who dat? contest.
(yo stee. i know
(well... what dat? today, really.)
first correct answer:
left column make you sit still, pretty lady
I'm reading a book right now for my script-reading job about a guy with Tourette's syndrome. Tourette's is a very interesting and complicated series of disorders really, which are related to OCD and other neurological "problems". (The film Niagra/Niagra paints a pretty good picture of the disease.) Tourette's causes the sufferer, or "Touretter", to use a phrase Oliver Sacks coined, to compulsively make noises, tic, jump, touch things, speak out, and generally engage in what appears to be abnormal behavior. And while the Touretter cannot help but do these things, they do seem to have more control over it than one would think - sometimes they "save up" their tics until they are alone. Plus, they do not tic while sleeping, or, apparently, while having sex.
When I was a little kid I have a distinct memory of sitting on a bus heading somewhere, school maybe, and watching all the businessmen heading to San Francisco for work. And among these stiff men reading the Wall Street Journal was a man, also dressed in a business suit, holding a marble up to the window of the bus and staring at the sunrise through the prism. And even at 10, I was fascinated by the notion: what made this guy different from the rest of them? Somehow I knew this guy had retained a good portion of his childlike-nature, and just becauase he was wearing Brooks Brothers didn't mean he had to "become" something different than what he was.
And sitting there, right there, I looked at this guy, this man, and I knew that would be me as well. That I would be the one unable, or more likely unwilling, to loose that sense of play. And I was right. And it's not related at all to Tourette's or any other disorder, but it is part of a similar occasional inability to rein in my impulses.
I'm nearly 28 and I slouch down and/or sprawl out in chairs. Here at my desk, I'm constantly twirling around in the chair, throwing balls against the wall, racing Matchbox cars over my mousepad. If I go on a walk, I bring a bouncy-ball. I go to meetings, and I doodle with my feet up, or I write lists of girls I've made out with over the years. Or I draw stick-figures running from giant things that could be dogs or gorillas or lizards, except for the fact that I can't draw. I drink diet coke all day and smoke when I need to and climb on things and jump off curbs and balance on ledges and laugh at people. When I worked on a movie lot, I used to ride the company golf cart around and get such a kick out of it - a childish feeling of, "this is cool", that I will/could never get from a spreadsheet.
But look: sure, I can play the game if I need to, but I'm starting to feel a) that I don't want to, and b) well, OK, maybe I can't. Even when I was at that fancy wedding in Chicago recently, I couldn't help but smile just because, well, I had to wear a suit and be quiet and take part in this very expensive ritual which, aside from the fact that I'm not sure if I quite believe in it, intimidates me with its formality.
And while I know that the definition between what, as a child, you perceive as being grown-up behavior and what actually is, is quite different, and that "adults" don't necessarily always act like adults, I'm sometimes slightly embarrassed that I can't just act my age. It's going to be quite interesting to attend my 10 year high-school reunion this summer, to see who turned out to be what, who got old, who got ugly, who got hot, who got rich. Just today I found out that an old friend from high school that I lost touch with is now a huge music video director. Another is one of the most famous models in the world. How different must they be? How different must I be? And the kicker: what if the answer to how much I've changed is Not Much? Or Not At All? Would that bother me? I don't know.
Back in college, my acting teachers used to wonder why I was "so old". Not old-looking, or really acting, but I seemed to carry this burden around - this weight which, combined with my personality, made me seem both 55 and 12. The funny thing is, I think I've reverted to only the 12. I think the 55 part has lightened some. I'm happy with that. But I wonder how long I can stay, well, happy and energetic - how long I can retain the desire to jump on things or climb trees or bounce little rubber balls through the hills of Hollywood.
I don't know if one day I'll wake up and be the guy reading the WSJ looking down his nose at the guy peering through the marble at the sun rising over the hills of the East Bay. But I certainly hope not.
If you, if you could return. Don't let it burn. Don't let it fade. I'm sure I've not been rude, But it's just your attitude. That's tearing me apart. It's ruining everything. I swore, I swore I would be true. And honey, so did you. So why were you holding her hand? Is that the way we stand? Were you lying all the time? Was it just a game to you? But I'm in too deep. You know I'm such a fool for you. You've got me wrapped around your finger... Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to...do you have to...do have to let it linger?... speaking of which. I went out with this girl a few years ago who had this killer pad in the hills and I was like, "are you an actress?" and she was all, "no", and I was like, "cool", because you see, I hate dating actresses. Well, after a couple months of her refusing to sleep with me, she was all, "Hey, can you hook me up with your agent?" And I was like, "I thought you weren't an actress, I thought you were a professional bartender," and she was all, "well, I thought maybe I'd give it a shot." Damn, woman! Were you lying all the time? Man, women make want to pee in my pants sometimes, they're so confounding.
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