A novelty here at TRUE LIFE! Thought I would divert the conversation for a moment away from my narcissistic ranting and talk about, well, writing. ‘Cause apparently that’s supposed to, you know, be kinda important to me and all.

This is an email exchange between my new friend, J, and I. He’s a great guy. A pretty prominent non-fiction writer whose also had op-ed pieces in “big” papers and such. He’s a working writer.

What he isn’t, however, is a screenwriter. Yet, his wish is to turn the story he’s talking about into a screenplay (whereas it started as a novel, but felt like a novel was the wrong medium to tell the story). Though it will likely look more like the blind leading the blind than enything else, he has asked me to help him navigate through the screen storytelling maze. And in exchange, when I am ready, he is going to help me work through “The Bottomless Pit” (ah, yes, kids…someday. Someday…).

We sat for a few hours last week and chatted about, among myriad other topics, the screenwriting form. More on that another time because it will take thousands of words to have that conversation. Suffice to say, though, I was quite the shaman that day, going on about screenwriting as “religion”… You’d have had to be there. Yet, It all makes sense when you think of the zen nature of following the pattern and working within the form–the screenwriting construct, if you will.

And, like religion, the form is a man-made construct. A “context”…is that the right word. More appropriately a vessel in which to contain and give shape to the very personal and intangible “message”…? Is that the word? Or do I say the “art”? I dunno right now. But that thing, of course, is not man-made. That thing is like the faith. (Right, Pigger?)

Anyway…that’s not what this conversation was about. Hopefully, it won’t bore you to tears. Enjoy.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

From my friend J…

Hey Bill,
. . . .

I thoroughly enjoyed coffee at Nina’s last week, and I was energized by our conversation. I’ve acquired Doc Hollywood and am enjoying it. I love Michael J. Fox, but I’m after something richer, something deeper, but similarly quirky. Sort of Local Hero meets Sleepless in Seattle meets Bridges of Madison County. The coming of age of a middle aged man. Let’s do some scene mapping. Back at Nina’s?

——–

From me…

Also re: Doc Hollywood. I hear ya and agree. Thought, however, that it would be a good structural example. It feels something like what you’re trying for. And remember, if it IS a RomCom, as they call them, BRIDGES should be less of a model than SLEEPLESS, which is a lot more like DOC HOLLYWOOD.

Talk to you soon…B

——–

From J…

And yes, it is a RomCom. Let’s take that form and cook it. Why are dramas always richer than comedies? And Bridges was a bore, actually. Screenplay was great; movie stretched like sands of time blowing aimlessly across the desert….

J.

——–

From me…

Re: “richness” in drama vs. comedy. That’s a question for the ages. Remember, though, that comedy is tragedy pulled inside out.

The beauty of comedy, I believe, is that it is pure subtext. It’s almost passive-aggressive in nature because it says, “I am in pain, but I am going to do EVERYTHING I can to NOT let you know I am in pain.” There is a richness in that, I think. It is, however, a different richness. Almost, I believe, a deeper one.

Drama wears its emotions on its sleeve. With comedy, the real message is more deeply embedded and obscured. So much so that its easy to take its that message–and its impact and effect–for…granted? Or at least to miss it on a conscious level because of the more subtle and transparent (with seems odd, considering the very overt and opaque nature of most comic storytelling) way it operates on our being.

I mean, in the movies, look at anything Charlie Chaplin ever did. I am tempted to say he invented film noir (a stretch, I know. I am not serious, but bear with me for illustration’s sake) because of the underlying sadness and, more to the point, existential hopelessness that is ever-present in his stories. Yet, we laugh our asses off every time he gets booted in the ass and falls on his face. The Tramp is a deep guy. He is Everyman turned on his head, with big shoes and a bowler hat. Or maybe more accurately, Sisyphus, except replace the boulder and the mountain with that damned banana peel (though–speaking of sad sacks–I believe that was probably a Buster Keaton invention, evolved from Vaudeville), perpetually underfoot, ready to lay the poor chap out on his back again and again.

Of course, the problem is that comedy can be ruined just as easily as drama, I believe. The deeper point can be missed or ignored, just like it can in drama. It can be hackneyed, just like drama. It’s just that–I don’t know…do we forgive it more easily because we still get a chuckle? And perhaps the presence of so many BIG MOMMA’S HOUSEs–these saccharin confections–deadens our senses somewhat to the qualities inherent in the…well, more quality comedic stories.

