It’s 102 degrees, but our air conditioning is getting fixed. 

No more evil today.

Did we get a puppy?! Squeeee!

Fuck no, we didn’t get a puppy. What am I, nuts? I clean up human poop, and that’s as far as it goes. So, Tucker Blogs (this is what you say), what is the new edition to the backyard? Why, it’s an Ex-Con!

Last Saturday night while I was away, a nearby neighbor had a very loud, very angry discussion with God about murder, prison, and homosexuals. My wife and kid were scared, so they called me, then the police. That did NOT go over well with the Ex-Con.

While I was racing home on the 405, the Ex-Con hopped the fence and proceeded to yell in my windows that he disagreed with our decision to call the police. Apparently the LAPD is very gossipy, and told the angry, drunk and high ex-con on parole which house made the complaint. Thanks, cops. I called them again.

When I got home there were no cops and no guy. I checked on the family, and returned outside, to wait. The Ex-Con came back first; the cops have still not shown up. (It’s 4 days later, and there has been no response to two separate 911 calls. At all.)

Overall, he’s a decent enough guy. He told me he’s never taken an innocent life (implying the guilty may be a different matter), and that he loves Jesus. He also doesn’t judge homosexuals, which was a little off topic but a nice character trait to learn. He also did an impersonation of me which wasn’t bad and paints me as fairly well mannered, so when it comes to paranoid schizophrenics, I make a good first impression. I gave him a cigarette, and he blessed my family. Then he went home.

To sum up: Saturday night I met the man who may one day kill me, but at least he’s somewhat progressive. And the cops won’t find me for days.

My wife and I are not only married, but also in love with each other. A marriage cannot be healthy without openness and honesty, but to a point. Too much openness can backfire. I love my wife, but she loves Long Island Medium. This is a love we simply cannot share, despite her dedication.

(My wife’s dedication, not this nutcase’s.)

I cannot stand reality television. I hate it so, so much. And let’s be clear, because some people feel they can trick me into liking it through semantics or somehow negate my opinion by stating that reality TV comes in many forms. I understand, technically speaking, that game shows and variety shows ARE reality. You can argue that the news is also technically reality TV, and I would argue that you’re a total douche who’s purposely missing the larger point just so they can argue or have a turn to talk. This is actually something that happens a lot on reality TV, by the way.

No, I’m talking about the Celebrity or Personality show about somebody who does something for a living, but also follows them off hours. I mean the type of show where a whole episode is about the main star’s spouse having a birthday party and will include various talking heads from the shitheads the main star works with saying they can’t wait to “cut loose,” because it’s been 3 weeks since their last vacation and they’re very stressed.

These are the housewife shows, the hair stylists, the Bachelors, the Whores Who Live Togethers, often in a network provided pleasure palace. Somebody who’s personality would make you punch them in real life gets to mug into a camera and justify their obnoxious habits into a career, all the while assuring themselves of their importance in human history.

My wife loves them all, and I’ve seen dozens of episodes of each. I’ll sit here honey, to be with you, but stop thinking that episode #13 is the one that will win me over if I just give it a chance.

Same thing for musicals.

I’ve been waking up with a stiff neck, which makes me grumpy. I considered that it might be that I just wake up grumpy and that causes a stiff neck, but I’d rather blame the pillows. 

(And the occasional belt INSIDE the pillows.)

I’m a pretty tall guy, reaching upwards of 7 foot 7, depending on my confidence or hairstyle. Because I drank so much milk and grew like Marsha Warfield, beds have been too small for me since I was 13, so I ended up sleeping curled up in a ball. That’s not so good no mo’.

We have a California King bed now (because when you drink the California Kool Aid, it’s a BIG glass), so the problem faded away, but it’s back. Stress makes me sleep in a ball on the edge with my arm stretched towards the alarm clock, and wake up with the head turning abilities of Derek Zoolander. I tend to toss and turn, but I’ll end up on the edge eventually. Okay, it’s not the pillows. 

