Episode 43 - Puddles Everywhere

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The Dachshund is trying Tom’s patience, Ema admits to escalator hesitation, we announce the winner of our Things I Hate/Things I Love Contest, Ema would like to have a soundtrack to her life, we re-discover 'The Wedding Singer,' Our neighbor talks Tom down from the ledge, and we discuss the relative merits of being ‘good’ parents.

Contest winner Dan's Things I Hate/Things I Love:

Love - Sleeping
Hate - Going to bed

Love - Video Games
Hate - Work

Love - Flamboyant Gay Comedians
Hate - Homophobes

Love - AudioBooks
Hate - Illiterate people

Love - Podcasting
Hate - Broken web pages

Music on our show curtesy of Joe Feraci:Click HERE for info on Joe
Links Mentioned:
Love Long and Prosper Podcast
Couplecasts.com
Theater of Your Mind (Tom's stories)

And even though we didn't mention them in this episode, a link to our buddies Jen and Jason's Tucker's Podcast 'Tucker Tales.'

Please Stand By. . .

Ema and I are experiencing technical difficulties, but will return with an episode very soon. Thanks for checking in!

- Tom

Lost Vegas Weekend

Waiting with ema at Las Vegas airport. Carry-ons are really heavy, but my wallet is much lighter so it balances out.

New Blog Exclusively for Tom's Stories

So I came home this evening and excitedly told Ema the idea I've got for a new story for the blog. She was sweet enough to listen to me blurt out my half-baked idea, then said "Are you going to post that on OUR podcast blog?" I said "No, yes, I mean, I think so." Yup, I'm a real stud in the face of conflict. "Why?" I said, "Shouldn't I?" She smiled, tried to take my feelings into account, and said "I think you should start a new blog just for your stories so we can leave the podcast blog for items relating to the show and the show notes." I knew she was right. I let her believe it was the best idea I've heard all day. She still believes it, although she's out with some friends at the moment, and I can smell Sam's diaper from three rooms away, so I better close this up. Enjoy this blog for all podcast-related stuff, BUT, please do subscribe to the my new story blog, Theater of Your Mind, as well. Check it out - theaterofyourmind.com

The Cruise - Part Four

”A balconette?” I said as I watched Rachel’s pleasant smile morph into an apoplectic glower. “But the brochure we received from the travel agent explicitly called out a balcony. And, P.S. - What the hell is a balconette?!?” Rachel lowered her eyes toward the counter as if trying to remember her 40 minute training session on how to nullify a disgruntled cruiser. Then, quite suddenly, her smile returned. “Yes Mr. Jordan, the brochures are incorrect; printed two years ago before we changed ships for this route. I’m terribly sorry that the travel agent mislead you. Our website has all of the latest information on our ships and rooms. A balconette is simply the term we use to describe our upgraded bay window. Most rooms on your floor offer only a porthole. Now, if you’d like, I’d be happy to show you how to find our website online.” I paused, gathered my thoughts, tried suppressing my rage by finding a happy place – nothing. Rachel was no longer pretty, no longer alluring. Even her dimples had no affect on me anymore. She meant less than nothing to me, and the poor girl didn’t even know it yet.

“Look, Rachel, first of all, Today is Friday, and I wasn’t born on a Thursday – you follow? Calling a window a balconette is like calling an AMC Pacer a Limosenette simply because it has big windows. Very misleading.Secondly, my wife and I booked this cruise with the expectations of having a balcony, and there’s no way that I am going downstairs to tell her that the porta-potty of a cabin you issued us is the one we are going to spend five glorious nights in. And do you know why we are not going to spend five glorious nights in that tin can?” I took a breath and watched Rachel fumble for the alarm button under the counter. “Because my darling wife of eight years, with whom I’m celebrating our anniversary at the Captain’s table tomorrow evening, just got promoted to Senior Editor of an internet travel review site called TripAdvisor.com. You may want to become familiar with this site as roughly 90 percent of the passengers on board who used the internet to research their cruise used TripAdvisor. Now, if you’d like, I’d be happy to show you how to find it online.”

