Free Lunch?

Someone once said:  “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”  I disagree.

For the past four+ years I’ve been working at a small law firm.  It’s a great job with great people and, in that time span of 48+ weeks, I think we’ve had a “free” lunch maybe four times.  But when I was at Heller?  It was a veritable weekly feast.

There are benefits of working at large law firms.  Benefit one is that there are lots of people to get to know, meet, flirt with, joke with, etc.  Multiple floors also mean multiple hiding places.  Having a bad day?  Go “inventory” that 38^th floor file room.  But one of the huge benefits of a large law firm are the lunches.  Seemingly every week someone, some department, is having a catered lunch.  Usually sandwiches, but sometimes it was trays of fettuccine, garlic bread, sub sandwiches, cookies, snacky foods, drinks.  It makes me hungry just thinking about it.

Being a manager (until I wasn’t a manager after the out-sourcing), I was even invited to an occasional lunch to chat about records systems, or listen to how the firm was doing.

Also, being cheap, I’m always up for a free sandwich or cookie or pop or chips.  If it’s there, and the meeting is over, I’m going to take advantage of the left-over food.  And, being the great manager that I am/was, I would make sure that my team was involved and knew what was going on.

If I somehow got word early in the day that, say, the Litigation Department was going to have a lunch – I would inform my team:  “Heads up, possible food today, be on the look-out.”  And then we had our spies.  Secretaries who often did the ordering of the food would give us a notification of food-stuff.  “Hey, Matt, this is Susan.  I’ve ordered Gourmondo sandwiches for the attorneys today.”  Excellent.

But...then...it started to become a problem.  Well, it wasn’t so much that IT started to become a problem but WE started to become a problem.  For some reason we were told we COULD NOT PARTAKE OF LEFTOVER FOOD (until it got down to the main kitchen).  Now, I assure you, this is reasonable.  And I told my team:  “Wait until the food gets down to the kitchen.”  We all agreed and the decision was made.  No going into a conference room to get food.  Rumor had gone around that we, MY department, was seen running back and forth between conference rooms with plates piled with food.  I can assure you, we did no running back and forth and we knew the rules were clear:  NO FOOD UNTIL IT GETS TO THE KITCHEN!

Except...we would see other people in the conference room getting food.  Why does the Mail Room guy, and the Secretary, and Miss Paralegal get to go in and grab a tasty sandwich while we, the Records Department, have to wait until the food gets down to the kitchen?  What made US the bad guy?  WHO made us the bad guy?

Duncan would walk by my office:  “Heads up, meeting is over, and there’s food, but so-and-so and such-and-such are in there eating – what should we do?”  Well, this is important stuff.  “Go on in and get some food if others are eating.”  “Will do.”

Now if I was running Office Services, here’s what I would do:  Once the meeting is over, I would go in with a cart to remove all remaining food.  I would put up a sign on the table saying:  “Attention:   Please refrain from eating the left-over food until we remove it and place it in the kitchen on the 59^th floor.  Thank you.”  Simple, to the point, and I even mentioned this to the head of Office Services who balked at the idea.  Again, I felt, that we – my department – was being singled out for our free food habits.  That finally became clear.

After having restraint for many a lunch, seeing multiple people enjoying the “good” sandwiches and leaving the “lox” sandwiches (not that tasty, but I would still eat them, since they were free), we got caught again not waiting until the food got down to the kitchen.

Miss Office Services found out that we had a secretary in on our plan of free lunch and she actually confronted the secretary and told her to not tell us when lunches were being served.  She also hassled my team to the point where I started feeling harassed.  Free lunch harassment since, again, no one else seemed to be abiding by these rules.

Finally Miss Office Services and I had it out and she stormed into my office to confront me about my team’s ability to get (or not get) a free lunch and she said:

“What is your problem, Matt, did you grow up poor or something?”

And, you know, no one had ever really asked me that question before and it wasn’t one upon which I put a lot of thought.  I just assumed my free lunch OCD was due to my being cheaper than Ebenezer Scrooge but I hadn’t thought about that.

After she left I sat in my office thinking about that.  Had I grown up poor?  I didn’t FEEL poor.  When I was a kid, before my mother re-married, we had a roof over our head.  But I know my mom sold fig jam to help make ends meet.  I know my deadbeat father didn’t send her any money and being a single mom raising two boys you know, we probably WERE poor.  Was I a poor child?  Did I want for anything?  I don’t remember.  In our house we had love, we had pets, we had MacDonald Sundays (where one Sunday a month we’d go to MacDonalds).  Maybe we were poor.  Maybe that would explain my desire to always get a deal, whether it’s a DVD on sale or a free plate of lukewarm fettuccine.

