Time's Up

Bukowski said "A good writer knew when not to write." I couldn't agree more. I can't stand those smarmy writing "experts" who tell you that to succeed, you MUST write EVERY DAY. Hogwash. Writing a bunch of daily garbage for the sake of writing isn't a formula for success. It's an exercise routine, nothing more.

The last time I posted on this blog was December 14, 2012, the day of the Newtown massacre. After that, I just didn't really feel like I had anything to say. Certainly nothing in the spirit of Kaptain Kvetch, which I created to complain about life's trivialities, which, after the horrors of that day, seemed, well...trivial.

The ensuing months of 2013 have been difficult for me. I've been perpetually frustrated by the screenwriting trade, one disappointment after the next leaving me wondering if I have what it takes to succeed in this business. Lurking behind those doubts is the question of what else I could possibly do with my life to gain fulfillment and money - or at least just to kill the next few decades until I can call it a life.

The answer to that question is a great unknown, and it's burdened me with an unsettling feeling that grows weightier by the day. I used to think I wouldn't trade places with anyone I knew, all those friends with the boring day jobs whose lives are so predictable. Now, more often than not, I find myself feeling like I'd happily switch places with almost any of them (almost).

This past weekend, another senseless act of random violence occurred on the Venice boardwalk, a few blocks from where I used to live. These horrific episodes seem to be happening in greater frequency. I'm not sure why that is. I'm tempted to say this country is going to hell in a handbasket, but that's the sort of cliche old people have been spouting since the dawn of countries and handbaskets. And I'm not THAT old. Yet.

I am getting older, though. That's a reality I've become more aware and fearful of this year than any other, which is a trend I suspect will continue. And just like Newtown jarred me into a bout of depressive abstinence from writing silly blog posts, the tragedy in Venice may have contributed to flipping another switch in my head.

Maybe I'm not as good a writer as I fancied myself. Or maybe I am. Maybe my dreams of writing screenplays that actually turn into movies won't ever be realized. Or maybe it'll happen ten or twenty years from now. I don't know. Man, there's so much I don't know. About myself, my future, and everything else.

But I know when not to write.

Today

I write this first sentence not knowing what the following sentences will conatin. I'm writing this because I don't really know what else to do with myself at the moment. My stomach is knotted, my heart about as heavy as it's ever been, like a single paper towel trying to sop up an entire puddle. I'm writing because it's the purest way I've ever known to release terrible feelings. Hell, that's the reason I started this silly blog in the first place.

The world seems to be becoming more and more of an overwhelming place to exist in. It feels like every other day I have to take pause to allow another of humanity's tragedies to wash over me - whether it's Syrians slaughtering each other, or a biblical storm destroying an entire community, or a professional athlete killing himself and the mother of his little baby.

What happened today is another link in this horrific chain. Bad things have always happened, and they always will. For whatever reason - well, that's sort of bullshit; it's the kids, of course - I feel like this one demands I express something, here, in my little corner of the internet/world.

I don't want to say anything about guns, or mental health, or any of the obvious issues at play here that must and will be debated, even though in this moment I'm fairly pessimistic there will be any positive change as a result of this. All I really want to do is reach out to anyone who reads this, to try and express how much love I have for you.

I don't consider myself much of an expressive person. I probably don't tell the ones near and dear to me how much I care about them, how much they mean to me, as often as I should. That's probably true of most of us. But this is a day when I feel it is absolutely necessary, if for nothing else than just to keep myself from crying. If you're reading this, whoever you are, however I know you - whether you're my family, my best friend, an old girlfriend, a dude I had a meeting with three years ago - I love you. You all mean something to me, and I am incredibly grateful that we're a part of each other's lives, however big or small that may be.

This is a fucked up world. Nothing illustrates that better than what happened this morning. It terrifies me, and makes me feel like it's only a matter of time before something like this happens to someone I care about. All we really have is each other. I suppose that's my silver lining...coming to understand that  simple truth the older I get. And as this particular nightmare passes and fades away, I swear to fucking god to never forget that.

Give Me Some Credits

There's this one Family Guy episode where Peter Griffin keeps getting tricked into thinking a movie's starting by those little moving logos every production company uses these days:

I'm a little embarrassed to admit that this actually happened to me yesterday. I was on an airplane, and decided to watch Woody Allen's latest, TO ROME WITH LOVE (because I supposed an airplane was probably the only venue in which I'd end up watching it). Prior to the opening credits, on a black screen, up faded the definitions of the words "Captive" and "Entertainment." You know, like this:

cap·tive

 [kap-tiv] 

noun

1. a prisoner.

2. a person who is enslaved or dominated; slave: He is the captive ofhis own fears.

en·ter·tain·ment

 [en-ter-teyn-muh nt]

noun

1. the act of entertaining; agreeable occupation for the mind;diversion; amusement: Solving the daily crossword puzzle is anentertainment for many

2. something affording pleasure, diversion, or amusement,especially a performance of some kind: The highlight of the ball was an elaborate entertainment.

3. hospitable provision for the needs and wants of guests.

4. a divertingly adventurous, comic, or picaresque novel.