I just keep thinking Neil Simon and everything that man ever wrote. THE ODD COUPLE. It could have just as easily been a straight piece. But the magic was that it wasn’t. He spun it around and because of that, he was able to say some pretty hard things for the time (and some hard timeless things, too) that would have either fell flat or simply been too uncomfortable and hot to handle if said with a straight face or without his tongue firmly planted in his cheek. Of course, that’s another benefit of this gift of humor, isn’t it? It helps us say the hard things. It knows, however, that a spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down. And thank God for it.

Then again, what do I know? Just noodling for myself as much as for anything else. Can you say freakin’ dissertation?

Just got off the phone with J. Thurs. is a go. see you then…B

– – – – – – – – – – – —

P.S. And no…I still don’t have a new shift key. I am simply suffering. For my art. For you. For this TRUE LIFE. Aren’t I deep?

…Yeah. I know what you’re thinking. “Not necessarily, Bill, but it’s sure getting deep in here.”

Have a good day, all. I head back to the Apple Store today to order the new key. Will keep you up-to-date on the progress of this very important journey.

When the shift key came off, she felt bad. i was away. when i returned, her eyes fell as she apologized for “breaking” my computer.

she didn’t break it, of course. no need to apologize.

the key was already lost…long before she ever touched the thing.

it was broken–at the very least lame, ill–for awhile. it was the kind of thing that was obscured from our sight, however, and each and every keystroke was a round of russian roulette. in which chamber death resides is not ours to know. but it’s there. it is the only certainty.

what the final keystroke was, therefore, not the breaking. it was merely the physical dislodging. it was impetus, the catalyst, triggering the corporal transformation of the board overall. a final kiss to send the shift key off to the next place. and to propel the rest of the board and its writer toward providence–and the next story.

and, appropriately, it required her touch to nudge the thing into finality. that’s what it was. plain and simple. it was, in fact, a moment of beauty. a moment of healing.

and so the writer took gently the shift key in his hands. he held it for a moment longer, and then he put it away.

he didn’t mourn. that time had already come and gone.

instead, he turned his gaze forward. the notion of “replacement” seemed absurd–a pratfall of a thought. only a key of some form, of course, could appropriately fit this empty space. but its precise nature seemed somehow unimportant. no, that’s not true. important, but not worrysome. for he was now in blissful free-fall, operating on faith, that the safest of landings was in store for him. that the one–the perfect and right key–would be there when he touched down.

and so it was.

and it was more than a key. it was possibility in his hand. it was all things gloriously unexpected. it was more than happiness. it was more than he imagined.

and it was still forming.

he held this new key in his hand. and he cherished it, this wonder in progress, full of knowing. this new key–it was the one, the perfect fit.

so don’t frown, my darling. don’t fret. it’s a gift, this thing. this happening. it’s nothing less than wholeness. given unto the board. given unto this TRUE LIFE.

We’re trying a new thing here at true life central. it’s called typing in all lower case. courtesy of my missing left shift key. you never know just how much you use that little bastard until it’s gone.

just like all things taken sorely for granted, i suppose.

note to self–object lessson learned here.

i gotta get to the apple store. hopefully, tomorrow afternoon sometime. for now, though, i’m kinda having fun being lower case man. i feel so bohemian. not sure why that would make me feel that way. ’cause i am such a rebel, i suppose. yeah…such a rebel. you run with that, lower case man.

my issue du jor: (this colon brought to you by your right hand shift key, as are the parentheses. go through the exercise…you’d be amazed how much you don’t use the right shift key)

this embarrassment of riches that is all the freakin’ work i got on my plate right now. some of it screenwriting, some of it other stuff–meaning freelance writing. you know, the stuff that brings in money right now. working through it. being disciplined enough to work through it–slog through some of it. because it’s all interesting, but it’s not all very fun. not all very inspiring.

and that’s the stuff that’s taking up my time and my brain right now. and though the “good stuff” is still close at hand, it remains on the vine, good and ripe, waiting to get picked. quite ripe, in fact. wait too long, i fear, and it’s gonna spoil. because that’s what stuff like that does.

and, of course, i am a little disappointed. i am still waiting to hear about gigs and agents from my recent la excursions. and every day that passes, i admit that my heart sinks a little. my hopes. for this round, at least. but as much as i wish i could rush this, i realize that it is going to move at its own pace. i can’t force it. i simply gotta do what i gotta do and roll with it.

and what i gotta do is i gotta write. my stuff.