Suddenly I was appreciating my mother more, my childhood a little more, and maybe things became a little clearer as to how I am today.

All because of a free lunch.

The Fun Periodontal Graft

For as long as I can remember I’ve had bad teeth.  Not in terms of line-up or my face, really, just thin.  For someone who once wore a retainer (lost while eating Milk Duds during the film “The Sting” at The Bay Theatre in Ballard), I haven’t had to wear braces (Miriam and the kids have had to wear braces) and I don’t have a proper over-bite, my teeth lot in life was being stuck with thin teeth.

Just to be clear:  Thin teeth = cavities.  Probably the worst was having 12 cavities at one time when I was a kid.  This was the time when you still had to lean over and spit into a mini toilet bowl and no one wore masks or gloves.  Good times.

Having a good smile (dare I even say “newscaster” worthy?) did not mean I didn’t have bad teeth.  And then it just got worse.  A continual parade of cavities, made all the worse by my ingestion of gallons of Coca-Cola and chewing loaded with sugar “Bubblicious” bubble gum.

As time progressed I moved on to root-canals (two), removal of wisdom teeth, molars and, most recently a bridge (so my teeth don’t collapse onto each other).  Really the only benefit I see of having a bridge is that I can chew sunflower seeds again.  woo hoo

And, seriously, I have more metal in mouth than teeth.

But the story being told today isn’t about my teeth, per se, but about my periodontal graft.

As I age (or we all age) our gums have a tendency of receding.  During a standard dental visit, the dentist, or assistant uses some kind of gauge to measure gum recession.  It’s during these times where I’m usually falling in and out of sleep consciousness (I like to sleep when I’m at the dentist – so sue me), where the assistant or dentist drones on to someone with a chart.  “Four, three, four, two, negative two, negative four, three, four.....”  It was after one of these measurements where my dentist said:  “Matt, you need a periodontal graft.”

“Okay.  What’s that?”  I asked.

“Your gums are receding and so before your teeth fall out of your head, a doctor can CUT SKIN AWAY FROM THE ROOF OF YOUR MOUTH (emphasis mine), and graft it onto the gum.”

Sure, what the hell, sign me up.

With a recommendation in my pocket I went off to meet with the specialist.  Dr. WH reminded me of a non Vampire Hunter Abraham Lincoln.  He ran a small oral surgery place connected to the denture making office of a father in our daycare.  A father who, for lack of a better word, was a dork.

Dr. WH, along with his Asian wife, ran this clinic and they went over all the details as to what was going to happen, drugs, time, etc.  It would be smooth sailing, no problem, don’t worry.

But...I can be a worrier.  So I went up to Mrs. WH and asked her if this was covered by insurance.  She smiled sweetly and looked at me in spoke in very broken English.  “Yeah, it covered.  No worry.  It covered.”

Good.  I went home.

When the day of appointment came, it was clear that I was going to be drugged up to the point where I would NEARLY be put under.  I would have all faculties and could mumble incoherently but things would be BLURRY.  Since I would be in a basically inebriated drugged up state, my father-in-law graciously offered to pick me up and drive me home.

Under I went and the procedure to cut away skin from the roof of my mouth and latch it onto my gums was underway.

Now, I will readily admit that I’m a Christian and I’m glad that people are able to profess their faith but I thought it slightly weird and a tad disconcerting when Dr. WH started preaching to me while I was “under.”

“Are you a believer Matt?”

“Yeshbbathat.”

“Because you know who the true healer is, it’s not, me, it’s GOD.”

“Ahhblathalaljafs.”

“God has given me the gifts to help you, but he’s the true healer.  Isn’t that right?”

“surethatblahblahthep”

After a couple hours of his “God given gifts” and post proselytizing, I was done and up out of the chair.  Groggy, blessed by God and his healing power, and ready to head home.

Still – may face felt punched by multiple angels and the gauze in my mouth was filled with saliva-blood and I was drooling saliva-blood on myself.

My father-in-law had made it over just fine and time for me to relax.

“Okay, you pay, $5,000 dollars.”  Mrs. WH said to me.

“Whathatahat?”

“Insurance no cover!  You pay, NOW!”

I looked at her in my groggy state, blood drool staining my shirt, unable to comprehend what the hell she was demanding from me.

“Whatdidyousaythat?”

“You pay, NOW!  Five thousand dollar!  Insurance no cover procedure!”

I looked at my father-in-law with what I’m sure were blood-shot eyes, matching the color of my shirt.  Gauze still filling my mouth like blood soaked Olive Garden garlic bread sticks.