I started reading these definitions, because more than a couple movies start this way. I assumed these two words were integral to the film's story. But before I could finish, the definitions faded to a logo: 

Man, did I feel dumb. Behaving like Peter Griffin is not a great indicator of intelligence. But here's the thing: I don't think this was really my fault. Because never in my life have I witnessed something so utterly condescending as a company providing its customers with dictionary definitions of the words used to make up its name.

I mean, come on. Maybe you could get away with this if your company was called, I don't know, "Biblioklept Pictures" ("biblioklept" being Dictionary.com's "word of the day" today - it means a person who steals books). But "Captive Entertainment"?!? Those are not words that need to be defined for your average American moviegoer. 

Or maybe they do, who knows. I've seen Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. All I do know is, when life starts imitating satirical cartoons, something's gone too far.

Thank You, Melky

As the San Francisco Giants prepare to play the Detroit Tigers in the World Series, coming off a Giants fan's dream of a postseason run that involved winning three straight elimination games twice in consecutive series, it's important to stop and remember the most crucial contributor who got them here, a man without whom this scenario would not be possible.

Melky Cabrera.

Cabrera, an off-season acquisition from Kansas City, was having the season of his life before he got caught using a banned substance on August 15 and suspended by the league for 50 games. He was leading the majors in hits, and was unquestionably the Giants' offensive MVP - not to mention the MVP in the All-Star Game, where he hit a home run, helping to earn the Giants' home field advantage in the World Series, which begins tomorrow in San Francisco.

When the news broke of Melky's suspension, it was devastating. I was in JFK airport in New York when I saw the report on a TV in a bar, and I remember thinking "Well, that's probably the season." At the time, the Giants were a game back of the Dodgers for first place in the NL West, having been chasing them all season.

What's remarkable is how the rest of the season played out. The Giants went on a tear, finishing the rest of their games with a 30-14 record, or a winning percentage of .682. The Dodgers, to the contrary, finished their schedule with a 21-23 record - a .477 win percentage - and ended the season eight games behind the Giants and, more importantly, out of the playoffs.

This doesn't really make sense, on the surface. You shouldn't play your best baseball after you lose your best player. But everyone who watches enough baseball, and sports in general, knows that the improbable happens all the time. Baseball is like life in that way - we constantly read articles and see local news segments about people facing long odds to overcome adversity and ultimately triumph. My Facebook news feed would be barren without them.

You see, the Giants are a classic example of what a baseball team should be. They responded to the challenge of losing their best player - of being betrayed by their best player (as opposed to losing him to injury) - by banding together and picking up the slack. Buster Posey became their new best player, leading the majors in hitting the second half of the season. Marco Scutaro, a 36-year-old journeyman, came over in a trade with Colorado that barely qualified to be announced in the newspaper, and went on to hit .362 the rest of the year, dwarfing the impact of the much more heralded Hunter Pence trade from Philadelphia, as the lanky right-fielder did little more than herky-jerk and crazy-eye his way through a lackluster last couple of months.

It was Scutaro who was the target of a dirty play in Game 2 of the NLCS, when the Cardinals' Matt Holliday unnecessarily took him out in a late slide at second base. It was ugly, and the Giants feared they might lose their second baseman to a hip injury as a result. But once again, they came together to humiliate St. Louis - outscoring them 20-1 over the final three games of the series - with Scutaro leading the way, hitting an ungodly .500 and winning the series MVP award.

That MVP award links Scutaro, in a way, back to Melky Cabrera. Cabrera, who can now only sit and watch as the Giants get ready to play in the World Series, has been forgotten by the team he once led. He was eligible to be reinstated by the Giants after the first five games of the playoffs, his suspension having been served. But without batting an eye, the Giants' ownership announced he was no longer welcome. Simply put, he's not a part of the team anymore, and never will be. Could he have helped out offensively? Most definitely, considering his replacement, Gregor Blanco, hit .182 in the NLCS, which was actually slightly better than the Giants' 4-5 hitters, Posey and Pence, who hit an abominable .154 and .179, respectively. Those are pitchers' hitting numbers.

But the Giants understand how to operate as a team. They get that clubhouse camaraderie is more important than statistics. It's a concept the Dodgers have failed to grasp. Given the same scenario, there is no way the Dodgers wouldn't have reinstated their best offensive player for the playoffs, despite the fact that his teammates had been let down by his selfishness. In fact, they did just that in 2009, when Manny Ramirez was given the same suspension Cabrera was. They brought him back towards the end of the season, the fans welcomed him with open arms, and the Dodgers were beaten in five games by Philadelphia in the NLCS, dragged down by Manny's awful performance.

(Of course, there is a glaring hole in my argument, which is that the Giants did bring back reliever Guillermo Mota this season after his 100-game steroid suspension, which is indeed a bit hypocritical. The difference, however, is that no once cares about Mota. He's a middle reliever, not an offensive superstar charged with the burden of leading his team, like Manny or Melky was. Mota is like a stray cat hanging out by the screen door outside your kitchen: irritating, but relatively harmless. Melky was a rattlesnake coiled on the front porch - you have to call the fire department to come over and sever its head with a shovel, just like my mom did when she was startled by one at our family friend's summer home when I was a kid.)