I’m not sure when they arrived; sometime during my tirade, I’m sure, but there were two gentlemen in suits standing behind me, listening to my every word. Rachel, who, at this point, stood at least two feet back from the counter, looked at me and nodded toward them. “These gentlemen might be better suited to handle your difficulty, Mr. Jordan.” I turned, but before I could speak, the taller of the two suits presented his hand and introduced himself. “Hello Mr. Jordan I’m Victor Caldera, the Senior Director of Customer Service on this ship, and this is Mr. Phelps, the Sales and Marketing Director. Rachel, bless her heart, should have directed you to me in the first place, as she is really in charge of looking after people’s valuables on the ship. But, as you can see, the line for the Cruise Service desk is much longer, and by speaking with Rachel first, you avoided such a wait.” Victor chuckled, and waved his hand across the foyer to a long line switch-backing between velvet ropes in front of another counter. “Oh. . .” I turned back toward Rachel. “Sorry about that.” She smiled again, more tentatively this time – no dimples. “Now let’s go check out your room, ehe?” I lead the two suits down into the bowels of the ship, showed them our room, the brochure, and introduced them to Ema to whom they congratulated, and apologized profusely.

Ema was bewildered and impressed by how much power her dear husband yielded. She had no idea why she was being congratulated, but wend along with the act like a trooper. It wasn’t until we were unpacking our suitcases in our spacious, luxurious suite on the Promenade deck, that I finally told her the whole story. She was still impressed, even considering the lie; and somehow, some way, this extravagant trip suddenly seemed worth every cent.

The End

No Show This Week

Ema is feeling a bit under the weather this week, so we didn't record an episode. Look for episode 43 (hopefully) next week!

In the meantime, enjoy the blog, and don't forget to check out the archived storytelling episodes.

Thanks,

Tom

The Cruise - Part Three

I walked back up the long, slightly sloping hallway to the aft main stairwell, and climbed four floors to the main deck. Hundreds of guests milled about, many with astonished looks on their faces as they glanced skyward at the magnificent glass elevator stuffed to capacity, as it rose toward the promenade deck. I’d seen the elevator. I’d also seen the hallway with the buzzing lights and a curious little room, not much bigger than my cubicle at work, which had somehow been mistakenly issued to us. I set my eyes on the purser’s desk at the far end of the lobby.

At the pursers’ desk I was greeted by a tall, pretty brunette, mid-twenties, Rachel according to her name tag. “Hello Sir, what can I help you with?” Too damn cheery; normally I’d put a stop to that right away, but there was something about her look, the way she presented herself, that smile, those dimples, the fresh, unsoiled innocence of youth. . . “C’mon, Jordan, snap out of it!” I told myself. “Your WIFE is downstairs in steerage, standing in a room the size of an airliner lavatory! Concentrate on your anger, man – you do it all the time at home!” I took a deep breath, remembered the last time I caught our dog peeing on the office carpet, and got down to business.

“Hi.” I said, firm, composed, confident. Then again, I reminded myself it’s not that hard to say ‘hi.’ “I believe we were given the wrong room.” I handed her our boarding pass and room key. “Well let’s take a look.” She said, turning to her computer. “Hmmm, according to our records and your itinerary, everything seems to be in order. Was there something wrong with the room?” I was halfway expecting this answer. “Let’s start with what’s right with the room – it’s a shorter list.” Rachel gave a half smile. “The room appears to be dry – free from sea water leakage of any kind; there’s a bed of sorts, something resembling a television, but I needed my reading glasses to correctly identify it, a window. . .” I paused, remembering the one bit of evidence that even Rachel nor her computer could dispute – the balcony! “Oh yes, the window. According to the brochure, our deluxe stateroom was supposed to have a balcony – not a window.” Rachel bit her lower lip and tilted her head slightly as she turned back toward her computer monitor. “Hmmm. . .” She said, tapping away on the keys. “Oh, your room doesn’t have a balcony. It has a balconette.” She smiled, turned back toward me and combed some hair behind her right ear with her fingers.

Now I may not know much about politics, mathematics, history, automotive repair, or women, but the one thing in which I do have confidence is my command for the English language. I’m a ‘word nerd,” love words, and know quite a few of them. Never, in my nearly four decades on this planet, however, had I heard the word ‘balconette.’ I folded my arms on the faux marble countertop, leaned in toward Rachel, and took a deep, cleansing breath.

To be continued. . .

