If there's one thing I've learned about not doing something, it's that you'll never get a return on all of your imagined outcomes.

They are zero.

Go ahead and keep tricking yourself into thinking you can do it better/faster/smarter. Keep trying to demoralize others who make things, from the cushioned comfort of your inaction.

Sellout. Hack. Not funny. Boring. Been done. Anyone can do that. Famewhore. No-talent.

Keep hiding behind the mindless act of cutting other people down...

Or, make something and release it and see what happens.

Hear criticism. Revel in acclaim.

Get better as you do both.

That's the most exciting part about art.

I wished for some things, and they came true. So I kept wishing for more, and they showed up too. 

I didn't mean to rhyme there, but now I have and I won't rewrite it.

I suppose blogging is dead, now that Google has announced the death of Google Reader.

Not really, but it's sad. All of my friends are in that reader. I follow people I've forgotten about because they live in the sidebar of a bland little aggregator that keeps me connected. Sure, I could export my feeds. Will I? 

I dunno.

Melancholy over a stupid RSS reader? Don't be an asshole, me.

Anyway, real life is on a run right now. So much good stuff that I can't bear to share it. That's not me being cryptic, it's me being cautious. I don't believe in jinxing shit, but I do believe in not fucking it up by being loud. Jinxing, I guess.

I won't be blogging every day this year. I tried, and missed. But I'll still write here. Add me to your non-Google RSS reader. Shit, maybe I'll go back to the OG NetNewsWire. They seem to be capitalizing on a rare Google mistake.

I've had nothing but juice and almonds all day. It's going to be a bitch to get off coffee AND booze for a while.

It can be done. Maybe I'll just wish for it.

Seems to work.

Well, March.

Sure, I blew it in February. I'm okay with that.

Once a day for a year is insane. I get that now.

Also, who wants it? There are about 12 of you reading.

Quality, not quantity.

But I'm here.

I'm not going anywhere.

Just try to shake me.

So busy. So very very busy.

What's up with you?

I've become obsessed with classic watches.

I know how it started.

About three years ago, John Mayer shot with us for a few days to be on an episode of Fantasy Factory. He'd seen every episode of Rob and Big and blindly called Rob to tell him how much he enjoyed it. From there, the two formed a friendship and John eagerly agreed to come down to do an episode. Everyone who worked on the show was excited. When you work in Los Angeles, you occasionally cross paths with ultra famous people. It's always a bit of a thrill, no matter what anyone tells you. People who claim not to be fazed by any level of contact with mega-fame are lying.

John showed up, and was brilliant. He was funny, smart, and nice to everyone working on the show. He went out of his way to be present and accessible, a delicate dance when most of the people approaching him on a daily basis are probably doing their best to play it cool and pretend that whatever the conversation is won't become a story for all of their friends later. He's a very cool guy. He even let me drive his Audi R8 to Hollywood one day that we shot. Quite a highlight.

In addition to being a talented musician and human, John Mayer also happens to be a huge watch guy. He's a well known watch collector, and he wore an incredibly nice watch each day of the three days we shot. I remember an IWC and some mega thousand dollar exotic watch, but the watch I remember most was this one:

If I'm not mistaken, that's a Green Rolex Submariner Date 116610LV, AKA: The Hulk. Pretty sick. Back then, I knew nothing about it.

One day during shooting, we got to talking about watches. I asked him why he cared so much. "It doesn't make sense to me," I said.  "Who wears watches? You might as well carry a typewriter around with you," I joked.

He dismissed me (in a friendly way), saying: "You don't get it then. You don't have the gene. Some people do, some people don't. You obviously don't have the watch gene." He smirked as he walked back into the warehouse to shoot another scene inside of Rob's office.

Pfft. Don't have the gene.

What does that even...

SURE, I don't have millions of dollars to buy ANYTHING I WANT!

Who even checks the time anymore?

THE AUDACITY...

Don't have the...

I MIGHT HAVE THE GENE, YOU DON'T KNOW, JOHN MAYER.

