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March 2008

March 29, 2008

All in the SlackFamily.

Saturday, 2:34pm.  Duke's in Malibu.

SlackDad: We've been here before.

Me: A couple of times.  We used to always come here when you guys visited.

SlackDad (opening menu): What did I get last time?

Me: I think you had the Shrimp and Crab Louie.

SlackDad: Did I like it?

Me: I don't know.

SlackMom: You won't like it.

SlackDad: How would you know?

SlackMom (reading menu) : It says that it has egg, tomato, peppers, avocado, black olives, and shellfish.

SlackDad: So?

SlackMom: You don't like egg, tomato, avocado or black olives.

SlackDad: What are you getting?

SlackMom: I'm getting the Coconut Shrimp.

SlackDad: That looks good.

SlackMom: Why don't you get that?

SlackDad: Don't tell me what to get! I'll get what I want!

SlackMom: Okay.

Waiter: Can I take your order?

SlackDad: I'll have the Shrimp and Crab Louie.


After lunch...

Me: How was your food?

SlackDad: It was good.  But I think next time I'd get what your mom got.

SlackMom: /headdesk


...

I'm honored to have the slack daily included in the"Life" section and The Post-Apocalyptic Workout in the "Health" listings at Guy Kawasaki's new project, Alltop, which he's described as a sort of online magazine rack.  Make sure to check out the other Alltop sites (including friend-o-slackmistress Citizen of the Month!)

March 27, 2008

The 24-Hour Hobo Fitness.

It began with a barbell.  A solitary rusted-out barbell that sat under our neighbor R.'s white pickup truck with the faked "Delivery Vehicle" placard (there so he could double park.)  I wondered if it was leftover from his Garage Sale days.  Every Saturday, R. would haul out odds and ends - a white pleather sofa with cigarette burns, a lone bicycle tire, a side table missing a leg.  It wasn't until we saw the selection of little boys' clothes and board games that we became concerned.  There haven't been children in this building for over 40 years.  Y'know how there's always one person in your apartment complex that you think sure, he could be a serial killer...well, in our complex, we have more than one.  But this guy topped the list. 

Will asked R. point-blank where the clothes had come from, and he told us that he had been dumpster-diving in Beverly Hills.  Someone had told him that Garage Sales were where the money was at, and he was certain rich people in Beverly Hills threw away perfectly good stuff.  We were thankful that we weren't going to have to bring in the police to find a stash of boys' underwear under his bed, but everyone in the building came to the same consensus: moving trash a couple of zip codes doesn't make it treasure.  The Garage Sales  stopped, and R. returned to doing whatever it is he does. 

Which brings us back to the barbell.  It rolled back and forth between the cracks in the driveway, shedding flakes of rust like a snakeskin.  I've lived here long enough to know not to touch it.  Clearly someone had a plan for this barbell.  I just had to wait it out.

Sure enough, a few weeks later I pulled into the driveway to see another neighbor, P. working with the barbell.  He was alternating biceps curls with swings from the bottle of Stella that sat on the bumper of R.'s white pickup truck.  If the number of empty bottles were any indication, he'd been through a regular Ironman workout. 

I climbed out of the car. Hey, P.

Y'wanna work in? he asked.

Nah, I'm good.  The beer's a nice touch, though.

It's what Hulk Hogan does.

I couldn't disagree.

Over the next few weeks I noticed other people had joined him.  Our neighbor G. added a rusted chair for dips, and the guy without teeth who doesn't live here but who always hangs out in our backyard is always handy with a spot.  Morning, noon, and night someone's out there throwing around some iron, swigging a beer, and washing themselves off in our hose.  Instead of going around the building to his side door, P. climbs in and out of the open window of his apartment to adjust the music and fetch another six-pack.

The biggest excuse for not going to the gym is that it's not convenient.  I have no excuse.

There's a 24-Hour Hobo Fitness.  In my own backyard.


More on the hobos here.

March 25, 2008

Happy Birthday...NOW EAT YOUR SOUP.