but i struggle, see. ’cause trudging through this other stuff. it takes a long time. not so much because it’s hard and time-consuming–well, it is that–but because i don’t really wanna do it. and i put it off. shove it away into a corner of my mind until it stinks to high heaven and simply won’t be ingnored anymore. but i gotta clear that crapola away before i can really dig into the sweet stuff.

oh, well. that’s what this is about, this true life post. an avenue into my putting my nose to the grindstone. clearing away the boulders to get to the gems. lube up the machine, fill ‘er up with gas, and crank over the starter. get plowin’ ahead. i might as well roll up my sleeves and get to work, eh?

this is the time where being a “professional screenwriter” just seems hard. behind all that is fun and sexy and cool is this–life. true life. and all the stuff that comes with it. like money, or lack there of. and responsibility. and limited time. and limited brain power. and procrastination. and the daily struggle against it. it is, plain and simple, hard work.

and these are the impediments to creative thought.

and yet they are all who i am. and what life is. which is what my art is.

so you need ’em.

okay. enough noodling. get your freakin’ nose back to the grindstone, true. break’s over.

yeah…yeah, boss. i hear ya.

I don’t know whether my good friend and indie film producer par excellence, Al Klingenstein, coined this phrase or not. It feels like one of those catch phrases that’s been there all my life, hanging out in shadows, waiting in the wings, feet shuffling, ready to spring on stage as soon as it hears its cue. The cue, apparently, was a conversation had whilst strolling along West End Avenue, heading home after a Saturday morning work-out, just prior to piling into the “Mercedes Benz of minivans” and road-trippin’ it up to the Woodstock Film Festival.

Al and I were doing what Al and I do: bein’ a couple of armchair philosophers, the smartest and wisest guys we know, puzzling through the mysteries of life, the universe, and everything. And being all about the love.

As we padded along, Al was talking about when he met his wife, Katherine. Well, more specifically, when and how they decided to marry. As is most often the case with such romantic fare, the story was a colorful one—the full spectrum, black and white and everything in between. But he concluded the tale, in TRUE Klingenstein-ian fashion, quite matter-of-factly. He looked ahead, eyebrows raised is if in question, shaking his head—not as if in denial or in trying to convince himself, but rather as if it was a revelation, a surprise to him as much as to everyone else.

“What can I say, man? My life…it’s an embarrassment of riches.”

I looked at him, and what could I say? Nothing. Because Al was right. On the whole, the guy’s life is a rose garden, constantly unfolding, ever in bloom: fragrant, colorful, beautiful.

Here’s the rub, though…I believe his life is that way not so much because he’s the beneficiary of random karma resulting from favorable stellar alignment. I mean, sure, Al’s had his share of good fortune, but so have we all. But it’s not as if his little garden doesn’t have its share of irritating thorns, whose blood lust demands the occasional taste from the finger pricked. I believe his life is that way mostly because he tends his garden carefully and lovingly, and, cliché as it sounds, because he stops to smell those proverbial roses from time-to-time.

There is so much I respect about my pal, Al, but this is what I respect the most. It’s part and parcel—no…it IS his humanity. He’s about the most human guy I know, and a helluva gardener. I’ve learned a lot from him.

In my new life—with my kids, and my friends, and this new career, and in particular, with this “enormous love”, as Robbye coined it—I find this phrase dropping into my conversations constantly. As if, now that it’s made its big entrance, it is ravenous, starved for the energy of the crowd, the glow of the footlights. It is, in fact, quite the big, ol’ ham. And so it pops in for a cameo in nearly every scene of this little production I call “life”. “Ta da! Here I am! Go right on ahead, folks…applaud at will!”

What’s different? I don’t know. Life, to be certain, isn’t the crisis-ridden affair it once was. I get that. I wouldn’t say, however, that it is, on the whole, “easier”. I don’t think life ever is. I don’t believe it is designed that way. I will go to my grave shouting from mountaintops that it is designed to be “worth it”, certainly. But easy..? Not so much. And thank God for that. I mean, where’s the fun in “easy”?

Whereas once I saw primarily thorns, today I see the blooms.

That is the difference.

So…what can I say, man? I raise my eyebrows. I shake my head. My life? It’s an embarrassment of riches.

Thanks, God. Thanks, friends and family. Thanks, kids. Thanks, Robbye.

Thanks, Al.

The subject line of the email I just sent to my lovely Robbye about my not-so-lovely dog, Elvis. Below, the salient portion of the email body:

GOING CHEAP!!!

After this morning, I swear I’d PAY someone to haul that yellow bastard away!

Okay…I really love him. But I was PISSED! I get home, and what do you think I find? You got it…the pork roast that I put in the fridge to thaw last night..? F’ing torn apart all over the living room floor. I almost blew a gasket.

