Beach

The Beach

Yesterday we went to the Beach with the kids, for Nolan’s birthday. His birthday was a few weeks ago, but we went yesterday because the little guy broke his arm, and it would have sucked just a little bit, I think, to take him to the beach with his friends while he was in a cast.
Something cool about Nolan: Every year, when it’s his birthday, while we’re driving around in the car, he rolls down the window, and shouts “It’s m’ birthday!” And he is just so joyful, and so happy, I just love that. He’s done that as long as I’ve known him, which is since he’s 4.
So it was rad. I love the beach. It’s one of the few reasons living in LA doesn’t completely suck; on any given day, I can ski in the morning, and surf in the afternoon, which I never do, but it’s nice to have the option, anyway.
You know what I did at the beach? I peed in the ocean. I just wanted to get that out of the way, because it’s something that everyone does, and I just HATE it when people act like they don’t. Like girls who insist that they don’t fart. Give me a break.
So we’re at the beach, and Anne tells me that she wants to take a quick nap while the kids are playing down by the water, and would I go play with them, so she can snooze. I think that’s a grand idea, because Anne’s been up since I don’t know, on almost no sleep, so she can make sure Nolan has a great birthday trip…making sandwiches, cupcakes, packing up the cars, etc…
After much adjusting of the beach umbrella, Anne sleeps, and I go down to the water to play with the kids.
All of the kids brought boogie boards to the beach, and one of Nolan’s friends had never done it before, and asked me to teach him.
Now,being a step-father, I have a certain role that I have to play, a certain place where I need to stay, out of respect to Ryan and Nolan’s father. There are certain things that I don’t do, because they’d rather learn to surf, and play baseball, and soccer, and all that stuff, from their dad. And I dig that, and I don’t want to make them feel bad, because it’s not about me, it’s about them…but it still makes me just the teeniest bit sad. So, because of that, I’ve never been able to teach them that stuff…but I was able to teach Nolan’s friend, and that felt really good. It was really, really cool, putting him on waves, and watching him race back into the water to start all over again. I was proud of him, and wondered if my dad ever felt like that about me, when I did stuff as a kid.
Well, while I was teaching Nolan’s friend, and thinking about my dad, there was another dad, this guy who was probably 40…nice beer gut, sunburnt spotty skin, streaked with not-quite-rubbed-in sunblock, trying to teach his 4, maybe 5 year-old daughter and son to play in the waves. Thing is, the kids were really not into it. They were crying, and really afraid, and really didn’t want to be there, and the father, this pile of shit, he would do this: “Well, I guess you’re too afraid to swim. That’s too bad. Let’s go home.” And he’d start walking up the beach.
Now, more than anything in the world, kids want to please their parents (at least until they’re 12), so these kids would stop him, beg him to come back and try again, even though it was clear to me, and to anyone, really, that they were scared shitless, and any parent who gives a shit about their kids, who was in tune with their kids, would know that. But this guy was determined to have his kids play in the waves, so he used the time-tested “Manipulation Technique”. Yeah, that’s a great way to parent: manipulate your kids so they do what you want. Maybe you can make sure that they’re afraid of you, too, and never question your actions, because that makes them grow up to be healthy adults.
Guess what, folks? Kids learn EVERYTHING from their parents, even things the parents don’t think they’re teaching them. So when you manipulate your kids, this happens: Manipulated kids grow up to be manipulative adults, who become manipulative parents, who have manipulative kids.
Break the cycle, people. Just because your parents were fucked up doesn’t mean you have to be, and you certanly don’t have to do it to your kids.
Sorry. /rant
While I was at the beach, watching surfers, watching my stepkids boogie board, watching this example of why there should be a parenting test mess up his kids, I started thinking about my own dad.
My dad is a great surfer. One of the best. He talks about going and surfing monster waves, and doesn’t even stop to consider that he’s over 50, and has a family that would sort of miss him just a bit if he decided to go pull a Mark Foo. He’s 53, and he surfs a 10′ long board at least once a week. And my parents do not live near the beach. They live over an hour away. Matter of fact, the whole reason my dad almost died is because he was on a surfing trip to Indonesia, and stubbed his toe on a boat anchor, and the resulting blood infection is what made him so sick. But he’s better now…I keep forgetting to mention that. Sorry.
But here’s the thing: I’ve never learned to surf from my dad. I was too much of a sissy bitch when I was a kid, and another summer has gone by where I haven’t asked him to teach me.
After about an hour of playing in the water, I was hungry, and the kids were ready to get out, too. So I turn up to face the beach, and I see the hottest girl I have ever seen, out of the corner of my eye, walking into the water. I mean, damn. She was amazing.
Okay, before you women get all pissed at me, here is something you have to know about men: We look at pretty girls. It doesn’t mean we’re unfaithful to our wives and girlfriends, and it doesn’t mean we don’t love you. I can’t speak for all men, but I know that I don’t compare, either, which is something you girls like to do, according to all my female friends.
But here’s the thing: It’s okay. It’s genetic. It’s in our hard wiring. It’s not even the OS. It’s an undocumented feature of the hardware. I’m not talking about “checking out” and “leering” that’s all your particular man’s OS. I’m talking about glancing, and involuntarily glancing back, and thinking “Woah!”So just relax.
Back to the story: I’m turning around, and I see the hottest of the hot babes, walking down the beach, out of the corner of my eye. And when I turn to get another look, I see that it was my wife. *smile* I love it when that happens.
Happy Birthday, Nolan.

