Berlin The Bear Says Happy Thanksgiving

And so do I.

Happy end of Thanksgiving, everybody!!

Snoozeathon

What do you do when you're bored with your church?

I feel bad. We're a young church, only six years old. I've been here since the beginning.

I'm committed to this church. I tithe 10 percent, I volunteer once a month. I've done plenty of small groups, I was the one who started blood drives at this church. I've been here long enough to see pastors come and go. I know most of the staff. I've met a lot of great friends at this church. I like going, for the most part.

And yet I'm bored.

Why? I'm not learning anything.

One of the reasons I like my church is because they take their time. If we say we're studying the book of say, Ecclesiastes, then we're going to STUDY it. We're going maybe six to ten verses at a time in a two month study. I dig that about my church, so much more than any other church where they decide on a theme and then cherry pick verses to go around that theme, ignoring context and historical cultural themes.

And yet lately, the sermon series is not interesting to me, because it’s not really digging into the context of what was written, not like they usually do and the topics haven’t been interesting for six weeks, which is a long time to be bored.

Maybe this is something all Christians go through - when the bliss of Hey, I'm Learning NEW STUFF wears off, and it's back to Advent season for Christmas. Again. Sigh.

Maybe my church is defining itself as the perfect church for newbie Christians trying to suss out what it means to be a Christian in today's world. But if you're not a newbie Christian, if you're interested in having conversations in small groups examining all sorts of viewpoints, even if they're controversial, and you're met with a resounding silence, what do you do?

A couple of months ago in a small group, I pointed out that on Paul's famous list o' These People Will Not Inherit The Kingdom Of God (1^st Corinthians 6), homosexuality was the only sin that didn't actually cause harm to another person (assuming the gay sex is consensual, because if it wasn’t, it’d be rape.) And I was met with a sea of blank faces. Nobody wanted to talk about it, nobody wanted to discuss it.

Nobody wanted to have a discussion about how homosexuality in Biblical times might have been considered wrong because Biblical times was all about the family, to make sure you had a family to help you tend the fields, take care of the house and each other, how God's chosen people's most important goal in those times was to PROCREATE to ensure their survival, and you couldn't do that as a gay couple and how in modern times, that need is no longer relevant so maybe all this sturm and drang towards gay and lesbians is... oh I don't know... ANTIQUATED? Nobody wants to talk about that. It’s as if they’re all too scared to really examine their faith.

Sigh. This is why I didn't bother signing up for another small group this season.

I do like my church, and I like the friendships I've made in it. But if I'm not learning anything new, if the idea of engaging conversation and different viewpoints isn't peeping up, then what do I do? Do I move on? Does that make me a fair weather churchgoer, only wanting to stick around for the entertainment factor?

I don't wanna be entertained, I want to LEARN.

If I find my church lacking, is it my fault for not trying harder to engage myself with it? To search search and search among the congregation and find people who DO want to talk, who DO want to engage. Do I write a mildly-written letter to Pastor Diet Slice saying this recent sermon series is a snoothathon? Should I come up with my own series of something, not sermons, because I haven’t been to pastor school, but topics of conversation, like how we examined sarcasm in the Bible earlier this year?

Do I become my own teacher? I mean, I’ll do it if I have to, but there’s a sadness about it. Or exhaustion. One of the two.

Something to ponder…

Dogs Have Overrun The Blog

Oh you guys. Someday I’ll go back to talking about God n’ stuff. I promise you I will.

But I just finished up dogsitting seven dogs in the span of ten days. I’m tired, my clothes are covered in doghair, and my landlords haven’t taken their laundry out of the washer yet.

I guess I could always pull out the cheeseball God And Dog metaphors.

Should I do that? How ‘bout I pretend I’m a religious copywriter for those hella cheesy cards you find at quasi-religious bookstore in the South? That might be work. Let’s see:

This is Edwin the Domino Face Dog. He belongs to besties Nick and Nora. He’s doing his best shepherd impersonation because he had to go walking in the rain (he’s an apartment dog.) He was so so excited to go outside, even though I tried to prep him that he was not really going to like it once he got out there. But he would not be denied (who would, really, when you gotta pee, you gotta pee.)

And then we got out in the rain and though I tried to keep him under the umbrella, he didn’t get the concept, and kept getting rained on, and he cut his own walk down by half because he was wetter than wet.

So if we put him on the cover of one of those sappy religious cards, I think this one would go under the category I Told You So. KIDDING! It would be a Get Better Soon card.

Heard you’re a little under the weather.

Shoulda stayed under God’s umbrella.

Now you’re covered in sin.

GAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH! THAT’S NOT RIGHT AND ALSO THEOLOGICALLY INCORRECT! MOVING ON!

After five days with Edwin, it was back to the Beagle House, for three days with Bella, Bonnie, and Babs.

If only a picture could adequately convey how loud Bella snores. Next time I’m getting audio.

Babs the cocker spaniel is adorable as always. The interesting thing about her is that she never wants to sit near my feet, but she doesn’t wanna be too far away either. I’m still missing Ginger Puppy terribly, and when I’m in a room with a dog, there’s that subconscious expectation they’ll sit by my feet while I’m writing, because that’s what Ginger Puppy did. Babs is not like that. She wants to be close, but not too close. So her card would be in the Thinking Of You section.

I’m thinking of you.

Not getting in your way.

Unless you go to the kitchen, and then I’m all about tripping you.

GAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH! MOVING ON!

Then it was two nights with my Pasadena clients. Sleepy, the yellow lab, Slappy the wire haired terrier mix, and Dolly Parton, the Brindle Bouvier. There’s also Gunther the parrot, but he scared the crap out of me, so no pictures of him.