I stayed mad at him for about an hour. Of course, then, while I was doing email on the couch, he comes up and worms his head onto my shoulder–a hug. He was apologizing. So I hugged him back, and he climbed up on my lap for another hug. And I chastised him, and he looked back at me as if to say, “I know, Daddy. I’m sorry. I’ll try to be good.”

Who can stay mad at that?

Turns out, I can’t. All I can say is that little shit’s sure lucky that he’s family. And that he lacks balls for which to be strung up by. ‘Cause after this morning, I swear to God I would do it.

…Yeah. I know. Big talk. Crusty shell, gooey marshmallow inside.

It’s a case of Elvis simply being too smart for his own good. He can open the sliding glass door in the living room (not that he’s mastered the ability–or gives a flying crap about my heating bills enough– to close the thing), but now the fridge, too? What next? I’m waiting for the day I spring some deadly trap as I walk into the house. As I lay there, gasping, heaving my final breaths, eyes wide in terror, he will be there…quite the different dog. No hint of the goofy, gangling, drooling mutt I love.

“Ah yes, ‘Daddy’…how easily are those supposedly in power blinded by their percieved superiority. Well, now we know better. Don’t we?”

I don’t need to say anything. I don’t need to nod even…not that I could if I wanted. My blood, pooling and cooling on the floor at my feet says everything Elvis needs to hear.

Did I, perhaps, just get served by my own daughter? Could it be? Surely, my darling, baby girl couldn’t have just shut me down.

Could she..?

I SMS’d her earlier, asking her to call me after her classes got done. It’s a topnotch day here in the Land of Lakes, and absolute perfect drive-in movie weather. Before her evening’s dance card filled up with all sorts of teenaged nonsense, I wanted to scoop in and lay claim to her evening.

So…she just called me. Not five minutes ago. I presented my case to her, the centerpiece of which was simply that I really miss my kids, and I really wanted to spend an evening with just the three of us. It’s been too long.

Well, that part went just fine. I didn’t even have to pull out my secret weapon: grilled BBQ salmon. That always works. It’s a well-known fact that my grilled BBQ salmon is the best in the world. No…I am NOT exaggerating.

Then…I don’t know… Perhaps I was prattling on. Strange as it seems, it is a (remote!) possibility. Okay…I probably was prattling on. ‘Cause now I think of it, I can’t even remember what the hell I was talking about.

But that’s not the point!

In the middle of a sentence, she cuts me off.

“Dad,” she says, a hint of impatience in her voice. “The signal’s not the best. We need to wrap up here.”

All I could muster was a “Uh…yeah. Okay. Umm…see you when I get home, then. Ah…love ya.”

“Love you, too. Gotta go.”

Okay. Now rewind just a titch… Did she just say, “We need to wrap up here”??? No shit, she did!

Oh, my gawd! I just got shut down! I just got served.

It’s really real. My kid’s crossed over. The days of the “magic dad” are a thing of the past. Worse, he’s dead and buried. And the only record he ever existed takes the form of some dusty relics buried in the cellar of some obscure and forgotten museum somewhere.

For today, I have officially become the “dad who’s to be humored”. I am the “prattling dad”! I require shutting down!

When, oh when, did this happen?

I mean, I know when it happened. I saw it. I was just talking to Lisa and Rob Bouta about it Saturday night. It’s the stuff that Normandale College is made of. It was the day of Lynn’s funeral.

I didn’t need anyone to tell me how adult Sydney was as she stood before over 500 people and delivered what is arguably one of the most lucid, touching, and insightful eulogies any person could give another. There she stood, unflappable, as she bore the burden of the family, of the world that Monday morning. Never once faltering. Just moving forward. Better than most grown ups I know.

I sat and watched her, and the tears rolling down my cheeks were only partially for Lynn. The rest were for another death—the death of my little girl. Of my little Peppermint Pattie, as Debi often called her. For what stood before the congregants that day may have chronologically been a teenager, but in stature, in poise, in grace, she was every inch all grown up. There she was, in that moment, transformed.

And this amazing young woman stood before us.

I’ll remember it for the rest of my days.

BUT..! Dammit! That doesn’t mean she has the right to see me for what I really am!!! She’s not supposed to get that I’m really not the cool magic dad she always thought I was, or at very least was still naïve enough—or simply kind enough—to let me believe I was.

She has no right to strip away that veneer! For god’s sake! I’m the dad, right??? I’m not just some other guy. I’m not some equal! I’m the freakin’ DAD!