After that day, I told the story of the time John Mayer told me I didn't have the watch gene to friends several different times. "What a dick," they always said. "Thank you," I always said.

But, the seed was planted. I couldn't stop thinking about that beautiful green Submariner. I started noticing other Submariners and Datejusts and Day Dates, and Daytonas in the wild. I started researching the history of the watches and the brand. Did you know the Submariner was the watch Sean Connery wore in the Bond movies? That an Explorer was the watch Ian Fleming wore when he WROTE Bond? That they are some of the most imitated watches in history?

I didn't either. Until John Mayer planted that fucking seed.

The seed grew into a nagging urge. I started to maybe understand the idea of having a nice watch. An heirloom. A workhorse. A constant reminder of this specific point in my life.

Fuckin' John Mayer.

So in 2011, I got myself an entry level Submariner. I used my 40th birthday as an excuse, although it was something I had been obsessing about for more than a year before I finally pulled the trigger. Some people buy corvettes when they turn 40, some people apparently buy a watch. It's not a fancy green bezeled one like John's, but I love it. I've worn it almost every day since I bought it. It's a "No Date Stainless Steel Sub," as they call it on the watch nerd message boards. 

Someday, I'll hand it down to my son. I like the idea of passing a cool watch down to my kid. It's a nice connection.

Today I spent the entire day studying the late 60's Datejust, one of the most classic watches of all time. I read about the intricacies of the components; the variety of models, how to spot fakes; which ones are the most desirable, etc. I read about baton hands and Jubilee watch bands and the half life of tritium (the radioactive isotope of hydrogen), which gave watches in the 50's and 60's their "lume," or glow in the dark ability. I think I've been bitten by a watch bug. Or watch gene. Or maybe John Mayer?

Hey, I read that he's dating Katy Perry.  

What a perfect segue to a photo of Katy Perry to close out this post:

Look at that. Her dress matches John's green Submariner.

Set high goals and don't be afraid to recalibrate.

We've been shooting the second half of the third season of Ridiculousness for the past couple of weeks. When we finish later today, that will be 58 episodes of this series over three seasons. Unbelievable. It premiered last week as the top rated cable show of the entire day.  It's taken a while, but we're finally starting to feel like we know what we're doing. If all goes well, we'll get to keep making more.

I'm also producing  and directing a series of commercials and internet spots that we shoot in a couple of weeks.  It's a big project for our production company, and an exciting new path for me.  

So, I haven't had lots of spare time for writing, but that's a good thing. Being busy is much better than the alternative. 

I'll keep striving to post every day.

The good thing about falling a little short of a lofty goal is...

hey, you're still pretty high up there. 

I spent over a week writing guest posts at Wil Wheaton dot Net. I know I neglected Nickerblog dot com, but I'm okay with that. Wil is not only a friend, but an inspiration. The chance to hop into the driver's seat of WWdN for even a short amount of time was a huge honor. I know it's just a blog, but fuck that no it isn't. It's THE blog. All the other blogs are just versions of it.

If you have been paying close attention (which my stats and comments lead me to believe you have NOT been), I missed a couple of days. C'est la Vie. I'm all about letting myself off for good behavior.

Life has been busy. Ridiculousness Season 3 premiered this past week (and did pretty fucking well), we taped episode 50 last Friday (FUCKING FIFTY MOTHERFUCKERS), and in January, Rob and I started our own production company. (!)

These things are good.

The company is called "SuperJacket Productions." Our goal is to continue to make funny content. Here's our logo, which I love:

It's based on a running joke from Rob and Big. It will appear as an endcard in all episodes of Ridiculousness starting with 302 (this Thursday).  There is an animated version, which is way better than this static one.

Dudes, I have my own production company. WTF.

Pretending I know what I'm doing is my spirit animal.

You have to begin.

This is something I've been pushing myself to do this year. Ignore that shitty voice:

From the post:

"If I’ve learned anything in my shaky life as an artist, it’s that you must stop talking and spinning and whining and start making your thing today. Pick up a camera. Pick up an easel. Open your laptop and turn off your Internet connection while you write. Find a starting point. Ignore the voices. Ignore the critics. Reward yourself for having ideas by valuing them enough to believe in them."