The only thing I could do was call my work, except the home office is in Portland so I’d have to call the Seattle office and have them transfer me to HR in Portland.  And I was in no shape to even complete a sentence let-alone negotiate some sort of Insurance plan infraction.

With my mind clearing a bit, I was able to get the HR person on the phone:

“Do you know if Periodontal grafts are covered?”  I’m sure that’s what I said.  It probably came out more like:  “Doyouknowperiografcover?”  She tried to find out the information but she probably just said to herself:  “How do I get this idiot off the phone?”

With her response inconclusive, I had to dive into whatever was in my profit sharing.  I didn’t have 5K to just hand to:  “You pay now!  Insurance no cover!”  And where was Mr. Christian Dr. WH?  Probably having a post procedure bible study with himself.  Good for him, leave me with Mrs. WH and her arms-crossed anger and glare.

The HR person explained that I couldn’t access my 401K or something – it was all becoming more of a blur because, at this point, I had started weeping.  The meds, the pain, the blood-saliva gauze sticks and the feeling like the world was crashing in on me was too much to bear.

My father-in-law stood there unable to move...or even know what to say.

Today I still don’t know how I eventually got out of there, but I do remember that I didn’t pay her $5,000 and I do remember weeping all the way home in the car.  Hard to put on a tough exterior to the Old-Man-In-Law when you feel like a complete pain filled failure.

A couple days later I wrote a note to my dentist and to Dr. WH explaining that I was leaving her practice and why.  In my now coherent state I ripped them all a new one as best and as politely as I could.

Months go by and we get a new family in the daycare.  In talking with the mother of the family we find out that she works with Dr. WH and Mrs. WH.  I told her about my experience.  When she came to pick up her child the next day she looked at me and said:  “I found your letter, Matt.  I cried.  I’m so sorry.”  She soon left Dr. WH and Mrs. WH because, as she put it, Mrs. WH was a total bitch and she couldn’t stand working for them anymore.

A while later I sat down with my dentist friend Jim over a beer and told him the story.  He laughed and said that I could have brought them up on all sorts of ethics charges, could have sued them, etc.  I probably should have but, you know, God is the true healer.

Flat Tires and Stormy Weather

There’s always a bit of a pause when I answer the phone from my child (the beauty of caller-ID).  The pause is there to wonder...what’s going on.  Typically kids don’t call to “chat.”  They don’t call to “see how your day is going” or “what’s for dinner tonight.”  If they’re calling you it’s for a reason and, for a moment, I catch myself wondering.

A couple months ago my daughter called.  I paused.  She was in tears.  She had been in a car accident.  A number of months before that she had called, in tears, because she had broken up with her boyfriend (now back together).  And over the past couple days it was two calls:  “I can’t get my TV to work.”  And.  “I got a flat tire.”

The flat tire one was a doozy and here’s why.  At 7 a.m. Saturday morning I was planning on picking up my friend Jason (who flew in from Springfield, MA) and we were heading up to Bellingham to meet with another friend, Cami, and two people from Western Washington University, to start working on a play that Jason, Cami and I came up with.  This has been scheduled for months.  Flight arrangements, angry words, minor scheduling stuff had been changed and exchanged and now my daughter was in trouble with a flat tire.

I know what you’re thinking:  “Just change it.”  And, in all honesty, that was the plan but, truth be told, I’ve maybe only changed 4 tires in my laugh and it scares the living crap out of me.  Think about it.  You have to find the “jack” which I can never tell which way is up.  Then you have to find the METAL under the car.  In these newer cars the metal is harder and harder to find.  Then you have to arrange it and take the crow bar or the metal thingy and you have to crank the car up.  A two ton car now rests on 4 inches of metal and you’re practically UNDER the car twisting a metal bar.  Fear of car dropping is a real fear:  Cardroponyourfaceitis – and worse, I’d have to do this at 11 p.m. at night.  That was when Michelle got off work...AND it had to be done tonight because, not only did I have my trip, but Michelle was driving herself and Miriam to a show in downtown Seattle...but...I don’t want her driving on a spare AND she had to work at 9 a.m.  Everything was pointing straight to the fact that I’d be getting my sorry ass up to Everett at 11 p.m. and attempting to change a tire while the car waits until juuuuuuust the right moment to fall and crush me.

                                                             SCISSOR JACK

                                                           LEMMON, JACK

Sigh.

I called Miriam and told her my plan:  1.  Go up to Michelle at 11 p.m.  2.  Put spare on.  3.  Michelle drive to OUR house, drop car off.  4.  Miriam drives Michelle to work up in Everett in our car.  5.  Miriam drives Michelle’s car to tire place Saturday morning.  6.  Miriam uses Michelle’s car to pick Michelle up from work.  7.  Go to the show.  8.  While I hang out in Bellingham with friends getting drunk off of Two-Buck Chuck from Trader Joe’s.