Slappy wouldn’t stop jumping around for me to grab a picture of him, but here’s Sleepy on the couch with me. How simple and easy the comfort is to have a dog next to you – sitting on your feet, or sitting on the couch, or lying next to you on the bed. This would be one of those Just Because cards.

Just Because…

there’s a sheet on the couch

And you’re nice to snooze next to

So I’ll leave you a pound of my hair on your clothes

By the way, what’s up with those blue socks?

MOVE ON MOVE ON MOVE ON!

Dolly Parton, the Brindle Bouvier, is a little disconcerting when you first meet her. She’s basically the size of a small Shetland pony (pictures cannot do her justice) and her eyes look disturbingly human. Like some goblin zapped her in the enchanted forest and turned her into this dog. And if only I knew how to break the curse. It’s not sloppy kisses, she’s given me plenty of those. It’s not waltzing around the kitchen on her hind legs, we’ve done that too.

So this category would be…

I’M HAPPY! I’M HAPPY AND I’M HAPPY AND I’M HAPPY!

LOOK INTO MY EYES! YOU WILL BE HAPPY TOO!

FREEEEEEEEEE MEEEEEEEEEEE!

Okay! So basically, we’ve established that I may be a decent writer, but I would suck as a religious greeting card writer. Good to know. Crossing that off my list.

I Actually Prayed This Prayer This Week

(I'm not proud about it, but I am honest about it)

Dear God,

I lift up to you this car in front of me. Not that I literally lift this car in front of me. Because I'm not that strong.

But I do metaphorically lift up to you this car in front of me. It was behind me, uncomfortably close, then zoomed around me, and now has cut me off in L.A. traffic.

Dear God, please please please be with the driver of this car. Please grant him patience, patience, and more patience.

Please let him be on time to whatever it is he's driving recklessly toward, because he's driving very fast for SOME reason.

Please grant him some measure of caution. Please grant him some measure of safety. Please open up his reservoir of generosity to encompass everyone else on the freeway.

And please grant him confidence. It must not be easy to have a small penis, but that flashy car is overcompensating for something.

Please grant him a bigger penis if it makes him a safer driver. It may take a miracle, but You are the God of miracles. If You are willing, You can do anything. So I pray that You are willing to help this poor poor man. You will be saving lives in the process.

In Jesus' name, Amen.

Alabama has color

I was in Alabama over the weekend, saying hi to Great Stoic Wonder, who I’m officially renaming as the Great Cancer Fighting Cowboy (Stoic Is Implied) and Phone Harpy Mommy.

I can’t remember the last time I was in Alabama when it wasn’t Christmas, and therefore I was stunned to see all the trees turning color.

Brilliant color.

These aren’t the best pictures, since they’re from a moving car, and also on my iPhone, but you get the general idea.

And just when I think I’m ready to claim being an Alabamian again, I see something idiotic like this in the airport gift shop.

Sigh. Two steps forward, three poop steps back.

Once Is Enough

You know what I find myself doing a lot of these days? Repeating prayers. Repeating prayers for my dad, repeating prayers for my friends, repeating prayers for myself.

I can try and blame it on my short term memory, which is definitely going (I’d rather my memory than, say, my eyesight.)

A lot of my time has been consumed lately with Striped Tiger. Last Monday found me in the conference room of a mid-sized talent agency, guzzling free Diet Coke, and pitching an hour long TV version of Striped Tiger.

Striped Tiger started as my first full length play, then I turned it into a feature length script. Last Monday I and two producers went into the conference room with an hour long version. Walking into an agency conference room is something I haven’t done before in my career, and so I asked for lots and lots of prayer ahead of time.

And driving down there, I kept repeating over and over again, please be with me, God. Please be with me, God. Please give me wisdom and discernment. Please let me personable and knowledgeable. And no matter what the outcome is, give me the grace to accept it. Even if it’s not what I hoped for.

Over and over and over again. Please be with me, God. Please be with me, God.

Until at one point, I had to stop and ask myself. “Why am I repeating myself? What, do I think that God didn’t hear me the first time?”

Why do we endlessly punch the elevator button? The crosswalk button? Why do we endlessly repeat the same prayer? Why do priests give out penance in the form of multiple Hail Marys? Is there comfort in the repetition? Like maybe God wouldn’t have granted the prayer UNLESS I said it ten times? I only said it nine, so nope, no go?

Of course it doesn’t work that way. But for a split second, it felt like it.

I pray repeatedly when I don’t know what else to say, so I just say the same thing over and over again, like a verbal security blanket. God heard me the first time. But I didn’t believe it the first time.

The problem isn’t me worrying God didn’t hear me. The problem is that I don’t believe that praying once is enough. I’ve got to believe in the power of my own prayer. And that once is enough.

We came out of the conference room with the order to make Striped Tiger a half hour show. My joke is that the only format left from here on out are five minute webisodes, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the next order.

And as I drove back through the city to work, jacked up on free Diet Coke, all I could think of was an endless string of prayer:

Thank you God, thank you. Thank you God, thank you. Thank you God, thank you.

Once is enough. More makes me feel better, but once is enough.

I Am A Christian.

I Am A Christian.

This Is What I Believe.

I believe Jesus Christ Is My Personal Lord And Savior.

I will talk to you if you want to ask me what I believe.

If you ask me if I believe, I will be honest and say yes, I do.

But I’m not gonna shove my religion down your throat.

I’m not about changing your mind.

I’m about living my life in a way that makes you want to ask me how I do it.

And I’ll say it’s a combination of caffeine, tequila, sheer force of will and discipline…

…but mostly God.

I wouldn’t be here without Him.

Everything I have is because of Him.

My imagination, my writing skills, my personal point of view.