Today is younger slackbrother j.'s birthday.  He turned 30.

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This is weird for me, as I'm five years older and still not totally convinced he can drive.  Or vote.  Or legally purchase alcohol.

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This was meant to be a post on the odd nature of seeing your siblings grow up, the oh-so-tangible nature of time as evidenced in another human being who you have known from the very moment they came to be.  But instead, it's going to be the story of what happened at his birthday dinner.

Younger slackbrother j. do something low-key and cheapish, so we agreed to meet at our favorite Chinese Restaurant, which is a few blocks away from the Detective Agency.   The place was packed, but there was a small table in the corner next to a window.  We grabbed menus and the waitress came by to take our order.  Will loves Egg Drop Soup, so he ordered a large bowl for the table.  The waitress shut her notepad and ran off.

We figured she was busy and would return to take our drink order.

She returned a few minutes later with a big bowl...or Hot and Sour Soup. 

I'm sorry, Will told her, we didn't order that.  We ordered Egg Drop Soup.

You didn't order this?
she asked.

No, we ordered Egg Drop Soup.

Oh, you'll like this.
  She began to ladle the soup into smaller bowls and handed them out to us.

I'm sure it's good, he continued, but we want Egg Drop Soup.  That's what we ordered.

Okay,
she replied, but you eat this first.  I'll bring you a half order of Egg Drop Soup.

Will looked at me, confused. But I don't want this.

I interjected as politely and clearly as I could.  Ma'am, we ordered Egg Drop Soup. 

The Hot and Sour is good,
she told me.  I won't charge you.  You'll have the Hot and Sour.

Her Jedi Mind Tricks weren't going to work on me. I vowed to stay strong.

We want Egg Drop Soup.  A full order of Egg Drop Soup, so there'll be some to take home.

Fine.  Egg Drop Soup.
  She sighed and left.

Will turned to me.  Since when did ordering become a negotiation?

Thankfully the rest of our meal went off without a hitch.  Except I discovered later that the Egg Drop Soup didn't make it into the bag of leftovers we took home. 

(Neither did the Hot and Sour.)

Happy Birthday younger slackbrother j!

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March 20, 2008

The Wonder Rears.

The year was 2001, and I was Master of my Universe: I had just begun writing on season two of Lizzie McGuire (instead of writing three 22-episode seasons, we did two seasons of 30 and 35.  Yes, insanity.)  I had whittled my 200+ pounds way-out-of-shape frame down to a shade under 20% bodyfat, but by some happy accident of genetics managed to keep my impressive rack and my butt.  Ah, my butt.  I spent hours in the gym squatting and deadlifting so that my posterior could look like the illegitimate asschild of J-Lo and Kim Kardashian.

That week, my idol and friend Savage Steve Holland was shooting an episode that Older SlackBrother J. and I had written called "Lizzie in the Middle," where Frankie Muniz magically appears at Lizzie's school and in an implausible Notting Hill-twist-of-fate, wants to desperately date her. 

The script had originally been written for Aaron Carter (yes, Disney Channel writers were penning scripts for the guy who's now best known some gay-porn quality shots of him smoking weed.  But his 13th birthday party had Absolut Vodka as a Corporate Sponsor.  My 13th birthday party we ate pizza and watched Under the Rainbow on the VCR in my parents' basement.  But I digress...)  Aaron had been in a previous Lizzie episode also written by us (which also helped spark the Lohan-Duff feud!) and he wanted to be in an episode with actual lines.  A two weeks later Older SlackBrother J. and I turned in our script, Welcome Back, Carter, which went down as our greatest title in the history of titles on the show.

Alas, young Aaron was busy with Seussical the Musical, so the script was put on ice until someone in the Duff camp mentioned that Hilary and Frankie Muniz were friends.  They used to date, I had been told, leading me question my universe in which a 13-year-old got way more play that I did at 28.  Of course, little did I know later she'd be fishing in my dating pool. Age-wise, anyway.