This would have to be the plan because I just can’t go up to Michelle’s work.  It’s not like she can pop out for a minute and give me her key.  She’s got “at risk youth” to deal with and who knows when one is going to throw another through a window...

Miriam talked me down and explained that we HAD a key to Michelle’s car.  It would be fine.  I go up there and get the car and go to a tire place and get two new tires: “NOT THE CHEAP ONES, something good.  You know, Michelin or something.”  But where to get the tires?  Well, we quickly found out that tire places like “Les Schwab” or “Discount Tires” have banker’s hours and close at 6 p.m.  Really?  No one needs a tire after 6 p.m.?  Our only choice was Costco since they were open until 8:30 but, as I talked to the guy he was like:  “Uh, you have to bring it in before 8:30 because, you know, we need to work on it.”  Yes, of course.

So now... here was the plan.  1.  Sneak out of work 10 minutes early.  2.  Get on bus.  3.  Catch 2^nd bus.  4.  Go to “O’Reilly’s Auto Parts” – get some tire-fill stuff.  5.  Drive up to Michelle’s work.  6.  Inflate tire.  7.  Drive to Costco.  8.  Replace tires.  9.  Drop car off with Michelle.  10.  Go home.  All well before midnight.

Just as I was about to sneak out, I got a call from a secretary asking for help – so ended up staying...strike one...left at 5 p.m. and ran to catch my bus...which was on time(!) but then missed the 2^nd bus which added another 7 minutes to my walk home.  Got to “O’Reilly’s” and got the tire fill stuff.  Then, with GPS in hand, off to Everett.

Problem.  The GPS was stuck.  Stuck in the last location.  Stuck.  STUCK!  It’s telling me that I’m near Ballinger and it’s giving me “street” directions to Michelle’s work but...that’s it.  It’s not GOING.  It’s not speaking to me.  It’s not making sounds.  It’s just THERE.  I’d have to find my way to her place.

Lucky for me the freeway was clear and the drive was uneventful but then...it started raining.  And now I had the fear that I would be huddled by Michelle’s car in the pouring rain.  Why would it have to rain...now?

With the GPS on the fritz, I “kinda” remembered where Michelle worked and drove down the wrong block and then turned around in school parking lot.  At this point the rain turned to pea-size and marble-sized hail and I was just happy to be in a pelted car and not trying to fix a flat.

Also, there was a point where Michelle had a concern that everyone was going to be leaving her work to go somewhere and she was worried about me working on the tire if the girls saw me.  So could I come at...say...7?   Sure, but it was now 6:20 and I was within a stone’s throw’s vicinity of her place and in a massive deluge of ice and rain (two days prior it was in the mid ‘80s!).

She would just have to deal if the girls saw me poking around her tire.

Using the Mapquest map I had from her place to Costco, I figured it out and found her car.  With a lapse in Storm Ida, and like a stealthy rouge auto mechanic, I grabbed the “tire fill” and ran to the car.  Hopefully no one will see me – maybe more like a ninja tire assistant.  “Tire fill” screwed on, I push the green button and the tire starts filling...kinda...and the green stuff is going in...kinda...and the tire lifts off the ground...kinda.  Then, as the can gave it's last green breath of foam and air, I tried in vain to get it off.  With the wetness from the weather, my cold hands, the green slime, etc. it took me multiple twists before I finally got any sort of grip - the fear of Michelle and kids coming out any moment.  Finally, I got it off.

The instructions on the can specifically say:  “You can drive for 2 to 4 miles.”  Costco is 2.5 miles away – fully within the range but the amount of air is JUUUUUUUUUUST enough to get the rim off the ground.  Not to, you know, actually FILL the tire.  It would have to do...but then I remembered:  There was a shell station just around the corner from her work.  I would go there and fill it up the rest of the way.  Surely that would work or, at the very least, give me enough to get to Costco then “tire fill” would.

I pulled into the gas station and filled the tire up as much as I could.  I could hear air escaping from somewhere.  Certainly this wasn’t going to work.  Certainly it would blow up in my face.  Certainly, somehow, even without a jack, the car would levitate and crush me anyway.

Tire full – or maybe even OVER full – I jumped in the car and sped off to Costco.  And, I swear, even from inside the car – I could hear the air escaping like a hissing rubber snake of death.  I waited for any moment to either hear an explosion or just a thump and then a thumpa-thumpa-thumpa as the tired collapses into bleah.