Digging for fire

Today, we took the kids to the beach.
I was gonna write about that, but I’ve been trying to catch up on Emails, instead.
I wanna say something about Emails: I read them all, each one. And I send out that silly autoreply, which has, so far, only pissed off three people. So I’m not doing too badly there, eh? The problem is, I’m so damn sensitive, I felt really bad, that some peoples may not have gotten the joke, and I’ve been kicking it into overdrive to get at least a small personal response out there. So if you’ve emailed me, and you haven’t heard back, please accept my apologies, and this Shiwala!
While I’ve been catching up on Emails (it’s 230 AM on Saturday, and I’ve just finished the bulk of the Emails, up to Wednesday), I’ve been flipping back and forth on Satellite (no evil cable empire for me, dammit) between “House of Yes” and some super cheesy erotic thriller on Cinemax. Because I think it’s important to have something to aspire to, and something to be afraid of, in your career.
I leave it to you to pick which is which.

Rrrreally Big Show!

First, if you’re reading this, scroll down two entries, and read up…I’m lame, and I messed up the order I wanted to add things to the blog tonight.
Back? Cool.
I’m listening to The Pogues’ “There’s Whiskey In The Jar”. Goddamn, The Pogues make me want to go out to the greatest pub ever, and play darts until I can’t move. I love The Pogues. Why do I feel compelled to share what I’m listening to? Like I said on my music links page, I think you can learn a LOT about a person from what music they listen to, so there. On to the show.
Tonight, we did a special benefit for Keith, because he’s running in the AIDS marathon, and that is a very cool thing to do.
Some highlights: I am the sidekick on the show, so I have a certain “role” to play, and I have to know when to talk, and when to shut up. So I choose my little quips and barbs very carefully. Tonight we had three VERY funny people on: Kevin Nealon, Ric Overton, and Wendy Liebman. VERY, VERY funny people. Comedy gods. So when we have people like these on the show, I try to turn it up a notch, you know? I mean, really give up the funny, and not suck.
Tonight, I got into this sort of zone, and it ROCKED. Kevin and I (yeah, I can call him Kevin. How cool is that?) just got into this thing, where he would start a story, get to the point where the joke would come, and just look over his shoulder at me, and say, “Wil?” and I’d open my mouth, and something really fucking funny would fly out. Now, here’s the thing that sucks about this, NOW: when I am improvising, (which is pretty much what I was doing tonight, just making it up as I went along) I can’t remember anything that I said, or did. It’s part of living “In the moment”. Ask any improvisor, and they’ll tell you the same thing. So I can’t relate to you all the funny, which is kind of a drag, but I can remember one thing that happened, that made me, and the audience laugh: Kevin (!) was sort of going on and on about how he can’t build anything, at all and the audience is beginning to check out (bad), and Keith asks Kevin (!) what he would do if he were to build The Chunnel. So Kevin (!) says, “Well…where would I start?”
And I chime in, “In England, or France.”
I thought that was pretty damn funny, and so did the audience…but I don’t know if writing it gets across what I’d hoped for…you tell me.
OH! I’m listening to my entire MP3 directory, on shuffle, and it just started playing “Bone Machine” by The Pixies…”Your Irish skin/ looks Mexican/ Our love is rice/ and beans/ and horses lard…” Dammit, I love this band. Why do all the good ones bust up?
Speaking of bands that bust up, our musical guest tonight was Nina Gordon, who was in Veruca Salt, and is all solo now. Okay, I absolutely ADORE my wife, as any regular reader of this site can attest, but I have the HUGEST crush on Nina Gordon. She is beautiful, talented, can sing and write like nobody’s business…and she smells really, really good. And she was cool about letting me take a picture with her, which I can’t upload becuse my $#@!ing evaluation copy of CuteFTP just expired. Goddammit. I gotta wait until tomorrow so I can buy it. Crap.
Well, to make this entry not a freaking War and Peace Epic like all the others, I’ll wrap up soon.
The show was rad. I had a great time, and the best thing is that the entire last 45 minutes of the show, I was SO doing the pee pee dance. Oh my god I had to pee so badly, and I’m onstage doing a live show, and I can’t get off the stage, at all. So Kevin (!) is telling a cool story, and I can’t even pay attention, because I gotta go so bad. And he turns to me, so I can spit out a good punchline, because I’ve been doing a pretty good job of it all night, and all I can come up with is, “Hey, I’m just the sidekick, man. Sorry.” Because what I really wanted to say was, ala Forrest Gump: “I gotta pee!”.
Tomorrow, we’re taking Nolan and some of his friends to the beach. It should rule. I can’t wait to skim board. I’ve only been to the beach three times this summer. Which is three times more than last year.
I still haven’t heard from Roger about Rules Of Attraction. I think I’m just going to call him…but I’m kinda scared to…lame, I know.
That’s all for tonight…oh! except one more thing. Well, two, really: I’ve been getting emails from the people I linkedto! That is so cool! And, if you’re reading this in order, like I told you to, you’re prolly wondering what is going on with my cat. Well, about 15 minutes ago, Sketch was running from window to window, meowing like crazy, and I knew that he saw Biko. So I went out back, and there he was. All fluffed out and dusty, his little face covered in cobwebs and junk.
*Huge sigh of relief*
I’m glad he’s back.
Everything, in it’s right place.