The Cruise - Part Two

“The pleasure of expecting enjoyment is often greater than that of obtaining it, and the completion of almost every wish is found a disappointment” --Samuel Johnson

Magical photographic techniques have been used for decades to enhance the allure of consumer products for marketing purposes. We’ve come to expect certain liberties that advertisers take to sell us goods. That perfectly grilled steak on the Webber grill billboard? We accept that the grill marks were made with a curling iron, and the rich caramel coloration is a result of dipping the meat in a wood stain and honey mixture. Nowhere, though, is there a wider chasm between fantasy and reality than with the cruise ship brochure photos. Fish-eye lenses do more than broaden and deepen our visual perspective of an otherwise tiny cabin, they toy with our mental perspective as well - manipulating our dreams; and providing a false promise which we are compelled to believe.

When Ema and I saw the photos of our deluxe stateroom with balcony in the brochure, we no more believed them than we believe the Southwestern Grilled BBQ Bacon Burger we order from Carl’s Jr. will look anything like the photo on the menu board. But, when our food is finally delivered, at least it resembles our notion of what a hamburger should look like, and not, say, a chicken wing. That’s what Ema and I were staring at – a $3,000 chicken wing.

At the far end of the room, where the balcony should have been, there was a large, oval, doorless window. “This has got to be the wrong room.” Ema said, trying to regulate her breathing as to not hyperventilate. “Yeah.” I said, and walked into the room. I approached the window and felt along the outer edge for a handle of some sort, a seam, anything that would indicate that the window could be opened. Nothing. I turned back to Ema who was struggling with the bathroom door handle. “Wait” I said, “Don’t move a muscle. I’m going to speak to someone in charge.” Ema likes it when I get upset enough to be proactive. She was able to let a thin smile escape as I swept by her and kissed her cheek on my way out of our tiny room.

To be continued. . .

The Cruise - Part One

Many, many years ago, before some of you were born, say around 1999 or so, Ema and I decided to take a cruise. Once the idea sunk in, we were so excited about this adventure that we swore not to let the fact that we couldn’t afford the trip stand in our way. Nor did we allow the fact that I have an inner ear disorder which obligates me to spontaneously empty the contents of my stomach whenever the ground on which I’m standing moves. Ema assured me that today’s modern ocean liners are so stable and smooth, that you don’t even know you’re on the water. I reminded her of the time I lost my lunch while standing in line for a movie when a 4.2 earthquake hit. Touché.

While booking the trip, we decided that as long as we were spending money we didn’t have, we mize well splurge and get an outside stateroom with a balcony. This way, our last memories of life prior to moving to skid row would at least include a decent ocean view. The kind person on the other end of the phone assured me that we had booked the same room that we saw in the brochure. “Yes sir,” she said, “We have you and your wife booked to share the deluxe ocean view stateroom on the Cordova deck.” “With a balcony?!?” I blurted. “Yes, sir, with a balcony. That will be nine hundred thousand dollars.” Actually I forget the actual amount. All I know is that we made more than a couple of trips to the day-old butcher in the year following our trip.

The day of the cruise had arrived, and we couldn’t wait to get on the ship and check out our deluxe stateroom with balcony! We made our way down into the ship to the Cordoba deck. This should have been our fist clue, as the further down in the hull of a ship your room is, the noisier and less desirable it is as well. Think “steerage” from the movie Titanic. We reached our room, mid-way down a very long hallway lined with buzzing fluorescent lights. I slid the key card, pushed open the door, and Ema and I stood in silence for several long seconds staring into the room which represented our last bastion of fun and frivolity before the vexing and pitiless phantom of financial demise embraced us at the end of the gangway as we stepped ashore.

To be continued. . .

The Unreal OC - Episode 42 - Win

Our good friend Win visits us from the UK as we stumble down memory lane, talk about why British people use the wrong words for things, and laugh until we make ourselves ill.

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Subscribe to this podcast HERE

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My Warranty Ran Out - Part 3

Thursday, 7:17 AM – For the first time in several days I felt fine. I mean, aside from the cold which I was still fighting off, I didn’t have anything “wrong” with me. This was both curious and disturbing. I mean the cold had provided enough aches and pains to keep my gait at the speed of an arthritic sloth, but otherwise I thought I might just have come out on the other side of my woeful week. It had been twenty days since my throat surgery, and all was healing on schedule. My face had cleared from the ink incident, and I hadn’t even thought about the chipped tooth. I felt a glimmer of encouragement, motivation even. After a few minutes of gleeful contemplation I greeted a co-worker, “Hi Sssteve. . .Sssteve, heh. . .ahem.” I said, clearing my throat and smiling. “Hiya Tom. Heckuva whistle you’ve got there.” Steve walked on by, laughing to himself, shaking his head. I spoke to myself, “Sssteve, Ssssteve, sssseason Sssix of Ssssimon and Ssssimon.” With every “S” came a distinct, fulminating whistle. It seems that the chip in my tooth was more than an unpleasant cosmetic deformity. I spent the rest of the day avoiding words containing the letter “S” and training my tongue to form consonants in a manner that avoids embarrassment.

