Death.... yes, a happy post.

Last night I could not get to sleep. I kept tossing and turning worrying about dying. I have no immediate plans to die, or any information regarding the proximity of said event, just a nagging fear of my inevitable demise. For some reason I go through my resume during these moments of angst, as if death is a position I need to qualify for, and frankly, my resume just doesn't hold up.

It is my understanding that I will be allowed to die whether I am qualified or not, but who wants to die and have everybody whisper at their funeral how unqualified you were for this level of advancement? "Who does he think he is. He was never even approved for a mortgage, let alone a peace prize." Does anybody else hand out peace prizes, or is it just the Nobel gang? Perhaps I can win a Brooklyn Chamber of Commerce Peace Prize.

Now, I'm an Atheist, so I'm not worried about an acceptance committee at a gate asking why I never held any student council office, just a lot of passive aggressive mumbling at a funeral. I'm extremely sensitive about the level of sarcasm that will occur at my funeral.

To most, it seems, having a family, a career and a house is a successful life story. But seeing as one can achieve these things through a lottery ticket and a broken condom and a lack of imagination, I'm just not sure this represents the level of honors I'm gunning for. I do buy the occasional lottery ticket, but this has more to do with my having too much imagination.

Where I live in Brooklyn, owning a Cadillac Escalade seems to be a good marker of accomplishment. Judging by the size of most of these Escalade owners, their shiny tanks will have to double as coffins in which to bury their fat asses. And, considering they blew every cent they had on the Escalade, it's the only coffin they will be able to afford.

It is doubtful that I will run for office, although I have spent time running from officers. I have, in the past won a few drinking contests but have been removed from such competition by doctors and the aforementioned officers. I doubt I will cure AIDS or Cancer, so it appears that I will have to resort to curing boredom. Excellent. Glad I got that sorted out. Now I can get some sleep. Rest up for the battle ahead and all that.

Mr. Productivity

I have an amazing ability to be counter-productive... or maybe it's dis-associatively productive... well, you decide.

I have something to do, like write the comedy that will keep me in cocaine and Learjets for years to come, but I manage to find something else to do - that is also work - instead. I've done laundry when I should be updating my blog, changed the oil on my car when I should be writing a screenplay and gone grocery shopping to avoid sending mailings to bookers and agents. It's as if I prefer mindless menial labor to meaningful mental labor. AS IF.

I don't like cleaning, or changing oil per say. I'm pretty sure that it's just easier to see the fruits of my labor with such tasks. I can see the clean room. I can't see the positive reception to my brilliant musings. Maybe I'm afraid that I will fail. Is it fear of success? Then why this constant fear of failure? If I'm afraid of failure and afraid of success, does that make me mediocre? But I'm pretty sure I have a fear of mediocrity too - I mean, doesn't everybody? Don't answer that. I've lived in the suburbs.

I'm not lazy. I'm always working. Even when I was being a drug addict, I made sure I was a drug dealer so I wouldn't have to depend on hand-outs. I'm very self-reliant; wouldn't ask for a life-preserver (or heroine) if drowning and all that.

I'm very good at preparing to do work, but never doing it. I've bought pens, expensive electronic equipment such as a video camera, voice recorder and laptop to streamline the recording of my rapid flow of creativity, so that no ideas would slip through - out into the ocean of lost and forgotten premises. I have sat down at my computer with the full intention of writing my observations and imaginations in sweeping prose and punchline only to find myself spending two hours surfing Ebay in search of a laptop on which to record the same when at a coffee-shop on some future date - and I have never in my fucking life been productive in a goddamned coffee shop. There is nothing creatively inspiring about Starbucks. Nor am I inspired in any independent coffee shop whose entire ambience is dedicated to seeming as un-Starbucks-like as possible.

I quit smoking in part because it is the perfect excuse to procrastinate. I may have to abandon coffee for the same reason. Also, it's hard to have a cup of coffee and not a cigarette. If you're going to make your mouth taste like shit, you really have to go all the way... but I digress.

I could make promises, but I've made promises in the past. I'm just going to try to make a point of being a total slob with a broken car and dirty clothes. This is obviously the only path to glory.

Here's some Ping Pong:

No Smoking in the Rain

Rainy, rainy day. I'm not sure that I actually enjoy rainy days, so much as I enjoy the fact that I don't seem to be nearly as affected by them as those arround me. I suppose I could wax on about my Swedish heritage and how hundreds of generations of living under gray skies in the "land of the midnight sun" have steeled the Swedes and those whose fathers scored Swedish girls against the depression induced by gray skies. But Sweden has one of the highest national suicide rates in the world, so that would not ring true. Swedes apparently react to rain and clouds by closing the garage door on their running Volvo... but, knowing Swedes, they probably wear their seatbelt for this operation.

I think part of what appeals to me about rain is the same as what appeals to me about snow. It sends everybody running for shelter. It clears the streets. For the most part, your biggest assholes, those obsessed with their appearance or too spoiled to risk a chill or any discomfort whatsoever, run for safe confines, and the world outside achieves a sort of asshole-less utopian feel. Yes, I know it's not perfect. Some assholes are water-proof or so relish the shittyness they dole out on a daily basis, even inclement weather won't keep them from their calling. But, there are less of them. (The preceding paragraph could have easily been replaced by quoting Robert Deniro's character in Taxi Driver, saying the famous line, "Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets.")

I quit smoking two days ago. This began as an act of bravado following my girlfriend commenting that I smoke too much as we sat on the couch watching television. I immediately broke my last cigarette in half and said, "O.K. I quit." Very macho. If only quitting cocaine had involved jumping a motorcycle over flaming barrels, or a pond full of piranhas, I might have kicked it much sooner than I did. Unfortunately most positive change in the world is the work of un-romantic, fairly tedious drudgery... like Non-Governmental Organizations, public education and highway adoption.

Anyway, what my lungs need is a real rain to come and wash the scum out of them, but I suppose I'll just breath in and out for 20 years and see what happens.