Don’t forget your towel

Here are the stories I wanted to put up, yesterday, but I quit when my wife came home:
Anne bought some Pear lotion from Victoria’s Secret. I love that, because it’s what she smelled like when we were dating.
A note about my family, and specifically my wife: I was telling her about my website, and about how cool I think it is that people are coming here, commenting on my lame little ramblings, and stuff, and she said, “This kind of scares me.”
“What kind of scares you?”
“Well, letting people know so much about you. So much about us. I worry that people may think they know you really well, and try to invade our privacy. I don’t want to worry about that. I certainly don’t want to be worried about the kids, either.”
I thought long and hard about that. I want to strike a balance, between giving the world a view of my life without any media filters, and expecting the world to respect the my personal privacy, and the privacy of my wife and step-children. Honestly, I never really thought that this site would become as popular as it has. And I don’t know if it will stay as visited as it is right now…either way, I plan to keep on writing, because I gather that people like reading what I have to say, and, honestly, it’s very cathartic for me, and I really do like to tell stories.
So here’s the deal (boy, I say that a LOT): I’m not posting pictures of the kids.
I’m not posting lots of pictures of me and Anne (even though she did come and kiss me on the webcam last night…that was cool), and there are certain areas of my life that are just off limits.
My first priority in my life is my wife and step-kids. Period. So I hope that’s cool with whomever becomes a regular reader.
Boy, I sound really stern there, huh? I guess if I was talking, it would be in my “dad voice”. Heh.
More from yesterday: I was sent the coolest jpeg ever by some really cool kids. It really made me smile, a LOT.
I also was sent a link for a campaign to Free TVs Wil Wheaton. It is HELLA funny.
Hella.
Hella.
Hella.
I am clearly defining my use of “hella” as sarcastic, and ironic, for the tiny-brained. You know who you are.
It is my understanding that one of the very cool people at 1142.org made it. And I would like to take this time to say, “Thanks, dude. This is way cool, and it really made my day!”
Finally, last night, Ryan and Nolan were watching TV while I was in the kitchen. I walked out to see what they were watching, and it was Stand By Me, on Channel 5. I thought that was so cool. I mean, they’ve seen it before, and all, but to see them watching it on their own made me feel really cool. 🙂
I walked into our family room, and Nolan says, “Look, Wil! You’re on TV!” and Ryan says, “Look! There you are!” Pause. “Why did you just faint?”
Kids rule. They just. Freaking. Rule.

