mom had just told me she was nine months away from birthing one of those, I'd be excited. A little confused, but excited.
But that's not the situation we're in. Instead, you're getting all fired up to start your life and in some way it feels like mine is coming to a close. I know, I know, it's a blessing. Circle of life, all that. But I said we were going to be honest, right? Remember how I just sat around and watched football today? You think you'll let me do that next season? You think you won't need something, or want something, or hate something, or break something, or make something. I can't afford a Swedish nanny to raise you like so many football fans are doing these days. And right now, with you being so abstract, it's hard to imagine all the things you'll be bringing to the table that will be more interesting than a top five team losing in an upset. I'm sure you've got countless tricks up your sleeve, but right now it looks like diapers vs. sportscenter. Wouldn't that make you want to run?
There's a host of other reasons to be terrified, not the least of which is that you're stuck with at least half of my genes. That's a hill we're both going to be climbing for some time. In fact, I could tell you things that would have you looking for a way back where you came from, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. Today isn't about you, it's about me. There's going to be lots and lots of days all about you in very short order, so let me have this one. Part of the reason you're so terrifying is that not only does it feel like a part of my life is over, but I'm not sure I spent it all that wisely. I don't think I went enough places or did enough things. I've never even smoked pot. So it feels like while you're on your way I should make an effort to shovel some things in. Would I love to go around the world climbing mountains and learning to surf for the next nine months? Of course. But I don't think that's going to fly with your mom. So I'm going to have to set my sights a little lower. Nothing crazy, just some flags I'd like to plant while I'm still a person instead of a parent. They're not going to seem like much, in fact when you open your eyes and see all this world has on offer, they may seem downright pathetic, but I've thought about it, and if I've only got time to scratch a few more things onto my resume before you show up, these are it.
I want to finish my novel.
I want to dunk a basketball.
I want to learn a foreign language.
Easy right? Well, not really. You'll learn we're not a tall breed soon enough, so the dunking thing is going to call for some Spud Webb (before your time) style magic. The language I've flirted with since high school, but right now you speak better English than I do French. And the novel, well, it's been in the works for a long time. To the degree in which procrastination is hereditary, I wouldn't be surprised if it took you ten years to get out of there.
Anyway, it's your first day, I don't want to overdo it. I'll keep you posted as we go. You just keep doing your thing, I'll belatedly get started doing mine, and with any luck, by the time you show up we'll both be almost fully formed.
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