Indeed.

Amazing.

(ganked from @lettersofnote)

I had a dream that I decided not to finish college. 

I told my parents, who completely agreed with me since I already have three kids and a currently successful career. That was the weird thing: I was both me now and me from college at the same time. Wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey.

With the knowledge of my present (and to a college me, future), I decided that college was a waste of money and time. My parents were delighted, as they paid for all four years of college plus my victory lap. 

I was in a fraternity in college. It made sense at the time, since it felt like an easy way to make friends. I'd call it more of a drinking club than an organization. It contributed heavily to my need for a fifth year to graduate.

If you subtract what I learned from books and classes in college, you'd be left with my bumpy road to socialization. I discovered who I didn't like being and finally realized the potential of who I might one day be. It took me five years, but I found my career. It sprung out of drunken nights in basements, an embarrassing night in a police station, failed attempts at Accounting, and dishes washed in a restarant called Martino's.

In my dream, I had all of the information and decided that college was a waste of time and money.  

Sitting here, thinking back on it, it was exactly what I needed to end up where I am.

Still writing, just over at WWdN for a few days.

An excerpt:

"Part of getting older is the discovery that there is no end plateau you eventually reach where everything is finally perfect. Maturity is a myth. You spend the first half of your life chasing maturity and the second half figuring out how to be escape it.  By the end of 2012, I was feeling lost. A show that I produced had recently ended after five seasons, I was on the tail end of a six month decline into party/pig mode, and I started to feel like I didn’t have a lot of real friends in my life. Three kids and a busy job make it difficult to invest time into old friendships, and before you know it, years have gone by and you’ve drifted into deep, lonely water."

 

Just so's you don't think I've given up on writing every day...

Here's a link to my first guest post at WWdN: BACKSTORY.

Well, sort of.

Wil has asked me to be one of three guest bloggers while he is away on a cruise ship. I've already written my first post, which will go live on Sunday evening.

Here's an excerpt...

"For some reason, Wil gave me the keys to the Internet by allowing me to guest post here on WWdN. WHAT THE WHAT? You can imagine my excitement, as WWdN is hallowed ground for some of us longtime bloggers and blog readers. And TNG fans. Oh my god, the one where Picard gets pwned by that Alien probe and lives a whole other life and learns to play a space flute? Hawesome. Wait, was Wil even in that one? What was I talking about. Oh, right. Keys to the Internet. WWdN. It’s the place we’ve watched a guy we wish we knew from movies and TV turn into a guy we really DO know, thanks to his writing and his willingness to share his life. It’s the blog that spawned thousands of blogs (mine included), and continues to be a fascinating (and generous) glimpse at the path our friend Wil is traveling..."

 

Here in Los Angeles, it's apparently okay to open fire on a truck that LOOKS LIKE the truck of an alleged cop killer.

From the L.A. Times article:

Manhunt: Newspaper carrier, 71, in ICU after being shot by police

A 71-year-old woman delivering newspapers with her daughter remained in intensive care Thursday night after she was shot twice in the back by Los Angeles police detectives during a massive manhunt for a fugitive ex-LAPD officer, according to the womens' attorney.

Emma Hernandez was delivering the Los Angeles Times with her daughter, Margie Carranza, 47, in Torrance early Thursday when police officers apparently mistook their pickup for that of Christopher Jordan Dorner, the 33-year-old fugitive suspected of killing three people and injuring two others.

Hernandez was in stable condition late Thursday.

The officers riddled the women's blue pickup with bullets in the 19500 block of Redbeam Avenue. Carranza was also hit, according to attorney Glen T. Jonas, and received stitches to a finger.

 

How the fuck does this happen? Why are we not protesting in the streets? What if you had a blue truck and were in the wrong place at the wrong time? Jesus fucking Christ, LAPD. This guy's manifesto accuses you of covering up truths, racism, and general corruption. Maybe the wrong message to send back is that YOU WILL FUCKING SHOOT ANYONE WHO DRIVES A SIMILAR VEHICLE, NO QUESTIONS ASKED.