My family, my friends, every open door, every closed door.

Everything I have is because of God.

Because I Am A Christian.

This is what I believe:

I believe in God.

I believe in gay rights.

I believe in a woman’s right to choose.

I believe a woman can teach, lead, and pastor a church.

I believe that everyone has the right to their own opinion.

It’s not headline making.

It’s not flashy.

But there’s a lot of us out here.

And we’re so reasonable, we don’t make front page news.

I Am A Christian

I’ve never seen Passion Of The Christ

And I don’t intend to.

I know the story, I know what happens.

I Am A Christian

My favorite movie is Blade Runner.

My next favorite movies are Fight Club, Seven, and Heathers.

I lean towards the dark side, but I write on the humorous side.

(And I like Muppets too.)

I Am A Christian.

I swear like a sailor and I drink like a fish.

I believe in heaven.

I also believe in the devil.

(you can’t really have one without the other.)

I Am A Christian.

I only say “I’ll pray for you” if I know hearing that makes you feel better.

(the rest of the time, I’m still praying for you, I’m just not saying it to your face.)

I don’t raise my hands when we’re singing songs in church.

Half the time I’m not singing.

But I’m still standing up.

Because I Am A Christian.

And I go to church even when I don’t feel like it.

Even when I’m pissed off at God.

(which is a lot lately)

I show up.

I heard once that 80 percent of success is showing up.

So I show up.

I stand in the aisles and I don’t raise my hands during the songs, and I don’t sing, but I’m there.

(I also tithe 10 percent)

Because I Am A Christian

I get pissed with God.

I shout and scream and metaphorically throw things.

Sometimes I drop the F bomb in His general direction.

And He still loves me.

So I don’t turn my back on Him.

Even if I don’t hear Him.

Even if He doesn’t talk to me.

It doesn’t mean He’s not there, or that He doesn’t care.

It means I’ll understand later.

I’m not getting out of the ring.

God’s gonna have to do something with me, because I’m not getting out of the ring.

I am all of this and so much much more.

I Am A Christian.

And This Is What I Believe.

Hops

The last time I hung out with Basil Diva Dog and Ginger Puppy in July and August, there was a full moon on one of the nights during my stay. It shone through the window in the master bedroom, and bathed a patch of floor with nifty moonlight. Ginger Puppy liked it so much she decided to sleep there (she also could catch the breeze coming through.) And it was so lovely I decided to join her on the floor with a pillow for a little while. Amy and Ginger Puppy, sleeping in a patch of moonlight. Which is where we stayed until Basil Diva Dog woke us both up with a start with his very loud knocking around trying to get out of his crate.

I visited Ginger Puppy on Sunday at the animal hospital. I had noticed that she wasn’t eating much during the last few days of my stay with her in August, and alerted her daddies Albert and Abbot that they may want to take her to get a check up. This was how we found out that she had what was eventually diagnosed as IMHA (immune mediated hemolytic anemia.)

How does this happen? How does my father go from a routine colonoscopy to Stage IV colon cancer in the space of a month? How does my favorite dogsitting client go from her loveable self to a softly trembling lump on a pink blanket in an exam room with a feeding tube up her nose and shaved patchy fur in the space of two months? She’s only seven and a half. Her aloof anti-snuggling brother is 14, poops every five minutes, has no idea where he is and he’s still here.

And alas, Ginger Puppy is not. I got the call today. I was the first person they called about it.

When her daddies invited me to come visit her on Sunday, I knew what was up. Though they said I was under no pressure, I knew that it would likely be the last time I would see her. All three of us took turns lying on her pink blanket with her in the exam room, angling our faces so she could see us without having to raise her head. We kissed her dry nose, we stroked her paws, we rubbed her ears. We got so excited when she drank a bowl of water. We cheered when we got a wag of a tail. We told her she was beautiful. We told her she was loved. We told her over and over again that she was loved, loved, loved so much.

I loved Ginger Puppy like she was my own. She was my favorite, not because she wasn’t any trouble (she didn’t eat my shoes, she didn’t snore to rattle the windows, she didn’t think she was a bird, she didn’t smell like pee) But because she was the very definition of love. She loved people. Other dogs, not so much. But people. PEOPLE! People were AWESOME!

She was a snugglemonster. How many nights were spent in the media room, with her resting again my leg while we watched movie after movie after movie? I always eschewed the leather chair with motorized footrest and cup holder so I could sit on the floor so she could be next to me, because she wasn’t allowed on the furniture.















How many mornings did I wake up and see her asleep on a towel next to the bed, so she could be right there when I woke up?















How many late nights did I jump in the hottub and drink and talk/screamed/wailed to God while she sat on the second step and patiently waited for me to come out?















How many times did I write in the office while she sat on my toes?



The Ginger Puppy post over in the Hall of Fame section has gone around the world and then some. It’s by far the most popular post on this blog. This entry continued her saga, so if I’m a writer, if I’m a proper bookender, I know what comes next.

I don’t want to write it, tears are streaming down my face as I type this out. But I have to complete the story. The story that’s true, the story that will continue to be true. The story where I play the role of God and Ginger Puppy plays the role of all of you.

But I’m not going to set it against the animal hospital backdrop. I’m not going to set it against the last time I saw her, labored breathing, brown eyes, and one wag of a tail.

I’m going to set it in that patch of moonlight, where me and her were stretched out on the floor, where she was healthy and happy and snuggly. And the moonlight was dreamy and silvery and nobody was in any pain at all.

--------------------

Will it hurt?

I don’t think so, little one. I’ll do my best to make sure it doesn’t.

And you won’t leave me?

Absolutely not. Not for a single second.