What makes the Dodgers' lack of success this season all the more glaring is the money they squandered acquiring big name players late in the season, assuming this would translate to more wins and a playoff appearance. It didn't. While Marco Scutaro's workmanlike leadership helped propel the Giants into the postseason, the Dodgers capsized, whining in the newspaper about their new superstars not having enough time to mesh with the rest of the team. As if there is something different to a talent like Adrian Gonzalez about hitting a baseball in Boston versus Los Angeles.

And as soon as the losing took hold, the bad attitude was pervasive and palpable throughout the city. Every Saturday, the LA Times prints letters to the editor in the Sports section, and it was flooded, week after week, with unhappy fans criticizing the team. They were like petulant children on Christmas morning, unhappy that their shiny, expensive new toys weren't good enough. But ultimately, LA is not really a baseball town. Sure, when the Dodgers are winning, the fans love them. When they're not, they find something else to do. In New York, the Yankees may buy up the big money players in the same way the Dodgers did this year, but there exists a rabid obsession with the team amongst the fan base, win or lose. In LA, the Lakers are the Yankees. The Dodgers are more like the Knicks.

And in San Francisco, the Giants are the Giants. Their identity is crystallized as much as any team in sports, and the loyal fans appreciate that more than anything - more than winning, even. Whether or not they defeat Detroit and win it all in the coming week won't change any of our minds about them. They will remain beloved far into the future not just for what they accomplish, but for who they are. And no single person helped them realize who they are more than Melky Cabrera. Because he illustrated definitively who they are not.

To Cash or Not to Cash?

Yesterday I received a check in the mail from the Cheesecake Factory in the amount of 76 cents. It came with a letter explaining some sort of legal settlement, and this three-quarters of a dollar is apparently what I'm entitled to. (I briefly worked at the Cheesecake Factory during an emotional low point in my twenties.)

This check presents a weird sort of dilemma. I'm kind of embarrassed to go to an ATM for the sole purpose of depositing 76 cents into my account. And yet, I simply can't bring myself to throw the check in the garbage. That's three quarters! Who throws away three quarters?!

What drives me even crazier is that I'm even spending the mental energy debating this, as I realize that having the 76 cents or not having the 76 cents in my bank account will make no discernible difference in my life either way, ever. In the end, it really doesn't matter.

Part of me thinks I may be just a pawn in some sort of sociological experiment. Some team of researchers from UCLA is waiting patiently to see how many Jews will actually cash these checks. If that's the case...I still don't know what to do.

Twenty-four hours ago, I didn't know this money I was entitled to even existed. I wish I could go back to that blissful time. Damn you, Cheesecake Factory. Damn you and your delicious honey oat bread.

SuckCenter

Last night on national television, you had game two of baseball's National League Championship Series that featured a pretty controversial play. You also had a historic Monday Night Football game, with an epic comeback by one of the best quarterbacks of all time.

So what does today's 9AM SportsCenter go with as their top story? Fifteen minutes of a live press conference of Eagles head coach Andy Reid talking about how Philly fired their defensive coordinator. That's right, a guy you never heard of lost his job on a 3-3 football team. Man, can't wait to hear all about that.

Look, ESPN - you have to realize, not everyone is an unemployed screenwriter who has nothing to do but watch sports highlights all morning in their underwear. I mean, I am, but I imagine other people might only have a few minutes in the morning to catch up on the important happenings of the previous night before they trudge off to the dropout factories. What do you reckon the percentage is of these swing-vote middle classers who give a flying fuck about a defensive coordinator getting fired? Four? Maybe five percent? Gotta be around there.

SportsCenter used to be appointment television for sports fans. Lately it's shot right past hiply-snarky and is dangerously approaching TMZ-level annoying. This summer, all I heard about was how Mark Sanchez was reacting to the smell of Tim Tebow taking a dump in his private bathroom. Stop pandering to Jets and Eagles fans as if the rest of the country cares about mediocre big market teams, and go back to practicing legitimate sports journalism.

Traffic Thoughts

I was sitting in my car on La Brea the other day, having hit my sixth straight red light, when the fact hit me that I miss New York City and am pretty much over LA.

What can I say? To me, at this point in my life, NYC is novel and exciting. By comparison, LA seems boring and tired. I went away for a year and fell in love with a sexy new city, while simultaneously falling out of love with my frumpy long-term locale. If I was Chevy Chase in VACATION, New York would be my Christie Brinkley; LA my Beverly D'Angelo.

Now, I could tick off all the reasons why I feel this way - the traffic I mentioned earlier is a good starting point. But that's not what I'm here to kvetch about. What bothers me is that this is yet another development in my inevitable march towards becoming someone I hate. Man, did I used to loathe all those people who pontificated to me about how wonderful New York is, sneering down with pity upon those of us who had yet to be enlightened.

And yet, here I am. I wish things had turned out differently, I really do. I wish I had come back here and thought, "Yeah New York was fun, but I'm a California boy, and this is where I belong." I tried for awhile, but I have to admit truthfully how I feel: I may not be long for this town.

Or maybe next time I'll just take Fairfax.