I support law enforcement. I have family in law enforcement. But for fuck's sake, their job is to serve and protect not SHOOT PEOPLE JUST IN CASE.

Please be outraged by this.

One of the interesting life lessons I've learned over the past several years is that achieving dreams sometimes goes unnoticed. You spend so much time focused on general goals, which constantly evolve as you chase them, that you can be right in the middle of your destination and confuse it for more of the road to that elusive place you've only partially imagined.

Confusing sentence.

I'll make it more personal.

There was a time in my life when the idea of having a job I enjoyed and the ability to pay my bills was a fantasy. When I was catering at Bar Mitzvahs or carrying baggage to rooms in the Park Hyatt or making drinks for fancy people at private parties, I yearned for a life that I imagined being something closer to the people I was serving. I wanted to have a family and be proud of some achievements and feel like a proper adult. I wanted, if nothing else, to not live hand to mouth; week to week; paycheck to paycheck.

Life is funny. It doesn't reward you with a cake when you finally arrive somewhere you set out to go. More often, life tricks you with new goals and more plans and if you're not careful, a dismissive wave of the hand at your occasional desire to clap yourself on the back. Onward. More to do. Recalibrating.

I don't live hand to mouth right now. I'm not living in a mansion in Bel Air, but I'm also not afraid to buy the good coffee from time to time. Shit, after almost six years, I'm finally convinced that I can handle our mortgage without nightly panic attacks. I'm 41. I had hoped to be somewhere like here when I was younger, imagining myself as an adult.

It was a long road to here. I slogged through the shitty trenches of day jobs for over a decade.  If not for a few fortunate forks in the road, I might still be in those trenches. Knowing how this town works, I could easily be back there with a couple of bad decisions...

Probably not.

When the house is quiet and it's just me here on the couch, I do reflect on some of the things I have done. I think of traveling the world with extraordinary people on Trippin'. I think of the three series I've helped to build. I think of the three children I helped create. I think of the incredibly successful friends I have, who continue to shock me with their progress and seeming domination of this town. I think of meetings and deals and conference calls and big decisions and I realize...

I'm right in the middle of a place I always hoped I'd be. I get to work in the TV/Film business... and I really love it.

You hear about things other people are doing in their parallel careers, and their stuff always feels more important than the things you're actually doing. 

But what I think I've figured out is that maybe no one thinks their own thing is as important as everyone else's thing. Rarely do we think our own careers are exceptional or amazing or extraordinary. Rarely do we step back and say, "This is where you used to wish you were, and now you're here.  Smile. Laugh. Give yourself a high five."  But we should, because who knows how long it will last, or how long we'll last, or how much it will really matter when we look back upon it. 

I have had some exceptional experiences in my life, and I feel very lucky to be where I am.

There's still a long way to go before I get there, as the saying goes, but I have to remind myself that depending on perspective, "there" is also very much "here."

Okay so thanks to Wil, I bought myself one of these:

It's an Aeropress coffee maker. It's apparently the new way to make awesome coffee.

I also found this video on Vimeo, which made me laugh/want coffee made by this thing:

I wish it was tomorrow morning.

Superbowl Sunday.

I'm not going to or having a party for the game today. I'm fine with that.

It's less fun when I'm not drinking, but I'll still watch it.

I am, of course tempted by the idea of 10 beers and a bunch of fun garbage food, but I remain resolute in my goal.

One day of excessive alcohol costs me several in rebuilding my positive mindset. 

It's not that I've decided not to drink anymore; it's that the value of a clear head currently outweighs the value of drinking way too much. 

Superbowl Sunday is no longer a special enough occasion to surrender my momentum.

For now, I guess.

Coffee is my new beer.

Eventually, that will probably have to go too.

The purge continues.

As I attack the list of things I've been avoiding, I'm finding such pleasure in clearing out both my mind and my garage that I fear I'm becoming a reverse hoarder. Is it possible that releasing the need to hold on to things is a sign of satisfaction and contentment? For me, it feels like it. 