Turn on the Frustration

Turn on the frustration

Boy. What a day. I have so much to talk about, I don’t even know where to begin.
What a horrible way to start off an entry. Mrs. Lee was right, I guess.
So here’s the deal: My cats, Biko and Sketch, are totally indoor cats. I never got over the loss of my cat, Rita (who was a boy, but we thought he was a girl, so we named him after my Voice Over agent, who gave him to me), which was totally my fault when I was like 10 or 11. So when I got my 2 cats, I decided that they would only be indoor cats, so I wouldn’t have to worry about them getting lost, or killed, or subjected to any of the horrors that outdoor cats surely face. Now, as someone recently pointed out, dogs have masters, and cats have staff, (I file that under “I wish I’d thought of that”) the cats are CONSTANTLY trying to get outside, and sometimes they make it a few feet, and I catch them…well, tonight, while I was doing the J. Keith vanStraaten Show (I have pictures!! I’ll put them up later), Biko and Sketch got out. Anne found Sketch in about 30 minutes, but Biko has been out for close to 3 hours, and it’s after midnight, and I’m really, really worried about him. He’s small, he has a heart condition, and I worry that he can’t defend himself from the big, mean, feral cats who roam my neighborhood. So if you could spare a thought for him, until he comes back, I’d appreciate it.
I am going to finish the entry I started tomorrow, but I’m going to go out of order, because what happened today is more on my immediate mind, and I’m gonna tell you about that, first.
This morning, I was supposed to have a dentist appointment, but I messed up the time (which I do quite often). I thought it was at 3:15, but it was at 9:30 AM. How I got that messed up, I’ll never know, but when I went to check it in my Palm Pilot, the damn thing wouldn’t turn on. Luckily, I have everything backed up on the computer (which is currently named HAL-9000, but that’s not all that cool…I was thinking maybe changing the name to “Marvin”), but the dentist entry wasn’t there. Odd. So here’s the thing: I bought my Palm pilot at Best Buy, because the price was right, and they have this great service/replacement plan…or so I thought. (I just went out to look for Biko…note to self: My next door neighbor has a really cool backyard, with a pool. She’s like 1000, so I gotta ask her if we can swim sometime).
Back to my Best Buy ni/*.phpare: When I bought my Palm Pilot, they tried to sell me this service plan thing, and the Palm cost close to 200 bucks (150 after rebate, thank you very much), and spending 35 dollars on a service plan seemed stupid to me, all things considered. But the guy did something that’s very hard to do to Wil: he sold it to me. He told me that if anything went wrong…that’s an important word, anything, because we’ll find out in a minute that anything really means something on a very short list…if anything went wrong, I could bring it in, and they’d either fix it, or replace it, right then and there, and I’d be out in under 30 minutes. This is also important to remember, because we’ll son find out that by 30 minutes, he really meant over an hour. I asked him, specifically, will I need my receipt? No. Will I need my original packaging? No. What if I lose this little service plan pamphlet thingy? No problem, Mr. Wheaton, we’ll look it up in the computer.
Can you guess where I’m going with this?
I get there this morning, at 11. I have to meet my friend Travis at the ACME, because we’re rehearsing for the sketch show at the huge Trek convention in Vegas next week. So I call Travis at 1045, and tell him that I’ll be there closer to 1130. Oh, how wrong I was.
I get to Worst Buy (gee, you think I’m the first person to come up with that?) at 11. I wait in the three person line for close to 15 minutes, because they’ve got one person working on returns. “Boy” I think to myself, “the 30 minutes must account for 15 minutes in line! These kids can bang it out!” Wrong again. Little did I know that the 15 minutes spent in line would be the only non-enraging minutes for the next hour.
I explained my problem to the apparently helpful Best Buy Customer Service Drone. She looked at me, looked at my dead Palm pilot, and said, “Okay, do you have your receipt?”
What? Did I have my receipt? I don’t need a receipt, I told her, confidently, everything you need it in your computer.
Okay, here’s another tangent. Sorry, I know this breaks up the flow, but it just happened: My phone rang. Not a big deal, right? Well, it’s 1AM here, so that is a big deal. The phone rings this time, and I think “Oh shit. Something’s bad.” Matter of fact, I used to pick up the phone in the middle of the night, and say, “Someone better be dead!” Until someone really was. One of my best friends had hung himself. So now I answer the phone, “Hope you won the lottery!”…anyway, I said, “Hello?” and the voice on the other end says, “[long pause] Is Joe there?”
“No, there’s not Joe here.”
“Who is this?” comes the reply.
I immediately think, “Great. Some fuckwad has gotten my home number, and is fucking with me, and now I have to change my numbers, blah blah, blah…” So I put on my “dad” voice, and I say, “This had better be a wrong number.”