My Warranty Ran Out - Part 2

Wednesday, 9:00 PM – Felt good all day, but while brushing my teeth in preparation for bed, discovered a distinct chip on the interior corner of my Left Maxillary Central. I showed this to Ema who seemed deeply concerned over the fact that I know the standard dental chart name for my left front tooth, yet brushed off the chip like it was nothing. I too, realized the abnormality of a non-dental professional dedicating time to memorizing all of the correct names for his teeth. I went to bed, ran my tongue over the newly-discovered chip, and made the decision to tone-down my anatomical references. Ema, after all, needs confidence in the degree of sanity of her mate.

My Warranty Ran Out - Part 1

Have you ever owned a car that, every time you drove it you discovered something else wrong with it? Monday it’s that squeak coming from the rear axel; Tuesday you notice a new, cryptic icon glowing amber on your console; Wednesday morning you find an odd-colored puddle under your car. Would it surprise you, in light of this scourge of problems, to discover your warranty had recently expired? That these problems were simply a manifestation of the car makers’ well-constructed ploy to provide every vehicle with time-sensitive, self-destructing parts?

Well I believe, just as with many of the cars I’ve owned, that my personal warranty has expired. It seems my maker, in all his or her wisdom, had also provided me with self-destructive parts. And, at the risk of making this blog a dumping ground for self-indulgent belly aching, I thought I’d take the next couple of episodes regale you in the events of the past week as they played out – day by excruciating day.

Monday, early AM – Had a dream that I was blind in one eye, and awoke to find my left eye open. Apparently it had been open some time; and as my dreams played in the theater of my mind, my Rapid Eye Movement caused my open eye to dance wildly, making physical contact with the pillow. Lost in sleep’s sweet slumber, I felt no pain nor was I awakened during the night. Waking to an eye that’s already open was whacky, almost amusing, but as the zaniness of the moment wore off, and I was forced to take that first blink, I was introduced to a pain that could only be described as ‘wicked.’ One hour of flushing the eye with saline was enough to re-hydrate the eye. During my lunch break I went to CVS and bought a sleep mask.

Tuesday, mid-day – Glanced in the bathroom mirror after a particularly important meeting to find dozens of black dots of various sizes covering my face and neck. It took a couple of minutes to realize that the pen I had been absent-mindedly flicking during the meeting had lost its end cap, thus transforming it into a very efficient ink gun. I wetted some paper towels, squirted some hand soap on them and started scrubbing. Some of the smaller dots disappeared, but the larger ones simply smeared into my skin. I rinsed, looked into the mirror, and noticed red splotches popping up like a pox from my hairline to my collar. Seems I was having an allergic reaction to the ink or the soap or caustic combination thereof. Another couple of rinses, and I stared stupefied at the deranged harlequin looking back at me. With three hours to go at work, I managed to stick to the shadows, and discovered how to make darkness my friend.

To be continued. . .

Podcasts to Which I'm Currently Subscribed

This list is not all-inclusive, so if you're one of my podcasting buddies and you don't see your podcast listed here - fear not, but feel free to send me a scathing email all the same.

• Alt.NPR: Benjamen Walker’s Theory of Everything
• APM: A Prairie Home Companion’s News from Lake Wobegon
• APM: Speaking of Faith with Krista Tippett
• Croncast
• Geek Counterpoint
• Managing the Gray
• NPR: Fresh Air
• NPR: Wait Wait. . .Don’t Tell Me!
• podCast411
• Podcasting Underground
• Radio Leo
• This Married Life
  
• Rory Blyth: The Smartest Man in the World
• History Podcast
• The Love Long and Prosper Podcast
• This American Life
• Tucker Tales Podcast
• WGBH Morning Stories
• LifeSpring
• Griddlecakes Radio
• The Zedcast
• Science Friday
• Verge of the Fringe
• The Hollywood Podcast
• Cush – Things I Say
• Fat Guy Radio
  