Alas, I might as well just get used to it. No sense, I suppose, in getting my undies in a bundle. I did it. I created a monster. Now she’s all smart and pithy and clever and sophisticated and…grown up. And from this day on, the only way I’ll get to be the “magic dad” is by silent agreement, by a wink, wink, nudge, nudge between us, when she graces me with a few fleeting moments of nostalgia.

At her whim and fancy, of course.

For now, today, I TRUE-ly realize. There is another woman in my life. And she, like her mother, is a force to be reckoned with.

Sigh…

SEVEN pages down today. SEVEN! Two more than my typical daily goal on a first draft.

Whew! Now I feel better.

And what’s best is I like ’em. Things went in a little different direction than I thought they would. But I think I finally cracked the stubborn nut that is the second movement of the second act. Turns out that what I thought was the second movement is really the third one.

It always felt odd. Even when I was mapping out scenes. Like there was neither enough action, nor was there sufficient conflict to get me into the particular movement in the story.

Now, though… Now I think I’m on to something. We’ll see.

Considering the last 2-3 weeks of my screenwriting life, though. I am ecsatatic. I think I might even have a chance to finish this sumbitch in a reasonable length of time now.

Yay Bill!

(Well, more “Yay!” when I really get the thing done. But little “yay” today for getting back on the horse–no pun intended)

It occurs to me that in order to TRUE-ly honor and obey the creator (no…not God. No…not James T. Kirk. The Wheaton!), in order to emulate him, as we all (those of us in the blogshpere, at least) should, I should, from time to time, post some commentary about the screewriting craft and about my (mis)adventures in the screen trade. I should also try to, eek, out, a, few, more, commas, in my, senten,ces. Ah..! , , , , , There…

Now, some of you out there might be tempted to make some smart-assed comment like Hey! Bill’s recycling content in the form of a posting he made on a message board on another site. To these few, I would say, with all due respect, “Shut up!”

Seriously, I got done posting it and thought, Wow, it ain’t pretty, but it pretty much sums up where I am at right now with respect to my craft. WWWD? (“What Would Wil Do?)

Obvious. He’d post the thing. F*ck yeah!

Wil Wheaton sez*: Bill’s da bomb! His commentary on the film industry is profound, inspiring, and sexy!

Did he say “sexy”? Wheaton, you’re a married man. And I like chicks. Get a grip, man!

———-

On May 16, Daniel Calvisi asked:

Bill,
congrats!

So, to throw out a question just in case you have a minute to discuss craft:

What’s one or two key things you learned from seeing your script produced that you know will strengthen your future writing?

thanks.

During my recent hermit phase, I’ve had a lot of time to contemplate this question. I wanted to come up with something big and earth shattering. Mostly, though, my head was still so cloudy, and the mere thought of putting something down on “paper” churned my stomach. And though I’ve longed to plug back into the collective, all I could do (as I’ve done in many other compartments of my life in recent months) is to keep my damned plug to myself for awhile…get my self back.

Anyway…that’s not the important thing. What IS important is Daniel’s very good question, and I aim to FINALLY answer it. ‘Cause I realized that, though answering it “big and earth shattering” is fallacy, I have landed on something recently that may be of worth. …And I am interested in the opinions of others like Robert and Mark, et al., who’ve had–if not their BIG break–they’re first break (because there’s a difference).

So…what I learned, Daniel, is this: I learned that my life is not much different than it was before. I learned that it’s still hard–not just businesswise, but creativewise.

For years, in spite of honestly knowing better, I allowed myself to believe that my movie career would parallel that of Kermit and Fozzy. I’d show in in Orson Wells’s office, he’d see my obvious talent, and I’d put my John Hancock on the “Standard Rich and Famous Contract”. After that, there’d be a big musical number. We’d dance around and sing, and suddenly I’d be brilliant forevermore. And this whole writing thing would come a lot easier.

If anything, I find the opposite is true. Post-RUNAWAY, I find writing is harder. I find I must be far more diligent about it because there are more distractions than ever to keep me away from writing.

And the most insidious distraction to date? Worrying about my so-called “screenwriting career.” Worrying about getting an agent. Worrying about what am I going to sell next…not WRITE next, sell. And having that override what, in my heart-of-hearts, I know I SHOULD be writing.