Here's a weird analogy:

If I'm a hot air balloon, the more lines I have tethered to stuff below me, the less I travel. As soon as I start cutting those tendrils to my past, I am lighter and more efficient. Time to fly.

Today, I packed the old 32" CRT Sony television we bought in 1995 into the minivan along with about 50 cans of paint, stain, varnish, and other assorted hazardous household waste the previous owner of our home left in the garage. The TV was the p90x TV until it finally died last month. It weighs about 150 pounds (no exaggeration), and is a huge hulk of a piece of junk. The paint cans have been sitting in our garage for SIX YEARS. I see them every time I go in there, and they've been vaguely stressing me out for that entire time.

So, with a quick Internet search, I discovered that Los Angeles makes it extremely easy to get rid of unwanted electronic/household hazardous waste. They have dropoff locations throughout the city called "S.A.F.E. Centers," which accept TV's, monitors, paint, electronics, VCR's, household chemicals, or practically any e-waste with a cathode tube.

I drove out to the one in Northridge with a bunch of stuff, certain that it could not be as easy as it sounded. 

IT WAS EASIER.

It's setup like a drive-thru, and there are guys in Breaking Bad style jumpsuits waiting to empty your car for you. I popped the hatchback and waited. They don't WANT you to get out of your car. In 3 minutes, I was on my way, minus a junky old TV and a shitload of paint.

I drove off, very impressed with my city.

My garage has more space, and so does my brain.

I'm clipping all these stupid things bogging me down, and it feels great.

Well, not bad. I missed a few days, but I double posted a couple of times so I'm calling it a win. Writing every day for a year, one month down.

11 more months.

Gear change.

My wife and I finalized our will yesterday. It's part of our transition into adulthood, which is actually just a never-ending ticking off of milestones that aren't always pleasant. In this case, getting a will done was something that had been nagging at us. Now, I personally don't plan to die before living to a ripe old 125 but JUST IN CASE, I don't want to leave extremely important decisions concerning my children up to a California probate court.

I'll tell you what the best part of crossing things off of the dusty to-do list is: it's freeing up my mind to deal with the things happening around me right now. I'm releasing my brain from the burden of all of these undone tasks that have been bogging me down. As unpleasant, scary, intimidating, uncomfortable or awkward as it may be to tackle unsavory issues in my life as they come up, I find it is much better for my mental health than shelving them to be dealt with later. When I put off the things I don't want to do, I'm building an entire wing in my subconscious of unresolved, stress-inducing horsecrap. Knocking it down as it comes up feels great.

Right now, I'm working on the backlog of stuff that's been sitting there. Getting a will done, filling out our advance medical directive forms, making our last wishes known on legal documents...these things are now crossed off the list. Sure, it was slightly morbid and uncomfortable to discuss. We tried to diffuse the tension with death jokes and inappropriate humor, with mostly success. Shit, we're all gonna go. May as well avoid confusion post-mortem.

So, 31 days in and now I'm back to 1.

February is filled with busy.

I've got a whole bunch of recently freed up brain power to take it on.

A couple of weeks ago, this picture of my dog made the Reddit front page.

Yesterday, my last post made Boing Boing (thanks to Wil).

Who needs Twitter!

(just kidding, Twitter)

1. When in doubt, ARGUE! Being right matters.

2. Hate everything.

3. Saw it already. Funnier the first time.

4. FAKE.

5. Did he died?

6. Make fun of something someone else loves because FUCK THEM!

7. I am so smart. SMRT.

8. LAME.

9. Racism because, just kidding!

10. Treat women like idiots.

11. Definitely comment with fervor. YOUR OPINION COUNTS.

12. CORRECT THAT PUNCTUATION AND GRAMMAR, why not?! SAVE HUMANITY!

13. fat jokes

14. Hate religion because religion hates others because you hate religion because they hate everything because you hate them. EVERYONE IS NOT AS GOOD!

14. Make a list and watch people fix numbers and add things to it...

How do you tackle huge endeavors?

It's the hundred dollar question. The scariest part... the part that instills fear and excitement in me...is not really knowing.