For Burney

Perhaps you’ve had the opportunity to be the first person on your block to own a really cool item. Did this propel you to the level of popularity you had hoped? I’ll sure bet it did. I remember when my neighbor, Burney was the first person on our block to get a powered lawn mower. It was 1970, and back then, powered mowers were usually reserved for lawn care professionals, those wealthy enough to have a lawn larger than a welcome mat, or, in Burney’s case, someone with a delicate self image who believed that owning cool things would make him likeable. Anyway, Burney’s new mower fulfilled every desire he had for popularity, and made him an instant celebrity. I’m surprised the local paper didn’t stop by to take a picture of him proudly perched over his ½ horsepower gleaming green beauty. Not only could he now mow his 350 square foot plot of sod in less than 45 seconds, but he could effectively scare every cat within ear shot into the next county. Yep – Burney was sitting on top of the world.

One afternoon while I was hanging out with Burney on his front steps, he brought out his little baggie of tobacco and rolled up his cigarette like he always did. He said he had to smoke outside because his wife didn’t let him smoke in the house. I was five years old – what did I know from tobacco? All I know is that whatever kind of tobacco he was smoking, it sure smelled a lot different than the kind of tobacco in my parent’s cigarettes. He used to smoke his cigarettes differently too – taking long drags on them and holding the smoke in his lungs for a really long time. Sometimes he’d burst out in coughing fits and have to take a slug out of his can of Coors to quiet himself. He'd take a long pull on the can, then fling his head forward with a resounding Ahhhhh. "Don't drink beer, Tommy. But when you're old enough, make sure it's cold. Ice cold." Yeah, Burney was a really funny guy. One day after smoking a cigarette on the porch he decided to mow his lawn. I reminded him that he had just mowed it before lunch, but he didn’t seam to want to listen to me. He just laughed a little, pulled the rip cord on the mower and started her up. He started coughing again as the mower blew exhaust toward him, so he walked away from the mower to get his Coors. As soon as his back was turned, the mower started moving forward. It rolled straight off the lawn, over the sidewalk, off the curb and into the street right in front of a car. The car managed to stop with a skid and Burney looked toward the sound, dropped his Coors, and ran into the street. He was a fast runner for an old guy of 30 or so, but not fast enough to grab the mower before a car coming from the other direction smashed into it and sent it sailing 50 feet through the air and careening off a parked van.

Some of our neighbors heard the raucous, and came out to see what was happening. Both drivers from the cars ran over to Burney who was frantically trying to turn what was left of the mower off. I don’t know why, but it took three people two minutes or so to shut down that engine. I stayed on the curb, watching the whole incident go down. I remember the three men trying to yell above the noise of the mower, all the while black smoke billowed from the exhaust. They finally shut it down and lifted it onto the sidewalk. They talked for a while, exchanged their versions of what had just gone down. During the commotion my mom ran out of the house, thinking the car skid and resulting casualty may have been me. She stood next to me until things calmed down a little then took my hand and brought me back inside our apartment.

The next day I walked over to Burney’s house and found him working in his garage. He had several Coors lined up along his workbench, and was bent over the warped carcass of his mower, sweating and talking to himself. I didn’t say anything. I sat on a stool and watched him for about twenty minutes. He didn’t even know I was there. Finally he glanced toward me and blinked. “Hi Tommy.” He said. “Hi.” I replied. “Is it broken?” I asked. “Naw, just banged up a little.” Burney said, looking back down at the heap of twisted metal. “Heck of a wreck though yesterday, huh? Did you see how this thing flew when that car hit it?” “Yup.” I said. Burney paused, looked past me for a moment as if he was formulating a thought, then gave me a half smile. “You’ll probably tell this story to your kids someday.” He said. At that age I had no real concept of time or any notion that I’d ever be a father. “Uh huh.” I said. “Well, do me a favor if you do tell this to someone okay?” “Uh huh.” I said. “Tell them that I got the mower up and running the next day, and it worked just fine. Will ya do that for me?” “Sure.” I said. “Thanks Tommy. You’re a good boy.” And with that, Burney leaned back over the mower, tightened a couple of bolts and started it up. It looked and ran just like new; and Burney spent the rest of the afternoon mowing every lawn along our street; stopping only occasionally to take a sip of ice cold beer offered by his gracious neighbors.

