Dreams & Nightmares

 "Dreams do not do well in the waking world, but nightmares thrive there."

From The Sandman

Fortunately

 One of my greatest fears is that one morning, when I am only 33% awake after another shitty night's sleep, I will lift the toilet seat and a moray eel will spring upwards and clamp its vicious teeth on my throat, slash it open, and drink 58% of my blood, leaving the remaining 42% as a viscous pool at the base of the toilet in which I will die face down.

Fortunately, this has not happened yet.

A HOT Day

You roll out of bed on a hot day.

A very hot day.

Before you even make it to the bathroom, the following words scroll across your brain:

"Jesus Motherfucking Christ, it is fucking hot!"

That is a tough way to start the first day of the rest of your life.

If you repeat those words to Father O'Brien later on that day and he replies:

"Fuckin' A Right!" - you know you are in trouble.

True story.

Happened to me.

Christian Vazquez

Christian Vazquez was drafted by the Boston Red Sox in 2008 at the age of seventeen.

He made it to the majors 6 years later in 2014. In 2015 he had Tommy John surgery and had to recover from that. In 2018 he won a World Championship with the Sox.

He spent his entire 15 year big league career with the Sox.

This week the Sox traded him to the Houston Astros. On a day when the Sox were playing the Astros. In his second game with the Astros, Vazquez was called to the plate in the 9th inning as a pinch hitter. Against his career-long, ex-team.

Can you imagine what his emotions were? The man loved playing in Boston. You could see it, you could feel it. His enthusiasm was over the top. All of his former teammates say the same thing. I think a lot of the players he left behind were as heart broken as he was.

This felt like an unusually emotional experience. Maybe it happens more often than I am aware, but in Christian's case he wore his emotions on his sleeve. And so did his teammates. When he was on the field pre-game in an enemy uniform, many of his teammates hugged him in an obviously heartfelt way. They talked to him. They looked him right in the eye.

The love was obvious. The respect was obvious.

His trade amplified how weird it is to be a professional athlete. With no say about where your team trades you. "Players that have accrued 10 years of major league service time and spent the last 5 consecutive years with the same team can veto any trade scenario that is proposed."

Vazquez did not qualify.

Professional athletes are human beings (except for Tom Brady). Many of them get traded against their will. It's not just the prospect of playing for another team; it's the personal decisions that go along with that.

These guys have wives, they have kids - they are established in a city. What do they do now? Move immediately? Wait a while to see what happens? If the athlete doesn't relocate his family, how often will he see them? He no longer has a home field.

In Vazquez's farewell he said about his teammates and staff  - "I am forever grateful, for you helped me when I was away from my family." About Red Sox Nation - "I will hear your cheers in my heart forever." About Boston - "Boston will always have a place in my heart, and this is me leaving a piece of it with you."

During his introductory press conference with the Astros he said to Boston "To the fans, I'm going to miss you a lot. Every game in Fenway Park, a special place to play. You never know, I'm going into free agency next year. You never know. Let's see what happens. ........But I love you guys. You were very good to me and my family, and I'm going to miss you guys."

Do these comments sound like the words of a man who is happy to be traded? Fuck no!

There are many of you who say "these guys make big bucks, fuck them, it's part of the deal."

I say "Fuck you, you are an asshole."

Carol and I were devastated when we heard about the trade, and we truly hope he makes it back to the Red Sox.

To win another championship.

Supremely Confident

 "It shrinks my liver..........It pickles my kidneys.........But what does it do to my mind? It tosses the sandbags overboard so the balloon can soar. Suddenly I'm above the ordinary. I'm competent - supremely competent. I'm walking a tightrope over Niagara Falls. I'm one of the great ones. I'm Michelangelo molding the beard of Moses. I'm van Gogh painting pure sunlight."

Charles Brackett and Billy Wilder, The Lost Weekend.

A New Business Model

And the ping pong continues.

On non-work days I am a pussycat, a model citizen. On work days I am a psycho hose beast. One imaginary provocation away from tossing my laptop against the wall, or using it to club a ticket buyer over the head. Especially when I work a show. Like last night.

I walk into the theatre with shields up. I stalk my way in. I strut. Body language daring any unsuspecting fool to irritate me in any way, small or large.

Behind the scenes, I bitch, I complain, I am an ornery motherfucker. When the curtain comes down on the box office window and I am forced to deal with customers, I project an air of menace.

I ask "Can I help you?" but in a tone that says you better not fuck with me. And if they are stupid enough to fuck with me, I spit poison. I cannot believe no one has filed a complaint.

Last night I did the "can I help you thing" and the woman at the window recoiled and said sarcastically "Well that was awfully loud!" I don't even remember what I said because at that point I am white hot and everything becomes a blur, but I do know my tone of voice was nasty. Apparently I made my point because she shut the hell up, bought her precious ticket and walked the fuck away.

There is glass between me and the customer. We communicate through a two way amplification system. Sometimes you get that screechy feedback noise. Can't be helped. It fucking happens.

BUT, every time, every fucking time, the idiot customer will make a face like somebody stabbed them in the eye with an ice pick and say something stupid, implying that it is my fault. That's my favorite situation. I have about 5 different heavily sarcastic comments that I make, all of which are very enjoyable for me.

There is a movie titled From Dusk To Dawn. Bizarre movie, very bizarre movie, but it stars George Clooney, believe it or not. From 1996.

Cheech Marin, from Cheech and Chong, plays a bartender in a sleazy, Mexican bar. Behind him, over his head, is a neon sign that says "The customer is always wrong."

I am in agreement with that philosophy.

I am creating a new business model for customer service.

I don't know if it is sustainable, but it sure is fun.

As The Career Turns

The second copywriting website rejected me.

Rejected me. Are you kidding me? Come on, you have seen and appreciated the creative way I string words together. You love my writing. How can you not? I'm brilliant.

I submitted a writing sample and after a few days they came back with "Sorry, kid - you suck."

I put down a $20,000 deposit on a yacht, fully expecting these people to offer me a contract worth $4 million annually. Now what the fuck am I going to do? What will I tell Carol?

To summarize my copywriting career: I blew my first chance at it and that website treats me like a leper. Incommunicado, baby. The second website rejected me outright.

Holy shit, man - what am I gonna do?

Porn, baby.

Hell of a career in that.