I don’t understand why it had to go this way. Why couldn’t my leg have healed? Why did this immune mediated whatever show up? Why am I going so soon? I’m seven and a half. My brother is practically twice as old. Why can’t I stay as long as he can?

I wish I could tell you. I really really wish I could.

I like it here. I like my daddies and my friends. I like you.

I like you too, Ginger Puppy. But where I’m taking you, you’ll be happy. You won’t have any trouble with your leg anymore. You’ll be able to run around and eat what you want and jump on all sorts of furniture.

WHAT!?!? I get to jump on a couch!?!?

A thousand couches, and chairs and beds and all sorts of stuff.

I’m not supposed to jump on the furniture!

But you can where we’re going. You can even sleep on a real live BED.

That sounds AMAZING!

Yep. It will be.

Will I still be able to snuggle next to somebody?

Absolutely. There’s going to be all sorts of new people to meet, and they’re going to love you just as much as you were loved here.

It sounds fun. But I gotta admit, I’m a little nervous.

Jus trust me, little one. Just trust me. I am not leaving you for a single second. I’ll be with you the entire time.

Well… okay. But can we sit in the moonlight just a little while longer?

Sure we can, Ginger Puppy. Absolutely we can.

--------------------

Ginger Puppy was my favorite. Her real name was Hops.

I Am A Shit Ton More Honest Than The Next Person

If I’m being honest, really truly honest, then I’m pissed off and angry. The kind of angry where I read something on facebook that goes something like, “Consider your allegiances and God will change you!” and it’s some note about some guy who I’m sure is a lovely person writing about how he’s had an amazing transformative weekend because he’s chosen to seek God in ALL areas of his life, and it’s come about because he had an epiphany about (simplifying here, but because) he learned to pray for other people and God changed his life.

And I’m like…really? Honestly and truly? What are you, 22? (He might very well be, I don’t even know him directly, an acquaintance of mine was commenting on his link and it showed up in my new facebook profile, blah blah blah.)

WELCOME TO THE CHRISTIAN LIFE, IDIOT! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO PRAY FOR OTHER PEOPLE, JACKASS!

Please, come talk to me after you’ve spent decades spending most of your prayer life praying for other people and noting how God moves speedily in answering your prayers for other people, but at a glacial pace in working in your own life. Come talk to me when you’ve spent decades talking to a God who rarely talks back to you, after you’ve spent decades listening for a single word from Him, only to be met with a thundering silence 99.9 percent of the time.

Come talk to me when your prayer life goes like this, “Fuck you, God, and Your plan for my life. Your plan sucks. I violently disagree with it. Go blow.”

Oh, I’m sorry. Was that too disrespectful? Too upsetting for your Virgin Christian ears? Was your first response, “Well of COURSE God’s not gonna answer you if that’s how you talk to Him.”

Oh, little one. Oh, dear dear dear hypothetical little one.

I don’t mean to burst anyone’s Happy Chipper Christian Bubble, but the dirty little secret of the Christian life is that YOU CAN TALK TO GOD HOWEVER YOU WANT TO, AND IT’S NOT GOING TO AFFECT HOW HE DEALS WITH YOU.

I have spent years being obedient and respectful. I have spent years being filthy and disrespectful. Guess what? I can be however I want to be in front of God my Savior, and He’s going to treat me exactly the same way. Because what He wants from me AND YOU more than anything else is to being fucking HONEST with Him.

If you can’t be fucking honest with God, who the FUCK do you think you’ll be honest with?

How I act does not change how God acts toward me. Wrap your Newbie Christian brain around that one.

Here, I’ll save you a trip. God loves you no matter what you say to him, and it’s only after you realize His massive massive love for you that you will be so consumed with guilt with your irreverence and disrespectfulness towards Him that you will immediately repent of your disrespectful ways, beg for forgiveness, and then be a Happy Chipper Little Christian until the next time you get pissed.

I’m so bummed there’s only one of me out here that’s got the balls to say that. Ah well.

The thing is, my current anger is actually NOT because of my dad’s cancer. I know it’s oh so tempting to draw an easy parallel to that. If it was a movie, it would be that. In fact, I know a bunch of you are sitting at the computer shaking your heads, thinking, “she’s in denial.”

But life is so much more messier, and my current anger is much more self centered. Dad’s doing okay, far as I know.

And whatever I’m going through in my own Amyland Bubble certainly can’t compare with my Dad’s cancer so quickly fuck me gently with a Heathers http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0097493 chainsaw and my self absorbed anger over stupid meaningless shit like a busted internet router (so I’m sitting on the floor, tethered to a wall) and silly producers who don’t understand Excel, and the petty envy over dear friends who see God moving in blatantly obvious ways in their lives and the growing inability to sleep at night, which I’m pretty sure is a psychic connection with my dad, since HE’S not sleeping well at night, either.

I love sleep. I love sleep better than living. I never had issues sleeping until Dad’s cancer. Oh, yes, armchair shrinks, draw your obvious dime-store conclusions. You suck as much as God does. He knows I don’t like Him right now. He’s actually pleased that I’m honest about it. I’m probably more honest than you in that regard, so that’s gotta be good for an upgrade to Business Class on the plane trip to heaven, whenever that shows up.

Let’s look at pictures of PUPPIES!

I tried mightily to get shots of all three dogs at the Beagle House last week, and this was the best I could do.

Smiling Bella on the left, new dog Babs in the middle, and Bonnie sleeping in an apple box on the right.

Babs is a cocker spaniel, and I grew up with cocker spaniels, so I was immediately in love.