Rewrite it for Frankie!
was the command from on high, so rewrite it for Frankie we did.  D'you know how you watch TV and some Big Guest Star shows up playing yourself and you think those hacks, that would never happen!  Well, I'll let you in on a little secret: the people writing it think that, too.  Having a page to introduce Big Guest Star and make him fall immediately in love with your main character (and she can't disrobe) is a pretty big task, so sometimes you gotta reach into the Hack Bag of Tricks.

Lizzieinthmiddle


 

So that fateful day back in 2001 (or 2002?  I'm pretty sure it's 2001) I head down to set to check it out.  They're about to shoot the scene when Frankie's introduced and sweeps Lizzie off of her feet.  I gingerly creep through the mass of cables with my cup of coffee towards the monitors.  Savage waves at me and confers with an AD.  Someone taps me on the shoulder.

Hi, I just wanted to introduce myself.  I'm Fred.  You're the writer, right?

I turn around to see Kevin Arnold himself.  Fred-mothereffing-Savage.

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Kevin Arnold!  (But he looked more like this.)

It was dueling Savages on the set that day, as Savage, Fred was shadowing Savage Steve as Fred was planning on transitioning into TV directing. 

I apologized for our lame dialogue, giving Fred the backstory and he assured me that it wasn't "that bad."  I think I kicked him, and within minutes we were trading barbs, prompting the AD to threaten to kick us off the set and me to think about the time warp quality of being on a junior high set making with the snark avec Fred Savage.

He was made of awesome, and we spent the week (platonically!  There was no hanky-panky!) discussing our love of Chicago food, why I should buy his hot gay car, and finally, the current lack of ass on the American Woman's Derrière.

I like a woman with some ass, he told me.  Where have all the asses gone?

Maybe it's just the jeans contributing to the flatassedness of America?

I don't buy it, he told me. Look at you.

Me?

You wear those kinda jeans.  And you have an amazing ass!

My ass: Fred Savage-approved!

March 18, 2008

Miss My Face?

Then check The Post-Apocalyptic Workout.

March 17, 2008

TivOh?

Blogging about the contents of one's TiVo is the ultimate in LazyBlogging.

Which is why I bring you a picture instead:

Tivo


Back tomorrow with your regularly scheduled slack!

March 12, 2008

The Second Penis.

From GuestBlogger, and Husband-sans-Appendix, Will .

About a week ago my stomach was bothering me but I didn't think much of it; I had been having stomach issues for about ten days.  Over the course of a week and a half I had thought of several reasons to explain the pain away:

1) It was something I ate
2) I have a virus
3) It's stress
4) There is a gnome in my  belly

It hurt but I hadn't gone to the doctor,  I felt like I was too busy to seek basic medical assistance.  My job, which I have in part because of the good health insurance was taking priority over the very thing that insurance is supposed to cover.  When I went to sleep on Wednesday night I hoped that when I woke up everything would be alright.

A few hours later I woke up, it was 4:00 am and all was not well; I was in pain, not just bothered but in PAIN.  I told my wife I wasn't feeling well but there was no reason to worry then I got out of bed and tried to walk it off.  For the first time since the stomach issues started I felt that something was seriously wrong.  I tried to go to the bathroom and couldn't, this was not a good sign.

A full week earlier my wife had asked me if I wanted to go to the ER and I declined because LOST was on and I didn't want to go to the ER and be told it was gas.

That morning, I spent about 20 minutes trying to go to the bathroom and thinking of all of the reasons not to go to the hospital:

1) I could not miss work,
2) It might just be gas
3) LOST was going to be on that night

Then I thought of my wife and how mad at me she'd be if I died because I:

1) Put my job ahead of my health
2) Was embarrassed that it might be gas
3) Didn't want to miss LOST

When I could neither go to the bathroom or convince myself not to go to the hospital I went inside, woke my wife and said "I need to do something about this."

The pain was bad but not unbearable, in fact, I drove myself to the ER.  During the drive I had convinced myself that I had probably developed some sort  of intestinal blockage.  I'd probably be given some antibiotics and a stern talking-to about a high fiber diet and that would be that.  I'd miss a day of work but I'd get caught up, no big deal.