And the voice (who I’ve pegged as about 17 or so) says, “You know what? You’re a fag.”
I am stunned into silence, at the genius currently coursing across the phone wires, but only briefly. I’m still pretty sure this is some jackass trying to mess with The Kid From TV (yes, it still happens. Jocks never grow up, apparently), so I say, “Okay, genius. I have you on my caller ID, and my next call is to the police.”
So I called the police, just to make a record, in case this was some phone calling equivalent of a skRip+ K!|>|>i3, and they sent a guy out here, because I live in a tiny town where nothing ever happens, and he just left.
End of tangent.
We now retun you to: “My Best Buy ni/*.phpare”, already in progress.
What? Did I have my receipt? I don’t need a receipt, I told her, confidently, everything you need is in your computer.
She looked at me, blankly, tapped a few keys, and told me that they didn’t have anything about my Palm in there. They had my wife’s camera, but nothing about my Palm.
Great. Here beginneth the ni/*.phpare.
I’m just gonna cut to the chase, because it’s REALLY not worth rehashing, blow by blow, and it’s late and I’m tired, and I have to get up at 7, so we can take Nolan to the beach for his birthday.
Here are the highlights:
They told me there was nothing they could do without a receipt. I told them that when I bought the service plan, I was told that everything would be in the com–dammit. Ferris just laid at my feet, and farted. Jesus Christ I hate that- I was told that everything would be in the computer, and I wouldn’t need it. At first, I was calm. I stayed calm, but forceful, you understand, as I climbed the chain of managers and supervisors, each as useless as the last.
Here was their first solution: I could get a
I would go get a Palm IIIxe from the Palm section. I would bring it back, and I give them the box with all the accessories, and I’d get the actual Palm unit, itself. This was honoring the service plan I’d bought, so it sounded okay to me, until I found out that I was going to be charged a “restocking fee”. Well, I was not about to pay a “restocking fee”, since I was mislead by the guy who sold me the service plan, and since I had already given them a lot of my money, and a lot of my time. After much gnashing of teeth, and wringing of hands, they agreed to waive the restocking fee. I think it may have had something to do with me saying, “Best Buy is a billion dollar company. My wife and I spend quite a bit of money here, annually. I am willing to walk out of here, right now, without anything, and take all my business elsewhere. That’s my TV-buying business, my CD-buying business, my game-buying business, and my DVD-buying business. You’re willing to lose all that, over a $20 restocking fee?” (see, it wasn’t about the money. It was about the principle. I’m sure a lot of you understand.)
So they tell me to go get the IIIxe, and bring it back, and we’ll do the switch, without the restocking fee.
NIKE! (That’s Greek for “Victory!”, and American for “Sweatshop!”)
I ran like phidipidies to the Palm counter, and asked for a IIIxe, so I could be on my way.
Small problem: Best Buy doesn’t carry the IIIxe any more. They carry the IIIc, which is nearly 150 dollars more, and way more Palm Pilot than I need.
So I head back to the most innappropriately named “customer service” counter that ever was, and explain the lack of IIIxe’s. Which sets me right back to square one. The woman who is “helping” me gleefully informs me that there’s nothing else that she can do for me.
So I did what we in acting call “making a choice”. I made the choice to become the hysterical, angy, irrational man who they really wanted to just get the F out of Best Buy. I ranted. I raved. I drooled.
And I finally talked to a manager who could do something for me. She explained that there was a mess up in the computer, and that wasn’t my fault (duh) she said that I had 2 options: Go home and search for the receipt (which I am certain I’ve lost. I can never keep receipts. If I put them all in a magic bag of receipt-holding, even that vanishes), or, I can take the $149.00 that they show my IIIxe being currently worth, and I can apply that towards an “upgrade”, if I’d like.
I’ve been thinking about getting a Visor.
So I finally spent an extra 40 bucks, and got the Visor. Now, wy any one of the parade of managers I’d dealt with before that couldn’t tell me that is beyond me. Like Columbo was so fond of saying, “Maybe I’m a little stupid here…”
I feel like I gave in, a little bit, because a few years ago, I would have walked out of there without anything, and fought them until I got exactly what I wanted. But Travis was waiting, and I knew that I would be able to spin my tale here, and let everyone know what we’ve all known, all along: big corporate behemoths like Best Buy suck. I’d encourage anyone who reads this to take your money, and your business, elsewhere. Anywhere. A mom and pop store would be the best, but, after that, maybe a place like 800.com, or something. Just keep your money, and your business away from Big Brother Best Buy. That’s today’s call to action, such as it is.
Next: Rehearsal, and the “Rrrreally big shew!”