Babs is 12 years old, and as energetic as any puppy I’ve ever seen. She’s also the smallest cocker spaniel I’ve ever seen, half the size of the cockers I grew up with, a bonsai tree version of a cocker spaniel, and I found myself staring at her tiny face that fit in the palm of my hand. She wasn’t comfortable being picked up, which made me sad, because all I wanted to do was scoop her up and snort her up my nose like cocker spaniel cocaine. But she would sit by my feet and whine when she thought I wasn’t petting her enough, so believe me, she had it great.

Bella has had her face warts taken off, but regardless, she’s still the only dog I’ve ever known that actually smiles. And I tried mightily to get photographic proof of it:

This is not a smile:

THIS is almost there:

THIS is a smile.

SEE!?!?

Open Windows

I'm going back to the Beagle House starting tomorrow for another round with Bella (she got the growths on her face taken off!), Bonnie and new addition Babs, the liveliest 13 year old cocker spaniel I've ever seen. She's f'ing adorable, people. Just wait until I get pictures of them.

And when I was catching up with the human owner, and she was asking how things were, I found myself telling her about Great Stoic Wonder's Stage 4 cancer diagnosis. The human owner started crying. I was dry-eyed. It was a little weird.

When I was sending out the email to my friends about the Cancer Earthquake, I asked them not to ask me about it in person, as I feared I would lose it and break down. But as soon as I hit send, it was like a window opened, and I found myself able to talk about it in person. No tears.

It's like I leapfrogged over the other four stages of grief and landed directly on Acceptance, and now that I'm here, there doesn't seem to be much point in going backwards to, like, the Bargaining stage. Which I guess makes sense. One of the things that everyone knows about me is that above everything else, I am uber productive. Which means I can't sit on the couch and cry for days. That's not productive. I'm not even suppressing the depression. It's just not there. It's more of a melancholy thing tickling at the back of my brain.

Perhaps my Twin Superpowers of Denial and Distraction are coming into play here. Perhaps it's a cold analysis of I'm Not The One With Cancer, And Being Depressed About It Isn't Going To Help My Dad At All So Might As Well Get On With Living Life.

But I haven't gotten mad at God. I haven't shaken my fist angrily, I haven't asked Him why this is happening. I guess I know better than that. Or possibly because I know He's not gonna answer me, so asking Him why wouldn't be productive. I still pray every day. I still pray for a miracle and ask that Dad miraculously gets into remission somehow.

This Cancer Earthquake hasn't shaken my faith. I can list a dozen people who've made it through much much worse circumstances. If my one friend can survive flying home to be by her mom's side in her final moments, only to have her dad meet her as she walked off the plane and take her home to pick out what her mom would be wearing in her coffin because the mom was already gone, I can make it through this. (That story ripped my guts out.)

This is our road to walk down. Everyone is going to die of something someday. My dad just happens to know what his order is. And, since I got most of my genetic quirks from him (doctors told him he was slightly anemic. I could've told him that, since I'm slightly anemic, and my blood didn't come up with that all on its own) it's probably what's going to take me out much much later down the road. I'll be going through my own colonoscopy, once I figure out if the Can't Deny Pre-Existing Conditions part of Obamacare is sticking or not.

Sandra Bullock's mom died of colon cancer, and Sandra tells a pretty funny story about how Sandra went through a colonoscopy and was so stoned from the drugs that she went shopping and bought ridiculous stuff. Maybe I'll do that. It may not be productive, but it would be funny. Which is productive in its own way, I suppose.

Earthquakes, Part 2

So, where were we?

Oh, that’s right, thank you, Wile E. Coyote, Super Genius. We were about ten steps of the canyon ledge and still thinking there was solid ground beneath us.

But let’s back up a bit. Let’s put Wile E. Coyote back on the cliff.

That would be July 26^th, 2011.

That was the day my sister Agatha and I got the email from My Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much about the results of my Dad, The Great Stoic Wonder’s routine colonoscopy.

I knew the colonoscopy was happening, I talk to my parents every week, we knew it was happening, it was routine. My family is notorious for coming from a good genetic stock. We rarely get sick, we don’t get long term diseases, we rarely break bones (the last one was sister Agatha in high school, some twenty years ago.) We don’t get divorces, we don’t have miscarriages. Yeah, my mother the Phone Harpy had an issue with her vocal chords that meant she couldn’t sing on key, but frankly, she couldn’t sing on key anyway, so this just meant she had to tone down the volume (she would tell you this herself.) No big deal.

I am the last person in my line (if you’re not counting the cousins under 10) to not have any cavities (it’s really simple, people, just floss. I swear, it works.) We don’t even get food poisoning, unless it’s pesto, pine nuts, or leftover crab (I was watching the documentary “Waiting For Superman” that day. That was a bad bad bad day.)

The email of July 26^th, 2011 from My Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much said that the my father, The Great Stoic Wonder’s routine colonoscopy turned up a cancerous lesion, and they had scheduled surgery to remove the part of the colon that contained the lesion on August 1, 2011. It certainly seemed scary, and prayers were offered up, but I remembered that my father, the Great Stoic Wonder, had had various skin lesions removed in the past, the result of playing golf in the sun for half your life. And I guess my brain chalked up the colon lesion up to those tiny no big deal skin cancer lesions. We had no reason to think any different.

August 1, 2011 – While I turn in my Golden Gecko Gymnast outline, my father has 8 to 12 inches of his colon removed. Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much calls to say that while they were mucking around in my Dad’s intestines, they saw something else to give them pause, more information later. Um…. Okay.

(Wile E. Coyote has just started his dash off the cliff, yet still is upright on faith alone.)

August 4^th, 2011 – My Dad is released from the hospital. I didn’t think they would call today, which is why I’m trying to munch a microwaved Smart Ones chicken and cheese quesadilla while they give me the news that they found cancer in eight of the surrounding eighteen lymph nodes. They’re scheduling a PET scan for August 25^th, results to be discussed August 29^th. Today is also Sister Agatha’s birthday, and the day ends with the email from the Creative Exec that the Golden Gecko Gymnast movie is on hold.