Luckily...it stayed inflated and I got to Costco and everything worked out from there (other than the fact that Costco’s power went out and I had to wait 15 minutes for the cash registers to reboot) damn you storm!  Keeping me away from my Polish Dog and, just to splurge, the fruit sundae.

On Sunday I helped fix her TV, too.  WIN!

Camp, Squirrel and Mid-Life Crisis

It was ten years ago this summer when my high school had its 20 year reunion.  I am a graduate of the class of 1982 and I attended the get together at Daverthumps Pub in Lynnwood.  (Note:  I don’t think it exists anymore and, at one point, it was the most cited pub for legal violations.  Also note, it still exists, and even has a website.  Go figure.)

This evening was going to be just a get-together of classmates, no spouses, just hanging out.  But...there’s something weird about the 20^th Reunion...and you only have to look back 10 years prior to the 10^th Reunion.  You see, ten years out of high school and most people are either recently married or popped out a kid or...both.  At my 10 year reunion, my daughter was 3 and my wife had JUST given birth to my son (I still wore the hospital bracelet).  Everyone is reserved, everyone is talking about their careers, their college degree, their future.

At the 20 year?  Damn, all bets are off.  What you’ve got is a combination of people whose careers have not come to fruition, coupled with recent divorces and ticking biological clocks (all the women are in the 37 to 39 range).  If there’s long-ago relationships to be reignited, old flames to be stoked, memories of back-seat shenanigans, this was the place.  No wonder I found myself chatting up a husband who was dragged there by a classmate.  Surprisingly, I found more in common with him – then with my classmates.

The overall aspect of being out of school for 20 years is also a daunting number.  It is one of those moments that gives you pause.  Then there’s the inevitable:  “Did you hear so-and-so died?”  And mortality raises its ugly ugly head.  The answer to all this?  Jello-shots.

I would like to say that I was immune to all of the above, but seeing your classmates throw themselves at others (“Oh my God!  I just kissed...!!”) and listening to stories of divorce, failed careers, etc. it brings one to look at one’s life.

A few years earlier, as I was working my way through the world of filmmaking (and failing pretty regularly) I noticed that an old classmate had worked on a friend’s film.  I had researched him out and found out that he had gone to Hollywood and had directed a film (starring Martin Sheen’s brother).  He was also working closely with other local filmmakers and I squired myself over to him to talk “shop.”  If I’m not going to get drunk, and I’m bored with the majority of the people I’m with, I can, at the very least, do some networking.  It was at the 10 year that I found out my good friend Kelley worked for Viacom and, eventually, Disney.

                                          Carlos Esteves

                                  (Martin Sheen's Brother)

So I, with business card in hand, sauntered over to him.  I don’t think he remembered me (hell, I didn’t remember me back then), and I dropped a couple names and then he talked a bit about his going to Hollywood, writing a script and then it all poured out of him...the dissolution of his career.  The fact that he never should have gone to Hollywood in the first place.  That it was a waste of time and energy and now he was back in the Seattle area looking for work...or something.  But...but...but...YOU MADE A MOVIE!  With Martin Sheen’s BROTHER!  He dismissed it all, took my business card, and faded into the Jello-Shots and drunken sex-starved classmates.

                    Jello-Shot with Standard Jello-Shot Holder

                              

I drove home that night with overwhelming emotions and feelings.  Was this classmate me...if I had followed my dream of going to Hollywood?  Would I have come back with a film credit of directing Martin Sheen’s brother, but also with a career in the toilet?  Would I be looking for Susie Whatsherbucket for maybe a bit of canoodling under the glow of a neon Budweiser sign, lamenting what was, what ifs and what couldabeens?

Heavy heavy sigh.  Twenty years out of high school and here I was, on the eve of going camping, thinking about my life.  A 10 year old son, a now teenage girl, a loving wife.  Stuck in a soul-sucking legal job.  This camping trip was going to be a nice break in the routine and give me time to think about this.

One problem:  I’m never alone when I camp.  Let me be clear.  I love, LOVE, camping at Lake Wenatchee.  Everyone has been clearly informed that when I kick the bucket, my ashes are to be buried on the island near our campsite.  I need the time away from everything.  I need the trees, the lake, the relaxation.  I look forward to it every year and become abnormally obsessed when it gets near...but...I’m never alone.  There’s usually someone there and taking a walk by myself usually results in a “can I go with you?” from the wife.  Not wanting to be rude, I don’t want to say “no” but then there’s also the:  “I want to be alone” statement which just opens up more questions:  “why do you want to be alone?  Did I do something wrong?  Do you not want to go camping?  Oh, so you want to be alone now, is that it?”  Remind me sometime to tell you what happened when I simply stated that I didn’t want to go horseback riding...but I digress.  So the actual reality of getting some time by myself this camping trip to think about everything that went down the night of the 20^th Reunion – it was going to be slim.