Flying in the face of not knowing is an acquired skill. It's hopefully honed during previous attempts at new things. It's never perfect. It's always a version of managed, low grade panic.

Yet, something about it is exhilarating.

Walking out on that wire...

Showing up to the party alone...

Driving with no map (fine, no GPS)...

I've been thinking about the defining moments that occur during the major shifts in my life. For me, those key moments can often be pinpointed to one big decision that is a byproduct of a series of smaller shifts. The eventual stress of those shifts, combined with a personal evolution leads to some sort of snap, which shoots me in a new direction. These are the best times.

They are terrifying plummets from a comfortable place, laced with the excitement of landing somewhere new.

I'm not trying to be cryptic or vague, although I know that's what I'm doing.

Anyway...

Those moments when, whether by your choice or not, something snaps?

That's not a bad place to live.

Here we go again...

Premieres FEB 14th on MTV @ 10pm

Why are the big, exciting moves forward always the scariest? 

Dudes, I'm about to jump.

JUMP, I TELL YOU!

As I was looking wistfully through the photo library on my iPhone, I found a couple of good ones from the TableTop shoot last year. The first is a shot of Dodger Leigh and Ashley Johnson, my bitter, bitter rivals on that day:

And the second is a double photobombing, featuring TV, Film, Beer, and The Internet's Wil Wheaton:

We have fun.

One of the patterns I'm trying to break out of is giving up on a goal if I don't follow my pre-planned route absolutely perfectly. When I set goals for myself, this often happens:

1. Set ambitious goal.

2. Start road to goal.

3. Fall short somehow.

4. Torch the whole thing to the ground with feelings of failure and self defeat.

It's a nasty habit, because it either builds failure into the plan OR trains me to set my goals smaller. Because I'm constantly biting off more than I can chew, I rarely choose the latter. My lofty goals are often plagued by my own inability to accept anything less than perfection, and any course deviation cues that stupid voice:

You fucked up.

You blew it.

The whole thing is ruined.

May as well stop.

All your momentum is lost.

It's either start over or it's not worth it.

Not this year. 

So I missed a day running.

So I missed a day writing.

So something took longer than I planned.

So I had a beer.

So I have to compromise my original plan to get to the end.

So it's harder than I thought.

So I ate [insert junk here].

So what.

Onward. Up and onward.

When I was about 19, I decided I needed a fake ID. Not some bullcrap made in some kid's basement, I wanted a real looking fake ID. I had to make a trip to Boston. I got a hot tip from a friend about a particular neighborhood to visit where they specialized in fakes. "Just wait around there. Someone will ask if you're looking for an ID," this person told me. Seems legit.

One of the guys that I knew from high school, Stuart (who was always up for something that could lead to disaster), agreed to come with me. He was in the market for a fake ID too, it turned out.  

I didn't know how much money to bring, so I brought a hundred bucks. That was a big chunk of my weekly summer paycheck, but the idea of being able to buy beer ANYTIME I WANTED was too powerful. A hundred bucks was practically cheap.

We got to the neighborhood, which was near a now regentrified section of Boston known back then as "The Combat Zone" (seems legit), and found our spots on the sidewalk. Sketchy ass people scoped us out. Stuart didn't seem nervous, but I'm guessing it's because he was no stranger to putting himself in fucked up situations. We decided not to stand together, since we thought that seemed more suspicious. He stood on one side of the street and I stood on the other.

Eventually, a guy who looked mostly homeless slunk over to me and in a very hushed whisper asked, "Fake ID?" I was shocked. How could he know that? It didn't occur to me that I was one of two fresh-faced white guys standing in The Combat Zone wearing pegged Guess jeans, a B.U.M. Equipment sweatshirt, and Samba soccer flats. I thought it was simply my lucky day.

"Yeah," I told him.  

"Fifty bucks," he told me.

He held out his hand. I looked around, concerned that I was about to break the law in broad daylight, and fished fifty dollars out of my pocket. I handed it to the man, who started walking. "This way."