August 8^th, 2011 – I get the email that the Golden Gecko Gymnast movie is officially dead. However, my father the Great Stoic Wonder is still alive, and that’s more important in the grand scheme of things.

(Wile E. Coyote is still running his heart out, he can even see the other cliff waiting for him on the other side)

August 15^th, 2011 – I get a postcard in the mail from Pastor Home Church. He is indeed the pastor of my home church back in Alabama, the church that My Mother The Phone Harpy Whom I Love Very Very Much faithfully attends, and the church that my father the Great Stoic Wonder attends on Christmas and Easter. On the postcard, Pastor Home Church says, “I just heard about your dad’s diagnosis with cancer,” For some reason, I was able to happily bop along in my Denial Bubble That Has Served Me Faithfully For So Long In So Many Ways, so that when I read this orange postcard (I’m sure the mailman also sends his regrets, since he can see it too) it finally hits me that this is real. Uh… okay. My Dad has cancer. Um… okay. But there’s no reason to panic yet, right? Right?

(Wile E. Coyote is gradually realizing that the ground may have left him.)

August 25^th, 2011 – Dad goes in for his PET scan, which will illuminate how far the cancer has spread, if at all. When I talk to him on the phone, he sounds fine, if somewhat subdued. He’s his usual stoic self, taking potshots at the Phone Harpy and her hoarding I-Can’t-Throw-Anything-Away-Including-These-Three-Pictures-Of-A-Mountain-In-Europe-That-I-Forgot-To-Label-When-I-Took-The-Picture-30-to-40-Years-Ago ways, which have been threatening for decades to consume our entire house. Business as usual.

August 29^th, 2011 – Sister Agatha and I get an email about the results of the PET scan. If it’s bad news, we get it via email, because the electronic buffer is safer. But Phone Harpy Mommy hasn’t cc-ed the right email address for sister Agatha, so I print out the email and run out of my office on the Unnamed Studio Lot, but there is no good private place to talk, so I land on a bench somewhere between the casting building and the costume museum, and trams of tourists are passing by as tears are streaming down my face as I tell my sister on the cell phone that our father has Stage IV colon cancer.

(And Wile E. Coyote begins his freefall.)

The cancer, which showed no outward symptoms, has spread to his liver and around the aorta. He’s scheduled to have a central port put in on August 31^st, with chemotherapy to start September 7^th.

August 30^th, 2011 – I call in sick. My face is swollen from crying, my eyelids are the size of Vienna sausages, and I only leave the house to shop for my parents’ anniversary card. They’re celebrating 50^th years of marriage on September 2^nd. We were all going to fly to St. John in the Bahamas in October to celebrate. It’s not happening anymore. I put together hooks in the wall to hang my stepstool on (shorty me needs a stepstool to reach shelves in the kitchenette) and a shoerack for my closet. I buy a basil plant. I am thwarted in putting another wall rack in the kitchenette because the wall has a sheet of aluminum on it, and I

don’t have a power drill, and the landlords and the Dalmatians Pepe and Pembleton are out of town. I cannot fix my father’s cancer, I can fix these things. Most of them, anyway.

September 1^st, 2011 – I’m back at work, and there’s an earthquake. Not one that I dreamed about two months ago, this is real. It’s a shaker for about four seconds, long enough for me to shove off my headphones, turn the chair around, and grip the armrests, ready to bolt if it goes longer than four seconds. This is more movement than my co-workers do, by the way. They’re all frozen like deer in headlights.

I am not frozen. I am ready to move. But the earthquake is only four seconds long. And truthfully, there’s nowhere to go. Nothing to do, nowhere to go.

I can’t stop this earthquake, just like I can’t stop life. It began with a dream two months ago, it has led to this day, and it will go on for many many days more.

We are all falling with Wile E. Coyote, and all I can do at this point is grip the armrests of my chair and hold on for the ride. At least we’re finally in September. Because I don’t mind telling you, August 2011 officially goes down as The Worst Month Ever.

Earthquakes, Part 1

Around the end of June, I dreamed of an earthquake.  It was so violent, it literally shook me out of sleep.  I could've sworn I was lying on a bucking bronco of a bed, and I thought it was strange, because the Shaby Shack is situated on a granite hill that absorbs tremors.  (Totally true.  You all are gonna wanna come see me when the Big One hits.  We'll still be standing.)

I don't usually have intense dreams like that, unless I take a handful of Benedryl to knock out the allergies.  But here I am, gripping the mattress, staring at the ceiling, jumping on Facebook to see if anyone else is posting about a monster tremor.  Did this really happen?  Was it just me?

Turns out it wasn't real.  It was just me.  And it was an unfortunate omen of what was to come.

----------------

My Golden Gecko Gymnast movie is gone.  The bright side is that it wasn’t my idea, it probably would’ve hurt so much more if it was.  The other bright side is that it wasn’t because of the work that I did that it died (like if I had turned in a really shitty outline.)  It is, quite honestly, not my fault. 

I went against my better nature, and told people this project was happening, because there was zero reason to think the rug was going to be pulled out from under me.  I had a contract.  I had a payment schedule.  I had notes from my creative exec that I incorporated into a second draft of the outline.  I turned in the outline.  I got paid for the outline.  There were meetings, and emails, and a company with a track record of animal movies, all of which I took as evidence that yes, yes, this is happening, and Amy is On Her Way.