Besides family being constantly around, we also have ground squirrels that flitter around camp like friendly rodents.  Typically the day we arrive, we don’t see them.  By two or three days in they’re eating peanuts out of our hand, by the fourth day they’re on our lap.  For some reason, this camping trip, the squirrels were already in “fourth day” compatibility on day one.  One squirrel in particular, who we call “Cooper,” (who knows why) was very friendly.  Of course, he’s only friendly for the food we bring, and not out of some deep love for this two legged white creatures.  They don’t give a whit about us, they care about the food.  That’s it.  Where ever it is, however they can get it.  If they had access to weapons I’m sure they’d hold us a gun point:  “Step away from the car, just hand over the sunflower seeds and peanuts...that’s right, no one move or the fat bald guy going through a mini mid-life crisis gets it!”

And by day two or three the squirrels have figured out that the food is in the van.  Now...if only they could get into the van it would be nut heaven.

A few days into the 2002 camping trip, I was still trying to figure out all the thoughts going through my head.  My attempts to take a good mile hike by myself had been thwarted and I had simply resolved to just know that I wasn’t going to find any really good introspective time this trip.  I’d have to find it back at home...if I was to find it at all.

But then...well...then Nick had drunk a bit too much apple cider the night before and had wet his sleeping bag.  Lots of fluid and the fear of wandering 100 yards in the dark to a bathroom was probably a bit too overwhelming for him.  With wet sleeping bag in hand, Miriam turned to me and said:  “You’ve got to go get this cleaned.”  The nearest Laundromat was in Plain, WA which is six miles from camp.  I was chosen to go and get the sleeping bag washed and dried...BY MYSELF.  Finally, FINALLY, I was going to have my “alone time.”

                                                                        Plain, WA

 E
xcited at this prospect, I got everything I needed, a note-pad, pen, sleeping bag, a few other items to wash, a couple bucks and I was good to go.

Little did we know, though, that Cooper had discovered that you can jump up on the tire and that made you closer to the kingdom of nuts hidden in the van and the squirrel was bound and determined to figure out how to bypass these ugly two-legged creatures and take all the spoils for him (her?) self.

As I prepped to go, the damn squirrel had once again jumped under the car.  Miriam and the kids were decidedly worried about the squirrel but I told them that the moment I slammed the door of the van, he’d run off and I’d be all good.  Besides, I had some contemplating to do.

Door slammed, I was off to Plain.  Still, the kids were crying that they didn’t see the squirrel.  It wouldn’t be the first time I made my kids cry...it wouldn’t be the last.

Plain, WA is just small town near Fish Lake and Lake Wenatchee and a dozen miles from Leavenworth (the biggest nearby town).

       Note Lake Wenatchee in Upper Left and Plain...middle South

Once I got there, I found the Laundromat and purchased some soap from the local grocer who informed me that his normal washing machines couldn’t hold a sleeping bag.  I didn’t listen to him.  It’s a kid’s sleeping bag and I’m not going to lose my alone time because he’s fearing that I might flood his precious washing machine.  Besides, it’s not my fault his “big” washing machine is out-of-order.

                     Laundromat is directly behind the Just Plain Grocery -
                                 annoyed owner works here.

Sleeping bag loaded in small washer, pen and paper in hand, I took to the park bench outside the Laundromat to contemplate my life.  But...contemplation would have to wait.  You see, that little Cooper had, somehow, crawled its way into a safe place UNDERNEATH the minivan and had travelled a terrifying six miles.  I picture something akin to Indiana Jones hanging on for dear life straddling a beam with certain death a broken fingernail away.  But he probably found a small cubby hole or something and enjoyed the ride.  Still...the terrified squirrel is a better visual.

I realized now that this squirrel’s life and/or existence would now have to take precedence over my mini midlife crisis.  What if the squirrel has a wife/husband.  Or kids?  I couldn’t very well take it six miles from its home and not return it.  That would be cruel.  But...now, how to get it back?

The Laundromat was buffered by a lumber yard and the door to the Laundromat had a window in it.  I could/would have to try and work the Cooper back into the van with whatever nuts I had at my disposal.  All while it runs around sheets of ply-wood and two-by-fours.

Lucky for me, I had my jacket and I devised a simple plan.  Get the squirrel within jacket throwing distance and huck the jacket at it.  Certainly this would enable me to pick up the squirrel in a “net” and shove him back into the van.  My first and, of course, errant throw, caused the squirrel to scatter back amongst the lumber and it was quickly determined that that was not going to work.

