transcendent moments, or,
jon stewart can kiss my ass

I would like to live in wild wonder every day. I would like to marvel upon waking up at the particular way the sunlight slips through my blinds and litters the floor with angles and quadrants. Instead, I groan and hit snooze. Tell the cat to stop licking me. Stretch purposefully and habitually but with little awareness of what it feels like to be stretching. How good it feels to have a body. How lucky I am to be able to hop out of bed and stop at 7-11 for coffee and listen to music and see beautiful women walking dogs outside my apartment window. I would like to be amazed and awed and inspired.

Something I have all too rarely here in Los Angeles is this: transcendent moments. Pieces of sublime wonder when you are touched by the uniqueness of an experience. A moment that lifts you out of the norm and you hover weightlessly before being gently lowered, landing somehow, slightly changed. I had one while at the Getty Center this weekend. But I can’t remember when I had one before that. I had many in New York.

I remember getting off work at 8pm one summer and riding my bike down Murray Hill with my arms outstretched and the reflection of the descending sun playing off the World Trade Center. It was warm and I had a t-shirt on and everyone on the street seemed to be looking at me, and smiling. Another was climbing an old church tower in the East Village and watching the sun come up with a woman I had known for a while but had just discovered. I recently found a mix tape from that era (4 years ago) and it flooded me with those feelings and sense memories; songs like "God Shuffled His Feet" and the first song from Green Day’s "Dookie" and "Do You Love Me Now?" by the Breeders. Tool and De La Soul. Smashing Pumpkins and Rage Against the Machine and Blues Traveler and the Beastie Boys. A good summer. A summer that I view as so wonderful, which was, in reality, quite difficult. In fact it would prove to be my last summer in New York.

Rose colored glasses, perhaps, but there was something there. Perhaps there is something here. Right now. Right here. I should go look for it.

Another track: I heard a sound bite from the Big Daddy press junket in which Jon Stewart talked about how acting was easy and he didn’t think actors should go home and work on their characters or try to "feel what the character is feeling" or anything like that. I would just like to bitch-slap Jon Stewart, and any other of the alarming number of neophyte actors who say ignorant shit like that. If I was playing the kind of roles Jon Fucking Stewart was playing, I wouldn’t need to do a whole shitload of work either. But put Jon Fucking Stewart onstage in Hamlet or After The Fall and see what he says at that press junket. That bitch.

It’s like me banging on my piano at a children’s party and having them enjoy my renditions of Stairway To Heaven and Pop Goes the Weasel and then telling reporters that musicians shouldn’t bother studying or running their scales every day.

Big Fish. Little Pond, dickhead.

This is where I let Larry King take over my body for a few minutes.

I watched the first episode of the new Real World cast in Hawaii. I love that show and damn, is it gonna be an interesting season...went to another casting director session this evening. Kicked-ass once again...I learned today that while dogs make only about 10 different vocal noises, cats make like 100...