I turned in the outline on August 1^st.  On August 4^th (sister Agatha’s birthday!), I got an email from the creative exec saying that everything is “sort of on hold.”  The creative exec went on to praise all the work I did, and how impressed she was with how quickly and thoroughly and seemingly effortlessly I was able to incorporate all her notes (that “effortlessly” was basically a 24/7 IV drip of Red Bull)  “I will get you produced one way or another, with this project or another one, so hang in there with me,” Creative Exec says, “I'll be in touch soon!”

Okay.  Okay, no problem.  I’ll just switch gears and go back to rewrite Red Llama, so I have something to work on until Golden Gecko revs back up again.  No problem.  None whatsoever.  I could use the break, really.  I’m not that big of a fan of Geckos.  Sure, I’ll write a gymnastic movie about them, but they’re kinda freaky looking, and I’m much more down with Llamas. 

The following Monday, August 8^th, I get another email saying the Gecko movie is officially dead.  Not my fault, it’s a matter of the Company Powers That Be not liking how much this movie is going to cost (I never got an idea of how much that was) versus what they thought their rate of return would be, and pulling the plug before we went any farther.  Much like how Universal has pulled the plug on several projects lately like The Dark Tower, and At The Mountains Of Madness.  The Geckos are apparently too expensive to train or something.  I honestly don’t know, and they wouldn’t tell me.  They just offered copious apologies.

It's basically like, I went walking in the jungle, a Golden Gecko jumped into my lap, I played with it for about a month, it gave me a small check, and ran back into the wild, never to be seen again.

Looking back now, from that Thursday to Monday, I feel a bit like Wile E Coyote, speeding off the cliff and remaining airborne for longer than normal, and in that five seconds before freefall, thinking everything was fine, not realizing the truth of the situation, that there’s about to be a terrifying fall and a painful splat.

In those blissful five seconds, you don’t know anything’s wrong at all.

At all.

--------------

(Continued next week.)

Zen Doggie

To be honest, things are not great.  I know, I know, less than a month ago, they were awesome.  And now they are not.  And I have been forbidden to talk about why.  Which is awesome.  So I still have awesome in my life, heh.

Somewhere in my house back home, there is a postcard, or a coffee mug, or a calendar image for the month of June or something, and the motto is "When All Else Fails, Hug Your Teddy." It's not this image here, but along these lines:

 

And though we're not at the "All Else Is Failing" part, I increasingly find myself going to seek out Pepe the Dalmatian in the garage.  Because he is, most of the time, the most Zen dog I know.

If it's not first thing in the morning, when he wants to play ball, if it's not on a run, when he wants to fly like a bird, Pepe the Dalmatian is downright mellow.  His brother Pembleton is batshit crazy all the time, but Pepe is calm, cool collected.  And I can spend hours stroking his muzzlepouch, and staring into his eyes, and observing the blissful vibes he gives off.  

Everything will be fine.  Everything will be fine.  Everything will be okay.  Please scratch my chest, I can't reach it.  Everything will be fine.

I even got video of it tonight.  Ignore the little clicking crooning noises from behind the camera.  That's me.

But damned if you don't get a tiny sense of the awesomeness that is Pepe Zendoggie toward the end.

Patience, patience, whatever...

There are many things I love my friend Winifred for, but one of the best reasons was that she was the first one to introduce me to the Frantics' sketch "Boot To The Head" when we were in high school.

We were old school, so we just had it on audio tape, but now it's become a rite of passage for various karate clubs and high school drama teams to perform it as well.

This is probably the best one in terms of camera work and skill. Plus you get a slo mo version of Unchained Melody at the end.



One of my favorite quotes of all time, "Ed Gruberman, you must learn patience," "Yeah, yeah, yeah, patience, how long will that take?"

BWAH!

Basil Diva Dog's Turn At Bat

Here’s Basil Diva Dog, the ever aloof older brother who loved to laugh at Ginger Puppy whenever he could. He’s calmed down a lot now.

I would say these are Basil Diva Dog’s twilight years, except that brings to mind the awfully written books and movies. So let’s just say that every day is a Senior Day for Basil Diva Dog. He’s still got a pretty great life. He’s just old. Getting older. And older.

So while last year was the year of Ginger Puppy As Metaphor For You And God, it looks like this year might be Basil Diva Dog’s turn at bat. Let’s see if I can turn it out.

I and my upper body strength will once again be playing the role of God. Basil Diva Dog will be playing the role of Some Of You Some Of The Time, Or Someone You Know, Or Someone You Knew, or Someone You Once Were, Or Someone You Might Be Now And Don’t Wanna Tell Anyone. It’s all good.

----------------------

This is you, Basil Diva Dog. This is you, and this is you a lot of the time. Sleeping.

I remember, BDD, when I first met you, years and years ago. It wasn’t this house. There wasn’t a youngun named Ginger Puppy running around either. It was just you, and your house, and I entered your life for two and a half weeks and you really weren’t sure about me. I wanted nothing more than to take care of you, to feed you, to pet you, to love you. And you didn’t want any of it. Except food. You were okay with being fed.

You didn’t want my love. You didn’t wanna sit in the living room and watch rom coms either. It’s okay, Notting Hill kinda sucks. I swear I was only watching it for research. Roger Dodger, though. I liked that one.

I would sit in the backyard and work on my storytelling. You would keep your distance, choosing to lie down in a spot that was far enough away for you to still keep tabs on me, but not close enough where I could pet you.

All I wanted to do was love you. I’m such a huge dog person (if I’m playing God, I have to say I love all creatures great and small, but you know what I mean.) I just wanted to make you happy. And what made you happy was me keeping my distance.

After two and a half weeks, your owners came back, I left, and maybe you thought you had gotten rid of me for good. Too bad for you that I got on so well with your owners and this whole idea of dogsitting that I soon became your permanent guardian for when your owners were away.