We checked into the ER at 4:45 am and by 5:15 I was getting looked at, after explaining my symptoms I was examined, poked at and finally prodded.  I knew the prodding was coming but there is no way to be
truly prepared for a stranger's hand in your butt.

After the doctor left the room I told my wife "I think he used like 8 fingers".  The doctor came back a few minutes later to say..."It doesn't look like there was any blood...didn't taste like blood either".

I was scheduled for a CT scan, where they prodded me some more.  I had been at the hospital for nearly three hours and I felt like several doctors owed me dinner but I'd gladly pass on them just to have a
diagnosis.  Finally, after five hours in the hospital I got one: I had appendicitis and it had to come out right away.  The surgeon came in to ask me some questions:

"This says that you've had pain for ten days, is that true?"

-"Yeah"

"Most people find the pain unbearable after 2-3 days"

-"I was going to come in sooner but I was busy and then LOST was on."

He walked me through the process; they usually no longer needed to make a big incision.  The could go in on the side and through the belly button and just snip, snip.  It's called a lapriscopic procedure.  As long as there were no complications I'd be out in a day.  Of course these was a small, teensy-tiny chance that they might not be able to remove it using the in invasive method but even that would be pretty easy...a small incision and then 2-3 days recovery. I signed all of the consent forms and waited. 

It took several hours to get an operating room for the surgery but once everything was ready they told my wife and I that the procedure would take about an hour then I'd be in recovery for about 30 minutes before she could see me. She told me she was going to grab a bite and then wait for me to come out.  Just before I went into the operating room I handed Nina my wedding ring; she said:

"Try not to marry anyone else while you're in there."

I promised not to and said goodbye, there was no need to worry.

Now the next part of the story happens with me being under general anesthesia so I'll leave this part to my wife who wrote about it as it was happening:

Will went into surgery at 4:54pm, and the doctor told me it'd be an hour, with maybe 30-45 minutes in the recovery room.  Go get something to eat, Will told me, I'll see you in a little bit.

I kissed him on the forehead and walked out the door.  I was concerned but not worried.  While surgery, an appendectomy is a relatively routine procedure, while the doctor said there might be a chance he'd have to be cut open, they'd probably be able to do it lapriscopically. I met younger slackbrother j. at Jerry's for a quick bite, and together we headed back to the hospital.   It was 6:15pm.

I called the Recovery Room.  Can I come back and see my husband? I asked.

He's not out of surgery yet, the nurse replied.

I got the same answer at 6:30pm.

And 6:45pm.

At 7:00pm, I knew something was wrong.

At 7:30pm, the surgeon finally came out.

He's fine, but there were complications.

A short while later I came to the sound of a nurse in the recovery room telling me to breathe deeply.  I was disoriented and kinda scared.  I couldn't understand  what she was saying because only a few words were getting through.

"Complications"..."Breathe..."

"The surgeons couldn't"..."Deep breaths".

The next thing I remember is being in a private room with several people standing around me.  I could feel there was something on my stomach, it was a very big bandage.  Nina came in and the doctors explained to me what had happened.  They tried to take it out lapriscopically but they couldn't, and they couldn't make a small incision on the side and just take it out because my appendix had swollen to a size that none of the doctors had ever seen before 

The surgeon drew me a picture and it looked like I had grown a second, gigantic penis on the inside of my body.  They explained that they had removed it but also had to take some of the rest of my insides out too, and to do so they had to cut me open right down the center of my stomach from my ribs to my belly button.  My stay overnight at the hospital was turning into something serious and there was a team of doctors all waiting to take a look at the extra penis I had somehow grown.

All in all I spent six days in the hospital getting my appendix out but I'm finally home and continuing to recover.  This has been an unpleasant experience but there are a few positives that have come out
of it:

1 - An inspection of my gigantic appendix and the portion of my colon that was removed revealed nothing cancerous or life threatening.
2- I appear to be otherwise healthy.
3- I spent six days in the hospital not smoking and I'm trying to continue that streak.  After too many years smoking and several attempts to quit, an appendectomy may be the thing that finally makes me a non smoker.