With All Good Inventions

At 6:16 AM this morning I stood in my kitchen staring blankly at our newly acquired Bread Buddy. Ema bought our Bread Buddy Sunday at Target. She says she bought it for me, but as far as gifts go, I’d say it ranks right up there with vacuum bags. Well, that’s what I thought yesterday when she presented it to me, but my mind has since changed. Now bear with me honey, because I know you’re reading this and probably thinking “Well that’s the last time I even burn one lousy neuron trying to think of something to make Tom happy, that no good #&@!(%! "

You see, it’s not you, it’s me. Yesterday I didn’t see the beauty nor the fun inherent in bread dispensation. Frankly, it’s not just the fact that the Bread Buddy keeps our bread fresher than ever, but it also makes picking slices from the loaf easy and, yes I’ll admit it, almost fun! You see, the reason I wasn’t thrilled with this item when you presented it to me was that all I could think of was “Someone made a million dollars on this over-sized Tupperware container and it sure as heck wasn’t me!” I mean if all it takes to be an inventor these days is to look around your kitchen and find something that could be used differently if it were three times its original size, then Thomas Edison is turning over in his grave right now! I’m not saying there can’t be beauty in simplicity; what I’m saying is that there should be a modicum of creativity involved or else. . .or else I fear the future. That’s right, I said I fear the future!

So yesterday I once again put my own interests in front of yours, and hurt your feelings in the process. When will I learn? I can’t answer that right now, actually, because I’m busy working on my own invention for which I cannot disclose details. Suffice to say, your dear gift was the inspiration for my idea. So thank you for taking time to think about me while you were out shopping, and for having the intuition to realize that the true value of any gift isn’t in the gift itself, but what it can inspire in the person who receives it. Now, do you have any idea how I could go about creating a giant food processor? I have this idea of how to make a great, automatic dog washer. . .

Word to My Peeps

Is there such a thing as high quality Easter candy? I know that Sees makes some pretty good chocolate bunnies, but I’d be willing to say that 99.998% of all Easter candy produced in this nation falls far below most prison standards for quality confections. Take those horrible, hollow chocolate bunnies for example. You know the ones wrapped in really thin foil that are nearly impossible to peel without leaving serrated bits of foil caught in the bunny’s poorly assembled seam? The kind that melts at room temperature, and only resembles chocolate by its color? Why is generic Easter candy so inferior yet so much more expensive than say, a Hershey bar? And who in God’s name ever came up with the notion that a kid is going to just LOVE getting a Cadbury Egg?!? Actually, I think it must have been my aunt Ruth.

I’ll tell ya, the only Easter treats in my book worth anything are those little marshmallow Peeps. Although the other day I absent-mindedly grabbed one out of a candy dish at a friend’s house, popped it in my pie hole, and found that it was crunchy. I did a quick detour into his bathroom and spit it into the sink. He’s got one of those modern, raised wash basins that sits on top of the counter, and the inside surface is made of off-white, rough, natural stone instead of polished porcelain like most sinks. Anyway, as I went to wash the half-chewed pink Peep down the sink I noticed that the pinkness wasn’t going away. It seems that whatever artificial color the Peep people use stains this type of stone. I pumped some hand soap out and tried washing the pinkness away with that, but it didn’t work. I looked under the sink and found some Ajax which I sprinkled onto the pink stain and let set for a couple of minutes. I used what I hope was a retired toothbrush I found under the sink to work the Ajax into the stain. Then, as I rinsed away the cleanser, I noticed that the pink stain was gone, but so was the natural stone color! The Ajax had managed to bleach the off-white stone to bright white, and I was left staring at a 4” oval of white which stood out even more than the pink did just a few minutes prior. I put the Ajax under the sink, quietly exited the bathroom, and made my way toward the living room. Oh, on the way, of course, I absent mindedly scooped up another stale Peep and threw it in my mouth. I managed to keep this one in my mouth though. It was the least I could do.

‘The repose of sleep refreshes only the body. It rarely sets the soul at rest. The repose of the night does not belong to us. It is not the possession of our being. Sleep opens within us an inn for phantoms. In the morning we must sweep out the shadows. '~Gaston Bachelard.

I woke up last night at 2:20 and started thinking about stuff. Waking up in the middle of the night and fixating on one thing is bad, but thinking about stuff is much, much worse. In the case of last night, all the stuff revolved around religion and politics – two subjects that I usually avoid. Apparently, as the quote above suggests, I needed to ‘sweep out the shadows.’

