How can I unwind or get some rest

B-Street Billiards, Thursday night, past my normal bedtime. Guy-guys swat about pool balls with cues and suck on expensive beers. Valerie sports a slinky dress and heels. Charles’s hair is growing long; it slides into his eyes and he flicks it out with a sidelong glance across the table.

“What?s the matter, John?” says Valerie.

“I’m down,” I say. “The SUTN show has delayed production yet again, and I haven’t acted for a long time. I don’t even know if I can turn it on. I feel like I’m not an actor anymore.”

“Here’s a story,” says Charles. “Marilyn Monroe is walking down the street with a friend, and she says, ‘You notice anyone looking at me, right now?’ Friend says, ‘No.’ Marilyn says, ‘That’s because I’m Norma Jean. Watch this.’ And she turns on the Marilyn, and suddenly all the men’s heads are craning to look at her, and all the men on the street are in love with her. She turns it on.'”

“Yeah,” says Valerie. “Some women can do that. Watch this.” She takes another swig of Beaulieu Vineyards and surveys the room. Then she does a slow burn, her eyes speaking something dark and wild.

“What –” I start.

“Sshh, wait,” says Charles.

Valerie’s cell phone rings. She answers it and listens, scanning the bar. When he saunters from the other side of the room, he’s wearing bluejean overalls and a red baseball cap cocked backwards on his blonde locks. He grins and hangs up his own cell phone.

“Hi, Justin,” purrs Valerie.

“Um, yeah, so I gave you a call last week, but you never got back to me,” says Justin, beaming. Twenty feet away, a round-hipped chick checks her watch and glares at us.

“You here with someone?” asks Valerie.

“Oh, she’ll wait,” says Justin. “I just wanted to know when I could see you again.”

“You haven’t seen me before,” says Valerie, tugging a button on his overalls. “And, by the way, I’m nearly twice your age. What would your mother say?”

“She wouldn’t have to be there,” says Justin.

“Oh, nowwww –” says Valerie, dangling the syllable like a silver spinner on a fishing line. “Go be with your little girlfriend.”

Justin returns to his chick, who tugs him from the bar, whispering something in his ear. Charles laughs and says, “You disappointed him, Valerie. You should at least give him a call.”

Valerie picks up her cell phone immediately and dials it. “What should I say?”

“Here, give me the phone,” I say.

I press my ear to the earpiece and listen. “Hello?” says a muffled voice.

“Ahhh… Uhhh…” I say, moaning.

“Hello?” says the voice.

“Oh! Oh oh oh yes! Yes!” I build, panting, groaning, heaving, and screaming in glorious dubious ecstasy. I pound the table. “Oh oh oh like that oh yes AH!” The five pool games stop. The karaoke pauses.

“Okay,” says the voice. I hang up and give Valerie back her phone.

“That actually turned me on a little bit,” says Charles. “I give him thirty seconds.”

Twenty-seven seconds later, Justin saunters back in the front door of the bar, girlfriend in tow. Justin walks to Valerie, his open cell phone still in his hand.

“Wow, that was awesome, Valerie,” says Justin.

“Actually, Justin.” says Valerie, swatting a fly from her glass of wine, “That was not me.”

“Really?” Justin blinks, utterly crestfallen. “Whoever that was, it was a really good actress. Who was it?”

At this moment, two things happen, in almost but not exactly the same instant:

– Comedy occurs;

– I am no longer depressed.

Who here in the crew was he talking to

Last night, a dream of mine was fulfilled: I heard the current draft of “Bishop’s Eighteen Wives” read by my dream team. And they absofuckinglutely ruled.

And if that wasn’t enough, they stayed afterwards, and with great patience, explained to me the flaws and shortcomings of the script, and suggested ideas for fixing them.

For the record: the coolest type of people on earth are actors. They’ll do any goddamn thing you request of them, typically with no pay and no respect. Keite, Crystal, Sean B., Sean W., Clare, Charles, Alex, Anthony, Rob, Lisa, Mr. Fantastic, Shannon: you dominate the known universe.

You know you ghetto, look at the way you walk

True story: In sixteenth-century Bavaria, a tailor ingratiated himself into the Catholic Church and declared himself a bishop, God’s representative on earth. He promptly banished the men from the town and serially married the women.

“The Bishop’s Eighteen Wives” is a two-act roller coaster of ribaldry, religion, and revenge. It’s got thrilling swordplay, seduction of nuns and farm girls, a silent murderer, tavern fights, instant marriages, a poisoned needle, and several pieces of women’s undergarments. “The Bishop’s Eighteen Wives” is funny, philosophical, and very very sexy.

Table read, my place, tonight, 6:30 p.m. Wine and beer and pizza and sushi. If you’re one of the three people who read my blog, come on by.