So what have I learned from all of this?  Well, first I should have sought out medical attention about a week earlier than I did and second, and this in no surprise, Nina is an absolute saint. Throughout this whole process she's been at my side making sure I was ok and keeping my spirits up all while keeping the house together and working.  She is amazing and while the doctors did a great job Nina is my real hero.  I hope you never ever get sick but if you do I hope you have someone like her to keep an eye on you.

The Slackmistress' Guide to Being Internet Famous.

Exhibit A:

Before Sunday, I had never heard the name Sarah Lacy.  However, after the SXSW keynote on Sunday in which she botched an interview with Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg (where nerds wielded iPhones like villagers used to wield pitchforks), she's now a well-known name amongst even the non-Digerati.

Exhibit B:

How much do you know about the people that write the movies you watch?   Okay, now how much do you know about doppelganger Diablo Cody?  While her career will always have the O-word -Oscar - attached, I doubt she'll ever be able to escape the S-word.  (Y'know, the one where you take your clothes off and shake it for cash.)

The Answer is Obvious:

I should conduct a train wreck interview with Guy Kawasaki at next years' SXSW.  Naked.




March 11, 2008

Eternal Questions.

  • Why did every kid (well, practically every kid) flip over their Big Wheel to play "Ice Cream Man?"  An upended Big Wheel looks nothing like an ice cream truck.
  • Why do we complain about popularity contests when the fact is dammit, we all just want to be popular?
  • Y'know how they have fight sequences on subways/merry-go-rounds/flying cocoons and one of the fighters is invariably pressed against  the accelerator of the contraption, pushing it to a dangerously high speed limit and endangering the passengers' lives?  If it's always dangerous to go that fast...why build it with the option to go that fast?
  • Why are you more popular than me?
  • Would the world be a better place if we didn't pretend to like people we actually find incredibly annoying?  Doesn't that make us annoying in the process?
  • Why am I suddenly wanting a tattoo?
  • How did I live so long without Twitter?  I used to slag on it whenever people asked me if I had one; now I can't go three seconds without checking.  Next thing you know I'll be going to Burning Man.

Will is home but hopped up on goofballs, and I'm attending to the pile of laundry/dishes/dog hair that accumulated while I was I was gone, so please bear with us as we attempt to get it back together.  Real updates, a vlog perhaps, and much, much more...tomorrow.

March 10, 2008

Monday Catsup

My So-Called Life:

The "tire failure" light started flashing as I left Cedars yesterday. Because $Deity doesn't totally hate me, I was near a Just Tires. The good news? It was a nail that could be patched. The bad news? They were packed and my car wouldn't be ready for three hours. I grabbed my laptop and my purse and trekked the mile and a half home, cursing the fact that I had dressed for the arctic conditions of the hospital, not the 80 degree weather we've been having.

Will is improving daily, although the docs won't let him eat (or leave) until he passes gas. Who knew farting would be mandatory? Alas, he has not achieved rhis lofty goal as of this writing.

"It's like love," I told him last night, "it'll come when you least expect it."

"Not funny," he told me, hitting the button for more morphine.

"Maybe I need to pull your finger?"

This is where we discovered that laughter and belly staples don't mix.

Alas, I am at work this morning. 4:45am felt like 3:45am as I crawled out of bed. I'm currently feeling like the Worst Wife Ever as I should be at the hospital, but I don't get vacation or sick days as a part-time employee and the parking fees at the hospital are financially ass-raping.I haven't been able to do any freelance work or writing since this all happened, which I am attempting not to stress over. The Post-Apocalyptic Workout has been put temporarily on hold, although I feel more zombielike than ever.

I'm trying to concentrate on the basics: Will is getting better. Hopefully he'll be cleared to come tomorrow.Everything else we'll figure out later.

(Posted from my BlackBerry.)