The Universe is so weird . . .
I absolutely love the creative experience I have as a writer. I love observing things and recreating them for people who weren’t there. I love it when something very small happens, and I play the “what if . . .” game until I’ve got several hundred words in front of me. I love it when people who have read my books or my blog or Games of our Lives tell me that something I’ve created has touched them in some way (some profound, others merely entertaining, but touched nevertheless.)
When I was in Las Vegas for the World Series of Poker, I was in some weird sort of zone that I don’t entirely know how to explain. I remember that I told a friend of mine, “Yesterday afternoon, The Writer woke up, and I’m just trying to stay out of his way until he says everything he needs to say.” Even though I was mostly writing about poker while I was out there, I still feel that it’s some of the best stuff I’ve written, as far as observing things and recreating them for people who weren’t there go.
But when I got home, The Writer went into hibernation, and it’s been frustrating me. I don’t feel motivated, and when I sit down to write, I’m bored within a few minutes, just about everything I write is forced, and I end up throwing most of it out.
I’ve spent several sleepless nights the last week, thinking about this, tossing and turning, and pacing around the house while I try to figure out what it is that I’m missing. What’s wrong? Why do I feel so . . . listless?
A couple of days ago, it came to me: I miss acting. As much as I love writing, and as much as I hate the bullshit grind of auditioning and all the stupid shit that goes along with it, I miss the joy of performing. Even though I hate the drive down to ACME, and I hate not having free time on Saturday nights, I miss the joy of giving up teh funnay, and I miss being part of that team of great performers. I miss the familiar feeling of eating lunch off the catering truck, having bagels and coffee and breakfast burritos each morning . . . I miss that esprit de corps that I always feel when I’m on the set.
Yeah, as much as I like being a writer . . . I really miss being an actor.
So last night, I sat on my patio, had a cigar, and visualized myself walking onto a set, sides in my hand, kleenex around my collar, make-up on my face, ready to go to work. I saw myself reading scripts and bringing amazing characters to life. When I went to bed, I repeated to myself, “I am a working actor,” until I fell asleep. Whatever. That hippie bullshit is fine, but shit in one hand and visualize in the other, right?
That’s what I thought, too, until this afternoon, when my manager called me with a job offer for a video game. They wanted me to work tomorrow, but I have to go out of town tomorrow morning, so they juggled their schedule and I start recording in two hours. He also had an offer for a movie that shoots next year, and interest from a producer on still another project. Then, about thirty minutes ago, I got a call from an associate of a friend of mine who is a casting director. She offered me a small (one day) role on a movie that works next month!
I did a little dance when I hung up the phone. This just became a very good day.

I stood in front of the open refrigerator, and scanned the shelves. Anne spoke to me from the dining room.
“What are you doing?” She said.
“I’m thinking about having a Homer Simpson,” I said.
“Donuts and a beer?” She said.
I stood up, a pink box in one hand, an Arrogant Bastard Ale in the other.
“Yeah,” I said. “Isn’t that horrible?”
“What’s horrible,” she said, “is that I knew what you were talking about without looking.”
I opened up the box. A glazed donut clung to one side, and a devil’s food with rainbow jimmies rested next to it. The crumbs and remains of their brothers surrounded them.
“You want to join me?” I said. “There are two donuts left.”
“No. That’s disgusting.” She said. “I think I’ll have a Flaming Moe instead.”
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll get the cough syrup.”

WWdN reader Charlotte told me that my appearance on CSI was voted “Best Celebrity Cameo” by readers of Canadian TV Guide!

Wil Wheaton, CSI 38%
Colin Farrell, Scrubs 19%
Swoosie Kurtz, Lost 21%
Quentin Tarantino, American Idol 15%
Gerald McRaney, Deadwood 8%

I think Walter was a little bit more than a cameo, but any time I get a chance to beat Quentin Tarantino and Swoosie Kurtz, I’m going to take it all the way to the bank.

I celebrated my birthday by spending four days with my family, completely unwired.
If you get a chance to spend four unwired days in a row, I highly recommend it. If you can spend those four days with people you love, I double-plus don’t not recommend it.
Thank you to everyone who sent birthday wishes via e-mail or comments. So far, year 33 is looking good.

Thirty-three years ago today, Rick and Debbie Wheaton became my parents, and as long as I can remember, I’ve stayed up until at least midnight on July 28th, so I could watch the calendar turn, and commemorate the happy occasion by running around my lawn in my boxers, hollering out “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!”
However, now that I am the distinguished age of 33, I felt a more appropriate way to mark the passage of time would be to play a Sit-n-Go at PokerStars. I sat into a game just about 11:30, hoping that I’d still be alive at midnight, and I could celebrate with a win.
Sadly, I didn’t catch too many good hands, and when I finally pushed I had QTc vs KTo . . . and I didn’t improve, so I finished in third place, which is still in the money, and at least I didn’t lose to K4o.
I was satisfied to cash, and happy with the way I played it, and I almost went to bed, but then I thought, “Hey! It’s my birthday, goddammit! If I want to play another SNG, then that’s what I’m going to do.” I may have put my little fist on my hip as I said it, but I can’t be sure.
I sat into another one, and . . . long story short: I played a great game, caught cards when I needed them, and after a long heads-up battle, I won!
I was so excited, I ran out the front door, and raced around my lawn in my boxers, hollering, “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY! I WON AND IT’S MY BIRTHDAY! WOOO!”
Luckily for my neighbors, my birthday only comes once a year.