The Mid-70′s
I didn't have a show on New Year's Eve. Typical of this past year in standup, I wasn't too aggressive about getting work. Well, that's ok, I decided. There's more to life being being a spot monkey, jumping about town like an unreflective bean, never seeing the big picture. This New Year's Eve, I decided, I'd take a train to the Lower East Side and walk home to Harlem, about 150 blocks. That would be time for me to think, to figure my life out. By the mid-70's, I'd have a plan for 2008, and by the 120's, a course of action. Then it would be a brisk, optimistic stroll home to gear up for big dreams.
Christmas Day was an omen. KilBaby and I were to fly from California to Texas at 5:45 AM, pulling into San Antonio in time for dinner. I woke up at 4:15 AM, dressed the baby and shoved him in a car seat. We were running late, I called the airline from the car.
"Oh, that flight was cancelled due to weather in Denver, ma'am," said an Indian, in India. "You have been re-sceduduled on the 11:25 AM flight, arriving in San Antonio at 8:25."
We turned around- my mom in the back, playing with the baby, my dad in the front, tapping on his broken leg and crutches.
I brought all my bags in the house and re-packed so I could bring more presents. The baby went back to sleep.
At 10 AM, all four of us left again. About two miles from the airport, I got a bad feeling.
"Oh shit," I said.
"What?" my dad said.
"I fucking forgot my fucking purse," I said. My ID was at my parents house.
We turned around- my mom in the back, playing with the baby, my dad in the front, tapping on his broken leg and crutches.
I called the airline. Lied.
"My original flight was cancelled, and I can't get a ride to the airport for the re-scheduled flight. Do you have anything later?"
"OK, ma'am, we can put you on a 1:13 flight that goes through Los Angeles. That puts you in San Antonio at 10:45 PM."
We made that flight.
"Going to San Antone, eh," said an old TSA agent, looking over my boarding pass. His hands were shaking, he looked about 80. It's too bad that a Greatest Generation great-grandpa has to work on Christmas Day.
Unlike Denver, LAX has no play area for kids. We had a four hour layover, so KilBaby and I hung out at the Roadhouse, a bar/cafe. Other stranded parents helped me ruin the atmosphere for real alcoholics, including a woman whose 18 month old daughter was named Persephone Panther. I didn't get the last name, didn't need to.
Our connecting flight was delayed because a passenger was escorted from the plane. Flight attendants apparently get carte blanche when it comes to removing a heckler from their show. In standup, hecklers are either manageable or an asshole, and you can tell who is an asshole about 20 minutes before the audience does. But you can't have an asshole kicked out until they ruin the show, else you look like an asshole. Also, club owners want proof before they lose out on drink money. Airlines let their flight attendants make the call.
Must be nice.
We got into San Antone at around 12:30 AM on Wednesday. The plan was to leave KilBaby with his Dad in Texas, and they'd both return at the end of January. I was returning to NYC alone on Saturday afternoon. But instead, that afternoon I curled up around my son's wheezing body on a hospital bed, in a pediatric ICU. On Friday night, he'd gotten a fever. By 2 AM, it was approaching 104. We drove to a hospital. In the waiting room, he started coughing, then gasping for air like a drowning seal.
Croupe, it's called. My baby had a bad case of it.
Apparently one's blood is supposed to be 100% saturated with oxygen.At one point KilBaby's was in the mid-70s. A nurse later told us than in ten years, she's only seen one other baby with oxygen levels that low. "Jesus Christ!" was all my doctor/sister said. KilBaby's Dad and I spent three night and three days in his tiny room, sleeping in chairs.
Our backs hurt.
Today is New Year's Eve, and instead of walking, I'm checking KilBaby out of the hospital. He's fine, we're all fine and I'm returning to NYC tomorrow.
Hombre
We had a middle seat on a sold out flight, my baby and me. Since his first birthday, KilBaby has been a travel problem. On planes, he squirms, cries and grabs at passengers' hair. If they are patient, I feel guilty. If they aren't, I help KilBaby turn it on.
For example, the blonde lady on my Thanksgiving outbound. On the aisle. Yeah, you. You kept turning your head 1/2 back way to let me know you were inconvenienced. I got your message. You didn't have kids, so why should you have to listen to mine? Well, he'll be paying into Social Security which will keep your fat ass in cat food well into your nineties. He's your future too, bitch. That's why I aimed our future at you and took out his milk, slowly, so that his cries would burst your barren eardrums. And I could tell by the 3/4 head turn that they did.
Yesterday's flight was equally painful, but I had no blonde nemesis to distract me. Home is where your parents live, and it's nice to be home. Pleasant Hill is where I can dream a little. It's quiet, boring. It's a place you escape from or retire to. You can hear clocks ticking, like in the still parts of movies. The enterprising type can come up with a scheme a minute in Pleasant Hill. I forget how big my dreams once were, until I come home. New York City is exhausting. My boat's been taking water for awhile, and the Coast Guard is nowhere to be seen.
Keeping a job, keeping a baby alive. KilBaby is walking more than crawling, my Dad calls him "Hombre" because he walks like a drunk cowboy. We can't figure out how he stays up.
Hey, remember me? Me neither
I'm not coping well, y'all. Constantly tired, just trying to stay afloat. 23/6 finally launched, I've done Fox 'n Friends twice to promote it, and NPR. We have five writers plus an editor on staff, and lots of freelancers. The stories don't have bylines, so I add links to my stuff on my writing page. The Tough Crowd Act 3s work again, also on the writing page. I'm lucky to have a writing job. I've picketed a little with the WGA, but we write stories all day long, so I can't jet out of the office for four hours at a time.
I feel like the guy from Memento. Every time he came to, or woke up (I can't remember, ha ha) he had to remind himself who he was, where he was and what he had to do. That is me, all the time. Every morning, I give myself orders and hope I remember to carry them out. If I don't, things fall apart.
Things fall apart alot.
I'm not good at this. I've been a time-wasting daydreamer my whole life. Never giving my full attention to anything, always wondering what else is happening. This constant state of RED ALERT since KilBaby's birth has taken its toll on me. It's not natural.
Oh well.
KilBaby is in the 95th percentile for height. That means he's taller than 95% of the boy babies his age. Pretty good for a half-Mexican! He is extremely active, which is good for him and a short-term nightmare for me. Short term, as in for 17 more years. He walks, he likes to open doors and investigate running water with his face. He sticks his hands in drawers and pulls out scissors (once) butter knives (twice) and packages of batteries (ongoing).
At Pebble Beach, over Thankgiving.