I know from experience that if I want to suppress the brain chatter and get back to sleep I have two choices; and both are equally effective: I can try to employ an Asian meditation technique I learned which involves imagining warm liquid gelatin being pumped into my head and oozing in, filling all the gaps between my skull and my brain, then slowly setting as my mind loses all connection to the outside world and my consciousness fades to black; or I can pop in any DVD starring Steve Guttenberg. Last night, however, I decided to strap myself in, and run with the chatter. Here’s some of last night’s stuff:

- I’ve been a-political all my life, but have recently really gotten into the John Edward’s campaign. I wonder if I should volunteer my services as a writer to him. I mean, he’s one of my Twitter friends, that makes us almost like real buddies – right?

- Dude – Where’s My God? Where did this thought come from?!? Is it really as profound as I think it is, or am I in that limbo of partial-consciousness where every idea sounds great? If one of the beliefs of Christianity is that Jesus died for our sins, and that God loves the world and sacrificed his only son to show how much He loves the world, then what does that say about the kind of God that God really is? I mean does this mean that God found no other way to forgive our sins than to have his own son tortured and killed in a horrible way? This God sounds more like one of the Inca Gods who were all about sacrifice, than our notion of an all-loving God.

- I’ll bet that one of the reasons that the president allocates so much money toward ‘keeping peace in the Middle East’ instead of toward finding a cure for cancer is that if the war in Iraq and his campaign against terrorism is looked at as a success – even in the distant future - President Bush will be remembered as a great hero. But, if he concedes and signs a bill allocating ten billion dollars to cancer research which results in a cure, the doctor and his team who announce the cure will be written into the history books as the hero, not the president.

The Psycho House

As we talked about in Episode 40, in 1991 I was invited by my friend, Win to Universal Studios where I sat in on the last day of filming of the movie Noises Off. During my visit to the studio, after my embarrassing encounter with Christopher Reeve, Win and I decided to take a self-guided tour of the back lot. Now, if you’ve ever been on the Universal Studios Tour, you’re familiar with the standard areas they drive through – the western town, the pueblo with the flash flood, the NYC cityscape, the Psycho house, etc. I told Win that I wanted to see all those places, but also get the opportunity to get out and stretch my legs a little as well. So win grabs two bottles of champagne from the craft services area which were destined to be popped as the director, Peter Bogdanovich shouted the last, “Cut, Print!” and off we went in a ‘borrowed’ golf cart.

It was dusk when we made our way to the NYC cityscape, parked the cart, and walked with our bottles of champagne toward ‘Sting Alley.’ We sat in that alley under a fire escape and popped both bottles. There was no one around, no sign of security cameras, no guards riding by on their little carts. We drank about half of each bottle, then headed back to the cart. From there, we drove to the Psycho house.

Again, we parked, grabbed our bottles and went inside. It was completely dark as we stumbled up the dirt bluff to the house. The inside of the Psycho house consists of uneven dirt floor and wood framing. There are no rooms to speak of, only a couple partial walls, but there was a small room built out of a dormer at the top of a 16 or 20 foot ladder. There was a light on in that room and Win told me that he heard from another crew member that they kept a replica of Anthony Perkins’ decaying mother from the movie up there – sitting in her rocking chair, and all. Win and I sat on the dirt floor, tipped the champagne bottles, and tried to decide if one of us should ascend the ladder to see if that rumor was correct. I’m embarrassed to admit that even a full bottle of champagne wasn’t enough to build sufficient courage for either of us to do that. On the way out though, we walked to the side of the house where that dormer was, and could make out the figure of someone sitting in a chair on the other side of a very dirty window. That was confirmation enough for both of us.

All in all, we spent about an hour or so driving around the back lot. I’ll probably never be able to take the normal tour again after that adventure. Win will be a special guest on The Unreal OC Episode # 42, so tune in and we’ll talk more about our adventures in the back lot as well as tell you about the ‘wrap party’ for Noises Off we went to and Peter Bogdanovich’s wife’s birthday party as well.

The Unreal OC - Episode 41 - No Sympathy

Wanna here what Ema and her sister, Linda say about me when I'm not around? Check out this week's episode!

The lovely ladies take over the show for this episode as Tom’s throat continues to heal. Ema and her sister Linda take this opportunity to talk about Tom behind his back. Special guest star: Robin, Linda’s daughter.

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