Next move was to somehow lure the little bugger back in using the very thing it was obsessed with.  Nuts.  A trail would have to work from the lumber yard to the van.  All the while I’m hoping that no Eagle or Falcon or Hawk would swoop down and grab the little morsel and whisk him away to an afternoon feast.  Then I’d have to return and sing the “Circle of Life” song to the kids (what we did when something would eat/kill something else in our yard).

Treats placed, I hid in the ‘Mat looking out the window.  Watching every move.  Lucky for me, the squirrel took the bait and I had placed a box or something on the ground to get him to jump up into the van.  He was just moments away from nut nirvana and in he went.  Still – eager to get this over with – jumped out of the ‘Mat scaring the crap out of him and watching him scamper back to the confines of sheets of plywood.  Damn!

This got me thinking...would he learn his lesson?   Would he know the jig is up?  Would he even question what the hell is going on?  If I was him, I’d still be traumatized by the 6 mile drive – but this was one focused rodent.

More peanuts placed, more kind words from the scary bald fat white guy and into my hiding place I went, watching and waiting for him to make his move.  I’d have to be more cautious.  A squirrel trapping ninja.

This time he found the nuts and headed to the van, slowly eating each one as he went.  Onto the box and into the van he went.  Once in the van, he hung a left instead of staying in the open and I knew my moment was at hand.  I sprang out of the ‘Mat like Jackie Chan in his prime and slammed the van door shut behind the squirrel.  Then I cautiously, but quickly, jumped into the driver’s seat and tore out of the parking lot back towards camp.  My introspection would have to wait a little while longer.

As I drove the squirrel scurried under and around the floor of the car.  I feared that he would jump on me and/or bite me but I think he was just pissed that he couldn’t readily find more nuts.

Turning into the campground, I saw my family at the end of the street about to go on a hike.  Stunned that I had come back, Miriam asked me what was up.  “I’ve got the damn Cooper in the van.” was my response.  The kids now cried with joy.

By the time I had pulled back into our campsite they had returned and waited for me to open the van door.  Door open, the squirrel took off like a shot and I don’t think we saw him for the rest of the trip.  Everyone was happy and I was back to the Plain to deal with the sleeping bag.

When I returned the sleeping bag had washed itself fine (no flooding to be found) and I put it and the other items in the dryer...finally I had the opportunity to sit, in quiet, the wind rustling the trees, a train whistle in the distance to realize that saving a squirrel to make my kids happy is probably better than filming a movie with Martin Sheen’s brother...and I had some alone time.

As I came back, I stopped at the local camp store and bought myself a 24 oz. Schmidts (or some other cheap headache beer) to celebrate my adventure.  Life, even after twenty years of being out of High School is good.

Script Reading/Reviewing for a Contest

Please Note:  This following Blog is going to be particularly vague so as to not offend anyone who might figure out what I’m possibly talking about.  Is that vague enough?   Good.  Let’s get started.

Years ago I had been working on my first real screenplay entitled “Vegas Dreams.”  When I used to write books I would write it, re-write once, stick it in a box.  With this screenplay done, I wanted so much to really REALLY make it good.  I already understood that Hollywood was a business that was looking for product to sell – not necessarily the next work of art.  So “Vegas Dreams” was a pure Hollywood product.  A film noir set in the adult film industry in the 1980’s.  Filled with sex, violence, nudity, bad language – I didn’t care if it got bought or made and went straight to video.  I knew I was a first time screenwriter and any connection, and any money, would be a good thing.  Even if it went into the clearance bin at the local video store (before Blockbuster destroyed them all...and then got destroyed by Netflix...) I was okay with that.

After writing and re-writing for what seemed like 10 years (more like two), I was “done.”  I had worked and re-worked and re-worked what I had worked and it was “finished.”  Note:  Art is never finished – it’s abandoned.  Even crappy straight-to-video “art.”  But finished I was and done I was.

Through my connection at Seattle Central, I was able to get the script to a guy by the name of Mitch Klebanoff.

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0458517/

I was at work when Mitch called me and wanted to talk to me about “Vegas Dreams.”  What then ensued was a conversation of well over an hour where he went through – page-by-page and told me what I had done wrong, told me what I had done right, and really put me through the wringer.  But as much as I was squished out and put back together again, this guy had told me everything I needed to know and how to fix it.  What was “finished” was now reborn into something amazing and I could not wait to get home and start writing again.  It was exactly what I needed.  By the guy who wrote “Disorderlies” and “Beverly Hills Ninja.”