Okay…now I am NOT trying to sound all whiny. AND I am thankful and FULLY aware how fortunate I am to have made it this far. My point is, however, that at least for me, my screenwriting career so far resembles that of Gonzo the Great (“We’re going to Bombay, India to make it big in the movies!” “You don’t go to Bombay, India to make it big in the movies. You go where we’re going…Hollywood!” “Sure…if you want to do it the EASY way.”) than Kermit and Fozzy. And I think most writing careers–most MOVIE careers–are like that.

It’s not movies, but I remember watching Shelby Lynne win her Grammy for best new artist a few years back. She mused about being an “overnight success” tem years in the making. I think that’s the way it works. And at this point–where I am right now–you’re still slugging away in AA or AAA ball. And you need to keep doing that every day because slugging away every day is what a career–not just a break–is made of.

That first sale doesn’t represent the end of the continuum. It represents the beginning. And once you truly begin, it requires a much greater investment in terms of patience and discipline than ever before. Because people ARE taking your calls, people ARE interested in you, but they’re not quite ready to sign on the dotted line just yet. And it’s then you realize that you need to KEEP dazzling people. But how?

Well, that’s the trick, isn’t it? Because the answer is, “with YOU.” You need to figure out how to bracket the business of screenwriting with that creative space–the artist in you. Because THAT’S what people are interested in…the product of your creative wanking and your ability to put it together in some cohesive manner as a result of your mastery of this screenwriting craft.

And you better figure out how to balance those two. And you REALLY better figure out how to protect your creative time and space.

And you better just keep the hell writing.

So…Daniel. Here’s what I’ve learned. I’ve learned that my first break isn’t my BIG break. That’s still (cross your fingers) coming. And on the business side, I gotta keep writing and I gotta keep wowing folks because, though they’re intrigued, they’re not ready to back the truck up to my bank yet.

I’ve learned that, as much fun as it is to be a produced screenwriter with a well-received movie, it doesn’t get that next screenplay written. AND neither does worrying about the next phase in my so-called career. Every time I do that, the ideas that fly out of my mouth are absolute shit. Pablum.

So…what I need to do is stop worrying about it. I need, just like I did when it all began, to put all that aside and just let myself flow. And then I need to write. Every day.

There’s plenty of time for hustle later.

The magic is there’s no magic. I still get up every day. I still need to get my kids off to school. I still fret about money. I still struggle to get my dishes done. And I still need to write like I always did.

THAT is what strengthens my writing. That and now that I’ve seen a movie made outta my own script, I see how to better structure the thing in a more “cinematic” sense. But I can’t write a lot about that ’cause it’s something you just get when you see it happen.

All that said…yes! It will be kick ass to be in Toronto with my movie, thankyouverymuch.

———
*Okay…Wheaton didn’t really say this. It’s all in fun, Wil. It’s all those damned monkeys tapping. Please don’t sue me.

I can’t tell you what the hell I did to mess up comments on this stupid blog. Going through the redesign was like feeling my way blindly through Tiffany’s. Oh! There’s a-

CRASH!!!

Oops… Guess not.

I don’t know what the hell to do. TypePad’s user manual says (and I quote):

So that’s it. Apparently, I no longer have a weblog. I’m paying for one. I’m also paying for the luxury of that slick domain handle, billtrue.net, but I don’t have a weblog. I screwed up. I screwed myself. TRUE LIFE, it seems, is no longer worth living. Good-bye, cruel cyberworld.

All that jabbering aside, I must apologize to one and all (or “both of you”, as it were) for the lack of comment ability here. It’s a tough nut, and I just can’t crack it. Then again, I never was the brightest bulb on the tree when it came to crap like this. Or much of any crap, for that matter. Or for crapping, now that I think of it. But that’s another matter. Maybe I’ll blog on it sometime.

Oh, wait. I no longer HAVE a blog. And who wants to read about my crapping. Never mind.

I must now seek professional help. No…not that kind, though some people might agree with you. Okay…most people. But I need to get some real techno-geek (as opposed to the faux techno-geek that is me) crankin’ around inside of there to see what’s up.

As usual, I am certain it’s something small. Jes’ gotta turn the screw a quarter-turn, righ’ der. Ye see? And then…Hummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Like hot snot off a butter knife.

We’ll see what happens. Meanwhile, I hope you are posting your TRUE LIFE comments on other weblogs, like we suggested. It’ll keep those other assholes who, I suppose one could say, still have “real” weblogs on their toes.

Go ahead. Click over to whilwheaton.net, for example, and do it. See what he says.

No? Geeze. Chicken.