He started walking me on a scenic tour of the side streets and alleys of Boston. At first he seemed to have a destination in his head, but then his route started to feel improvised as we backtracked and doubled back on streets we had already walked down. I started to feel like an idiot, but I really wanted a fake ID. Maybe he was shaking the fuzz.

After about ten minutes of walking to nowhere in particular, I started to think maybe I'd been played. I meekly asked my guide, "Are we close?" He looked back, annoyed that either I hadn't given up or that he hadn't found the balls to just bolt. Then I remembered that he saw the other 50 bucks in my pocket when I pulled out his 50. He was trying to figure out where to roll me.

Eventually, he walked us into a Dunkin' Donuts. I imagined a secret door to a high tech fake ID manufacturing ring, but knew that nothing like that existed behind the walls of this donut shop.  The place was crowded, and he walked us towards the bathroom.

"In there," he said. 

"In the bathroom?" I asked.

"Yeah man, come on," he said, suddenly in a hurry.

Seems legit.

I was naive, but even as a foolish innocent I knew that something was wrong. I wanted my 50 bucks back, but I wanted to get the hell out of there more.

"No thanks," I said.

I turned and walked quickly out of the Dunkin' Donuts. He followed me out, shouting, "Yo, where you going? You want that ID?" It was like the scene in Goodfellas when Jimmy is trying to convince Karen to go around the corner to get some Dior dresses. 

"I changed my mind!" I yelled, like some kind of idiot.

I ran back to the spot where I left Stuart. He was talking to someone who was clearly a hooker.

"We gotta go," I told him.

Unfazed, he said goodbye to the whore and we drove back to NH. I told him the story, and he asked me why I didn't go in the bathroom. Like he would have. Shit, he probably would have.

When I told my younger brother, he taught me a trick that cost nothing. He put a piece of matte scotch tape over the year, and drew a new year in pencil to make me 21. Worked like a dream until I was legal.

Glad I never went in that bathroom.

I hope my kids live through their dumb decisions as successfully as I somehow have.

Today was long. We woke up in Boston at 5:30am, slightly hungover from a Patriots loss in Foxboro. I was packed (always pack the night before), but bleary-eyed. The coffee did little to help. At 6:15, we walked out of our hotel into 25 degree air. By 6:30, we were at the Virgin America gate at Logan Airport. A 3ish year old boy dressed like Batman was in line behind us at security. He had a mask, a cape, and a wooden Batarang. He cried when he was forced to take off his costume to run it through the scanner, not understanding why that needed to happen. I couldn't come up with a good reason myself.

We boarded, settled into a 6 hour and 6 minute flight back to Los Angeles, and dozed for as much of it as possible. It's not real sleep. It's sleep interrupted by announcements and people. I put Colin Hay on a loop and drifted as far away as I could. 

In the Uber car from LAX to Sherman Oaks, we got a call. The handymen ruptured a water pressure pipe while tearing out some rotten lattice and couldn't find the main line to shut it off. Our back yard was flooding. On top of that, my son was throwing up with some bug. Helpless in the car, all I could do was wait for us to get home and see how bad it was.

I walked into chaos. Neighbors were out front trying to turn the water off at the street. In my house, which had the distinct smell of little kid sick breath, my other kids were watching the excitement in the back yard unfold. It was a gusher. I went out to take a look and got sprayed in the face when I moved one of the bricks that had been placed there to slow the flow. It was all part of some weird movie scene. Surreal.

Eventually, the water got shut off. They fixed the pipe. Some version of normal came back.  It was only noon. 8 more hours until bedtime for the kids and I still felt hungover, layered in the travel grime that floats in the recirculated air of a plane, tired, annoyed, and vaguely anxious from the alcohol leaving my system. 

They're in bed now. My son is sleeping with a bowl next to him in our bed. Our backyard looks like Woodstock happened again. I just spent two hours watching shocking YouTube videos of disasters, for some reason.

But the fire is burning in the fireplace next to me as I sit in my favorite seat in the house. We're all back under the same roof. My wife turned 42 today, and life is actually pretty great.

All the small shit is small. 

I think it's time to get back to this no alcohol thing.

Lots to do.