the real househusband of chicago

I almost went back to bed this morning. I gave it some serious thought. When the baby went down for a nap, I looked at the pot of coffee and the door to the bedroom, my two divergent Alice in Wonderland style choices, and at the last possible second, I went with the coffee. I’m not sure that was the right choice.
It’s pretty crazy, I read this interview with Johnny Depp, and…well, actually, that makes it sound so much more classy than it really is, so let’s just dispense with the bullshit, shall we? I was flipping through one of those celebrity garbage magazines…in touch or us weekly or something like that and the big pull-out quote on the page, which featured a picture of the Deppster, said something to the effect of “now that I’m older, I talk about good nights of sleep like I used to talk about good nights of getting fucked up.” This is so true. Sleep’s like that bag of drugs that the one dude brought you the one time, but ever since then he only rarely comes through, so you sit around all night, antsy, anxious and just hoping it’s gonna show up, which it rarely does. Every once in a while you score big though. “Oh shit, last night man, I got so much fucking sleep. I started sleeping at seven thirty and didn’t even think about stopping til the sun was up, like way up. It was awesome.”
This is a metaphor, of course, and a not particularly apt one, because I didn’t sleep that well last night. I had crazy dreams and I was cold and hot at the same time, which is pretty uncomfortable, honestly. Whatever, not the point. I’m tired, my boy is sleeping, and I cannot WAIT to see those bitches from Real Housewives of Atlanta duke it out on the reunion show next week. That’s gonna be beautiful.
Anyone watch this thing? It’s about a bunch of rich black ladies (and one skanky drunk white lady who’s fucking some married man…pretty great) and they HATE each other. Even the ones who are supposedly friends just absolutely hate each other. It’s just this fucked up hodge podge mixture of desperate housewives and flavor of love. I’ve gotta be in a very specific mood to be able to handle it, and last night I was able to get through about two and a half episodes of the marathon. I don’t believe that DNA tests proved that Curtis isn’t really Ne-Ne’s father, do you???
Fuck…I have my class tonight and I’m supposed to write a clash of contexts script, like where Jesus is working at a Subway or you have a labor dispute at the great Pyramid. Or, you could do something where, say, you’re talking about movies in the way people talk about their favorite sports teams. I don’t really have any ideas. It’s currently looking like I’m not gonna write anything and not go to the class. Like I said, I’m pretty tired right now. Of course, it’s only 9 am so a lot can still change. Still, I don’t know what the fuck to write. Man. Wow. That’s pretty interesting, huh? My baby is still in there moaning, which means he hasn’t started sleeping yet, which I suppose, technically, means I can still go lie down. It’s tempting, let me tell you. Lord knows this isn’t really going anywhere.
I’m back. Wow. A tiny nap and a shower will do wonders for a guy. I feel about a zillion times better. The other night, my friend who just got back from Africa where he’s shooting this really upbeat little number about AIDS nurses and my friend Farth, who’s currently in the process of breaking into the film scene in Cordoba, Argentina and I went out for some cocktails at the local watering hole. It was nice to feel like a part of a group of people doing interesting things. I mean, in a way that wasn’t just related to being around a bunch of drunk guys who play music for a living. That’s cool too, but there’s a whole scene around that that I’ve been too close to for too long, so I’ve got enemies, and I’ve got issues with how certain bands stack up to other bands and all sorts of shit that just kind of sullies the excitement of it all. Plus, being in a band is so boring so much of the time that there’s hardly ever anything good going on, except what people are doing creatively outside of their musical endeavors. Whatever, I’m just mentioning that the other night when I was hanging out with two guys doing really global, ambitious projects I was like “Well, Kelly, you’ve arrived! Here you are with your two friends from gradeschool, the African documentarian, the bilingual south American script writing jew and you, a stay at home dad with a blog.” Felt good. Oh yeah. What didn’t feel nearly as good was waking up the next morning, but hey, that’s what artists do, right? They indulge. That’s why they…we! Become so compulsive about projects, it’s all the indulgence and excess that inform good writing/films whatever. Indulgence and excess are two things that absolutely MUST go into any good project. Even a minimalist piece, if it’s worth a shit, is by definition self indulgent and excessive in it’s dedication to its final result. So, that shot of Malort…totally in the name of art. Thank god that’s settled. Just so we’re clear, I’m not suggesting that people need to be fucked up to create good art. I absolutely DON’T think that’s true. In fact, while it’s sometimes true that being drunk or high or something can result in a truly off-the-cuff wonderful moment of conception or representation, as a rule, it makes it harder to create consistently good stuff. Just sayin. Whatever, though. Do what you want. Lord knows I don’t care.
My baby has this thing that we call his office. It’s a round desk that he stands in the middle of with all sorts of bells and blocks and fake phones and speakers and monkeys and yodas and shit all over it. Sometimes it’s a real gas, but he seems like a disgruntled little employee right now. He needs a break, I think, from his fake office job. I mean fuck, he’s only seven months old. Okay, this is getting loud, so I’m done. Have a good one, people.