Meanwhile, while you’re being wussies, I will keep prattling on this…well, I can’t call it a weblog, now can I? This…non-interactive piece of shit that used to be a blog and now’s just some stupid old regular website that ain’t good for nothing without my precious my comments ohhhhh they make it sooooo special ’cause the dumbheads at TypePad says so and everyone believes everthing they say because you know they’re TypePad and they know everything.

What? I’m not bitter. Be quiet. Did I ask for your comments?

Oh yeah…I guess I did.

A few months ago, Lynn asked me to post something on her behalf in my weblog. At that time, I told her sure. I wasn’t certain, however, why she didn’t post it on her CaringBridge site. I guess because it was political in nature–her rant, she called it. She probably wanted to keep the peaceful vibe flowing in that particular area of cyberspace.

A week after she mentioned it to me, she recanted. I never got a reason why. ‘Cause I thought it was great.

I was sifting through some of her files on the iMac, though, and I found it again. I loved it even more the second time I read it.

So, here it is, folks. My Lynnie, talking to you from the heart, sharing her wish for blessings and peace all the way from the great beyond. Enjoy…

—–

Hi! Lynn here! I’ve wrestled Bill to the ground, tied him up (no! there’s nothing kinky going on here), and stolen his keyboard. Yup. I’ve hijacked his blog and I’m on my soap box. BEWARE! My passions have been unleashed and I have something to get off my chest.

Okay, first I have to start with a few confessions. Here they are:

1. I am a Christian.
I believe in Jesus Christ, I believe he was conceived of a virgin, I believe he healed people, I believe he died on the cross, and I believe he was the Son of God. The whole schmeer.

2. I am a liberal.
And getting more obnoxiously liberal every day. I believe in gun control, I believe in a woman’s right to choose an abortion. I believe we should be protecting this Earth and it’s inhabitants who can’t speak for themselves in every way we can. Heck, I even believe in Gay marriage (more on that later).

3. I am a moral person.
I have a clear understanding of right and wrong. I lead a pretty clean life. I’m a person that believes in love and helping others and I work to do my very best to act on that belief.

So here’s my question:

SINCE WHEN DID THE REPUBLICANS CORNER THE MARKET ON BEING MORAL?

I have visited yet another website where the choice for President Bush was stated as being the “moral choice.”

Confession #4: I voted for John Kerry and I see it as being a VERY moral choice.

So if the Republicans are so moral, can someone answer me a few questions?

1. What is so moral about Capital Punishment? A typical Republican stand and a stand taken by George W. The Ten Commandments say “Thou shalt not kill.” Period. It DOES NOT say “Thou shalt not kill unless a jury of the killer’s peers finds without a reasonable doubt that s/he is guilty.”

2. What is so moral about supporting the NRA? What is so moral about making certain that guns are as accessible as possible to our children so they can shoot one another? So if the Bible is the sole handbook on morals, where in the Bible did Christ say anything about the right to bear arms?

3. What is so moral about the war in Iraq? What is so moral about sending our bravest young men and women to kill and to be killed primarily on the basis that there were some supposed weapons of mass destruction that never materialized? Oh, and by the way, it was Osama Bin Laden that attacked us. Where’s he? And, I’m kind of guessing here, but I have the distinct impression that the people who are responsible for the 911 attacks think we are all immoral. Not just the gays and those who get abortions, etc. But YOU, the woman wearing pants. And YOU the man who allows her to do it. Remember the adorable dress you bought for your cousin’s wedding? The one that’s so modest with the hemline above the ankles, the crew neck and is not form fitting in any way? IMMORAL. Do you really want to start pointing fingers at what is moral and what is not? Just like they do? Just asking.

4. What is so moral about forcing a young pregnant woman to carry out a pregnancy and birth that might kill her? What is so moral about forcing the victim of a rape to carry on with the resulting pregnancy? Where in the Bible does Christ talk about abortion? I don’t know about you, but I believe that life begins when God grants a soul to the body. When does that happen? And last time I checked, my God was a God of free will—he gave us the ability to make choices for a reason. I believe that abortion is a deeply personal and excruciatingly difficult choice. And IF it is a sin against God, I figure that’s between God and the woman who chooses an abortion. It’s none of my business.

5. And on the subject of Gay marriage: Okay, here we have 2 people who wish to make a loving committed relationship to one another. Don’t you see some beauty in that? What? You would rather they sleep around with as many people as possible? Why can’t we just be happy that they have found love in their lives? And again, IF homosexuality is a sin against God, that’s up to God to make that judgment, not us humans. So for those of you who are pointing your finger at the gay community and screaming “sin,” you might want to think about using that finger to pull the plank out of your own eye. Just a suggestion mind you.