Daddy’s gone across the ocean, leaving just a memory

The fifteen-pack Sears Portrait Package includes a choice of predetermined backgrounds and props. Olan Mills lectures us: “Our photographer will take five poses using various backgrounds, props, and special effects. You will need a table like the one below which you can print out and bring to the studio.”

In either case, you are expected to encapsulate your most personal memories of your family with a predesigned, focus-tested Happy Meal menu of photos.

As Mr. Fantastic says, fuc dat.

Go invent your history. Go make your family photos something worth looking at.

Kimi ni kondo au hi no tame ni

Before Narita was home to a vast international airport, it was home to a shrine and a series of low-ceilinged tourist shops. This particular restaurant is hundreds of years old. Eel is in season here. It’s rich and fragrant, almost the consistency of butter. Call it unagi.

“Yellow lace,” Haba-san says to me, scarfing up a piece of unagi. Yoshimi, his new girlfriend, nods and smiles. “You know, in Japan we have only yellow lace, really.”

“I’m surprised,” I say. “In America, we have all colors of lace. Black, red, blue.”

Haba-san coughs on his unagi. “Blue lace?!” he grunts. “I don’t think you have blue lace there. You are laughing at me.”

Outside the door, two cats growl and grumble guttural threats at one another. A delicate old lady pads up, her slippers scuffing on the hot pavement, and she utters a syllable. The cats spring and scatter like water.

I consider trying to explain the word “catcalling” to Haba-san, but decide against it.

“Actually, we mostly have the white race in the United States,” I say. “Some black, some red, though.”

“Yah, I know,” said Haba-san. I wondered what he thought I thought.

Or should we blame the images on TV?

They’re fifteen, sixteen at best. The pudgy girl wears a pink flippy skirt. The guy wears a tight red T and has smudges of facial hair. Both of them have fancy cigarette cases. The guy stubs out the cigarette in a coffee cup and mumbles to the girl. The girl shrugs and takes a drag.

The jukebox in the corner of the coffee shop randomly starts. Slash lays down the opening riff to “Sweet Child of Mine.”

To my right, the college girls munch sandwiches and sip large cartons of chocolate milk through soda straws. Sisters? Friends? My French is too uncertain to be certain.

Expecting traffic, I left the hotel this morning an hour early. There was no rush hour. Here in Montreal, there are also coffee shops everywhere, but there isn’t the type-B slow caffeine panic that pervades the urine-smelling streets of San Francisco.

The college girls light up, grinning and conspiring. Smoking and speaking French seem to go hand-in-hand here. If I did either, this might be a nice place to live.

I get a whiff of cigarette smoke. Should I rewrite the problematic clause in this contract or rewrite the problematic scene in my play? Another cup of decaf and then I’ll decide.

Good morning campers, I’m your uncle Ernie

I’m attending a party at Tommy Tallarico’s mansion in San Juan Capistrano. I meet Tommy’s father, a round, stocky, grinning Italian named Tom.

“Your son has told me some stories about you,” I said. “He told me that you handle collections on game developers for him.”

“Yah, I do that,” said Tom, nodding. Somebody jumped in the pool with a splash.

“So tell me,” I said, swirling my glass of Chardonnay. “What’s the best way to handle customers who don’t pay?”

“Ah,” he said, touching me on the arm. “That case, you write ’em an invoice. Always gotta do the paperwork, you know. You send ’em the invoice. Fax it to ’em. You know?”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s say they don’t pay up then. What do you do?”

“Ah. That case, you give ’em a call. Real polite. You say, I’m just calling in to check the status of the payment. And I’m calling you to understand the status of that. You give ’em thirty days. Sometimes they can make a mistake. So I give ’em every chance.”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s say the customer still doesn’t pay. What now?”

“Ah well. That case, you give ’em thirty more days. And you send another copy of the invoice. Fax it to ’em. And you give ’em a call and you ask, what’s the status of this payment? Real patient, real calm, you ask ’em. You know?”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “You have this reputation for being Tommy’s strong-arm.”

“Yeah, he’s a real nice boy, he can get walked all over,” said Tom. “But ya know, a polite way, that’s the best way to take the collections. Most of the people want to pay ya for services rendered. And I just keep asking ’em, real nice, ya see. And eventually, the deadbeat sons-a-bitches get the fuckin’ clue.”

There ain’t no words for the beauty, the splendor, the wonder

San Diego Civic Center, the intermission of Hairspray, over the balcony at the mezzanine level. The audience members idly ogle one another on multiple stories, a sort of mellow confluence of hardcore people watchers. Bruce Vilanch’s topical one-liners and masterful comic timing kept up audience interest. I’m all for fresh and fruity entertainment ?- hell, I write it from time to time — but this particular touring production felt forced and tired.

The sunset of Del Mar, as filtered through a glass of Grgich Hills, is not intended to be viewed by solitary businessmen. Too bad you’re not with me tonight.