So I would come back. I would again want to love you and brush your fur and feed you. You again rejected everything but kibble. That was okay.

Changes were afoot. A move to a bigger house. There was that first Thanksgiving in the new house where you would snooze in a patch of sun on the living room rug because the furniture hadn’t gotten there yet (I need to scan that photo in.) The foyer was full of scaffolding that both you and I would have to duck through in order to get upstairs. You got through it quicker than I did. That was okay.

Then you got a sister! You got a sister! Man, you thought you hated me? You hated your sister SO much more. I was only there some of the time. Your sister was there ALL the time, nothing but a bucket o’love to you, and you really would’ve killed her if you could’ve. Instead, you settled for bullying her most days, and humping her other days, to where she’d flee under the desk by my feet for protection. You really were a mean sonofabitch, Basil, you really really were.

And yet I never stopped loving you. You were mean, you were aloof, if I came home and greeted Ginger Puppy before you, then you’d race back outside and not come back in. I’d have to go out there with a flashlight, through underbrush and overgrowth, tripping over loose stones and fossilized poop just to grab you and bring you back in.

But I always went after you. Because I loved you.

I grew to know you better. I know you like your ears rubbed. I know you like your cheekbones scratched. I know you hate tummy rubs (again, a first for me.), I know you hate being picked up and carried anywhere. I know you’re an independent dog, and the only person you show open affection for is your dad. Your first dad, because your first dad bought you before he got married to your other dad.

There was that one day where I wasn’t working, I was eating my lunch, and you came up to me. One look on your face and I KNEW something was wrong. That’s how well I know you, Basil Diva Dog. I scooped you up and off we went to the vet in Pasadena, where your daddies already had the foresight to put me on the family contact card in case of such an emergency. The vet was showing 101 Dalmatians in the lobby, which cracked me up. An hour later, and a diagnosis of severe constipation with a med remedy, and you were somewhat okay. I think you were more pained that you had to come to me for help. You were probably embarrassed that you were all backed up, and there was nobody but me, ME, the one you DON’T LIKE, to help.

But I helped you. I always would help you, Basil Diva Dog. Because I love you.

You have had cases of Nasty Butt. I have had to put you in the tub and clean up your backside. It’s not a picnic. There are fewer things less pleasant than Nasty Butt and the smell of wet fur. Sometimes I can’t eat for the rest of the day.

But I do it for you. Because I love you, Basil Diva Dog. Occasional Nasty Butt and all.

And now here you are. In your senior years. In the month since I last saw you, you have significantly slowed down. If I see you in another month, I’m sure you’ll be slower.

Because you are old, you sometimes have trouble walking. Our walks of years ago, where we’d hike all the way up to the Griffith Park Observatory are long behind us. Last month, I could take you on a ten minute walk. Now, Ginger Puppy and I walk when you’re still sleeping in the morning. You sleep a lot.

You’ll do the standard dog shake, slip and fall down. The wood floors are not your friend anymore. The inside stairs, even without scaffolding of years ago, are no more for you. The outside stairs are sorta okay. I carry you out to the Official Pee Spot Under The Magnolia Tree in the backyard, then leave you alone. Your daddies, currently in Israel, have emailed me to say you can make it back inside on your own, so I leave you alone… but I’ve seen you on them like this… So hesitant. So tentative. But yes, you do make it the rest of the way.

I will carry you up and down this house of stairs. Last year, I carried your much heavier sister after her leg surgeries while you laughed at her. Now I’m carrying you. Your sister isn’t laughing at you, though she has every right to. She’s leaving you alone to do your own thing.

I’ve also watched you stop and look around, kinda like this. I think you forget where you are, that this is your house, that you used to romp through these rooms unabated, full of aloof energy, which I didn’t think was possible until you showed me what it looked like. Now I carry you, showing you the same rooms you used to romp through on your own. I tell you what each room is, we look at all the nice furnishings, we take our time. Maybe you understand. Maybe you don’t.

In the past, when I would hang in the backyard and write, you’d wait until I opened the cabana, so you could go inside and snooze away, far from me. These days, you can’t make it up to that top level. Flora and Fauna showed up on Saturday for pool time. We brought your crate up to the cabana (technically, I carried you under one arm, and held your crate with the other arm, because I am God and I have amazing upper body strength), and got you settled in. You went into your crate and slept for the rest of the afternoon while Flora, Fauna and God had martinis in the pool.

I will carry you around. I will make sure you are included, that you are not left out, even though there are no martinis for you.

You are old now, Basil Diva Dog. You, who used to hate being picked up and being carried around, are now nestling onto the back of my shoulder whenever I pick you up. (this isn’t the greatest picture, it’s a self portrait. It looks like I have no right arm, but then again, I’m GOD! I don’t NEED two arms! HA!) Maybe you feel like you’ve given up. Maybe you feel like there’s no point in resisting. Maybe you simply don’t understand what’s going on. That’s all possible.

But I am here for you, Basil Diva Dog. I was always here for you, even when you didn’t want me. I loved you, even when you didn’t love me. I took care of you, I fed you, I walked you, I washed your Nasty Butt. I watch over you now. I still feed you now. I carry you now. I clean away your eye crusts, I rub your ears, I scratch your cheekbones. You will never want a tummy rub, and I think that’s weird for a dog, but that’s okay. I do all these things for you even though your feelings for me never rose above Bare Tolerance. I love you now.

I loved you then. I love you now.

Maybe you don’t want me. Maybe you do want me. Maybe you do want me and you don’t know how to show it. Maybe you don’t remember who I am. It’s all okay.

I never left you. I will never leave you.

Because I love you, Basil Diva Dog. I really truly do.