Just one more question: Do you believe abortion and homosexuality are a sin against God and therefore “wrong” because the church tells you they’re wrong? Because they point to scripture as evidence?

I’d like to remind you of one thing. A little over a hundred years ago the church used to teach that slavery was a mandate from God. They used scripture to justify slavery. Less than a hundred years ago, churches in the south taught that blacks were inferior to whites–all based on scripture. Many churches used to teach that rock music was evil and now use it in their own churches. Let’s face it folks, sometimes the Church is out and out WRONG! And that’s coming from a church going woman. I love my church dearly—they are my family. They are incredibly giving and loving people. But the day I give up my ability to question and challenge church leadership and teachings is the day I give up my God given ability to change the world to a more loving, sharing, caring, inclusive place that rejoices over our differences.

You know, I have a feeling that our enemies would LOVE for us to argue amongst ourselves and throw blame at each other—a house divided cannot stand. They would love for our house to fall. But when we are united in LOVE and RESPECT for one another and each other’s CHOICES, whether or not we would make those choices for ourselves, that’s when we are at our strongest and most moral place.

So, I’ve said my piece. Now here’s the disclaimer: This is just my opinion. And who am I? What do I know? Take it or leave it. I am certainly NOT the expert on morals. I just felt it was time I exercise my right to free speech and ask some questions. It’s the American way.

Wow. Thanks. I feel much better now.

——

These words seem even more poignant and pertinent today, as some (in my mind) very misguided individuals seek to unnecessarily prolong a young Florida woman’s suffering against her will. And all in the name of “morality” and “faith”.

As someone who has recently been in the position to make some very difficult decisions that could have had an impact on the amount of additional time my wife would spend on this earth. As someone who had the conversations that Terry and Michael apparently had. As someone who was forced to interpret, to the best of his ability, the wishes of the person who was not only the love of his life, but his legally wed spouse, her ultimate wishes in the face of uncertainty. I get it. Why don’t other folks?

It’s not a political issue. It’s not a faith or a church issue. It’s not right versus left. It’s not moral versus immoral. It’s not “pro-life” versus “pro-choice”.

It’s a man trying to fulfill the final wishes of his wife. And for those who still want to bring “faith” into it, I’ve been desperately trying to find the Bible verse, but I can’t. It is, however, the one that refers to a woman leaving her parents to live in her husband’s house. For those people who are trying to cling to some notion that the answer to this question can be found in that man-made contraption we call religion, doesn’t that say it all? Forget about any other argument. Mrs. Shiavo left her parents’ house. She became a family with her husband. Cut and dried. And within the sanctity that is the union that God supposedly commands us that “no man should put usunder,” they made a decision.

And no one–not the President, not Congress, not the courts, not even her parents have the right to intervene. I mean, I feel for her mom and dad. I really do–I just watched my wife’s mom lose her baby girl. I can’t fathom the pain, I can only empathize. But I can’t agree with their position.

And as far as our President goes, I believe he has enough on his plate (after all, it’s “hard” to be President, right?) without heaping one more unnecessary sidedish on the pile. And besides, considering his sketchy history, isn’t it a bit disingenous for him to be staking any moral high ground with respect to his comments that he would “err on the side of life?” Tell that to the thousands of people who have given their lives in the name of your selfish and insane personal crusade. Doesn’t the old saying go, “people in glass houses…”?

And, oh yeah…don’t we live in the age of the healthcare directive, which gives folks the option to live and die how they see fit–INCLUDING the right do say no to forced feedings if they can no longer care for themselves? Okay. Maybe Terry didn’t have a documented directive. The bottom line, though, is that we live in a world where we have evolved enough to recognize (and be receptive to the notion) that a person has the right to make that kind of choice for himself or herself, without the government or anyone else meddling in that person’s personal business. And, it goes without saying that I believe the person who is appropriately privvy and proxy when it comes to executing that person’s wishes is that person’s spouse. CERTAINLY not that person’s parents.

But enough of that. I also know that–just as the Bible talks about he seasons of change–there is a time to let go. Now is not the time to divide. Now is the time to come together. Now is the time to accept. Now is the time to heal. Now is the time to celebrate Terry’s life and let her go out in style.

Please don’t let her legacy be a bitter and divisive one. For that does her the worst kind of injustice. Therein is the real cruelty against her. And that, my friends, is, in my book, TRUE-ly immoral.

God bless my wife. Thank you, sweetie, for finally unleashing my inner rant. Love ya.