As I went on to teaching screenwriting, I began to read and edit scripts from students and friends and I soon learned that I needed to do the same thing that Mitch did.  I needed to take the time and energy and show them EXACTLY what needed to be changed.  What did this mean?  Well...it meant I was in for a lot of work because I couldn’t just read a script for pleasure.  With red pen in one hand and red wine in the other – I would dive in.  After slogging through the script, I would then sit down and do a highly detailed page-by-page review of the script.  Going through every single detail.  What worked, what didn’t, how you could make it better, etc. etc.  And when everything was done, my critique would be between 20 and 40 pages.  All with the understanding that they could tell me to go to hell and write it however they want.  They didn’t have to take a single word I wrote, that was fine.  This wasn’t about me...it was about them and their script and making them both better.

Why 20, 30, 40 pages?  Well...I couldn’t very well say that “this didn’t work” or “show character” or “you need to have better dialogue here.”  I had to SHOW them what would work, or how to show character or how to boost the dialogue, etc.  The worst kind of critique you could get is someone saying:  “Oh, yeah.  It was good.”  Without explaining what MADE it good.  Or:  “It was pretty bad.”  Without explaining what MADE it bad.  How is one to learn?  Grow?  Make the script better?

With most scripts...I can see where the writer is going but they don’t know the shortcuts to get there.  I can glean what the idea is, but they’ve come up short in some way.  I can understand what they’re trying to get to with the subtext but they’re just not there yet...maybe I can help.  And I can help with the inevitable bad formatting.

In June 2012, I was asked by a local writers’ association to read 8 screenplays.  They were having a contest and they needed me to pick the top 2.  Certainly I would do it, what the hell.  Only real hitch is that they didn’t want me to write reviews.  They just wanted me to read them.  What do you mean...just read them?  I don’t just read newbie screenplays.  I make copious notes.  I write mini-novel reviews/critiques.  You don’t expect me to just read the screenplays...do you?  “Yep.  All we need is #1 and #2.”  Seems the authors had already been given feedback.

Sitting down with the 8 screenplays, I started in.  And it was very difficult on a number of levels.  Difficult because all the 8 screenplays were subpar in my opinion.  Each one had various formatting errors, each one had various character development errors (only one had something resembling character arc), each one had structure errors.  Some had stories so outlandish that they made no sense.  Some had stories that had been told and re-told numerous times.  If you’re going to do a tried and true genre – it better blow me away (hint:  it didn’t).

Another level where it was difficult was in the fact that me and my co-writers have submitted our scripts to multiple contests.  Yes, one was in the top 8 of one contest and another got to the semi-finals in another...but...please.  THESE scripts?  These 8?  The best one had typos, the worst one didn’t have page numbers – or any other formatting for that matter.  You mean to tell me this the crop of the crop?

The final level where it was difficult was that I can’t contact them and tell them what they did incorrectly.  Each script was cleared of any contact information to make this as fair as possible.  One of my best friends could have submitted a script and I wouldn’t know it.  But now there’s someone on the “outside” about to be awarded a prize of some sort and they’re thinking:  “Score!  I wrote a script!  I won an award!  I’m going to send it out to people in Hollywood!”  Not knowing that they have some basic formatting errors and that they needed to change this and change that and maybe combine this and combine that and shorten the script by a half-dozen pages.  Even the number one script had typos – a HUGE no-no especially in this day-and-age of computers and spell checkers.  How do you miss 'the' spelled 'teh?'  But...even more so to those that didn’t win – they have no idea why they didn’t win and how to make their script(s) better.  My good friend Vicky enters scripts into contests all the time and one of the most disheartening thing is to see the quarter finals come out and find your script isn’t included – with no explanation as to why not.

Lastly what this experience taught me was the cruel harshness of Hollywood.  Straight up I knew within the first 20 pages whether or not the script was going to be any good.  I still read through them completely because I felt like I had to honor what they had done and not just discard it out-right.  What if the writer did a kick ass third act that redeemed the entire script?  But this is just 8 SCRIPTS.  Not dozens and dozens an agent or manager or producer or studio gets EVERY WEEK.  I can completely understand why an agent would look at page numbers, formatting, first/second/third act breaks to see if the writer was clueless or not and then discard the script outright.  I see the importance of the “Hook” as a couple of these scripts had no hook and I was soon yawning and wishing I had a red pen and a way to help.  But, alas, no.

I finished the scripts a week ahead of the deadline and got my final scores in.  My hope is that, now that the scores are in – the authors will be told of their wins early instead of waiting by their phone wondering what is going on.  I've certainly been there - done that.

As much as might I complain about this process...I still thoroughly enjoyed it.  Reading scripts like these is good for my brain...