I need a vacation that’s not visiting family members, or perhaps a day at the golf course. Or Sailing. GOD, how I miss the ocean. A date with my wife would be nice, since the two of us haven’t been out alone in 16 months. Even an hour at a bar would be pleasant. I’d like to spend more time actually working rather than auditioning or interviewing. Oh, and I’d like a sandwich. Ham, turkey, I don’t care. Even peanut butter is fine, so long as it’s smooth. I’m sore, I’m grumpy, I’m hungry, and I got 3 more hours to go. 

Stupid pillows. 

I just sat down to write about something that bugged me, as I am wont to do on the internet, but as I typed a strange feeling came over me: familiarity.

I’ve done this before. I’ve already ranted about this and didn’t remember. So why re-walk the same path? 

My thoughts on Kid Rock’s “All Summer Long.”

I live with fear like a diabetic lives with insulin. At least 3 times a day it will be injected into me, sometimes on schedule, sometimes as a delightful surprise. I’m a dad, an “independent contractor,’ and probably a few other things, so fear is often my co-pilot. Normally I just deal with it (with beer), but every now and then a fear hits me that can’t be shaken away. 

Like the realization that during this particularly fearful month, I have been on the phone A LOT. Calls to lawyers, calls to agents, calls to mommy… they all run longer than they should and will cost more than they would had I hung up when I could. These cell phones… they’ll get ya! 

Still, I would probably be having the same problem if it was a happy month, since I’d be calling everyone I know with unbridled enthusiasm to tell them about it. I really just need to stop talking so much. 

Unless I’m being paid to do it.

Right now, 2 houses over, some punk teenagers are reveling in their youth by soaking it in wine coolers and their parents’ brandy. They’re also soaking in a hot tub. Like most things teenagers do, they’re doing it as loudly and boldly as possible.

The problem with teenagers is that they think they’re awesome, and they’re not. A lot of older people fall for this, too. We all celebrate the youth, but it’s only when you grow up that you realize it’s the innocence and the raw ambition that’s celebrated, not the actions themselves. Teenagers don’t get this. They think what they do is awesome. But it isn’t. They do stupid things and are not awesome.

The teenagers 2 houses over are proclaiming their self-viewed awesomeness loudly, with specific details of their actions. An accusation that “Tanya’s Drunk!” is followed by a drunk, vocal-fried voice that could only be Tanya, confirming earlier suspicions that, “(she) LOVE(s) DRINKING!” This causes an eruption of cheers throughout the whole gang, no more than 6 in number, but ready to take on the world. Us versus them, man. Yes, the criminals who call attention to their crimes never get caught, just like in the movies. Scream to the heavens, kids! Nobody can hear you in a backyard with 5 adjoining lots!

Teenagers think that they are the only ones with open eyes and the rest of us are dead drones, because teenagers are stupid and don’t know shit about shit. A Teenager will drive fast and blow Stop signs while blasting music, because ‘somebody has to fight the system, man.” They see us all as slaves, while they choose to live free. They are all stars, shining bright like diamonds, and they love Bieber. They get it, man.

So these oily, greasy, big nosed, awkward, smelly teenagers who think they rule the world and see through society’s lie because they read a little Kafka in Language Arts class are being REALLY noisy, and they only thing stopping me from becoming Mr. Wilson and yelling at them is that kids today are more likely to be packing heat than in my day, especially in Van Nuys. Hopefully a curfew will end it, because I can’t wait for them to hit their late 20’s and realize there are other people in the world, and most of them are bill collectors.

You damn kids keep it down. It’s 11 o’clock on a Saturday, and we’re trying to sleep over here.

For the past few weeks in my car I’ve been exclusively listening to CDs I burned back when that was a thing people did. Beyond the frightening discovery that there are a number of songs I still mentally consider ‘recent finds” that are over 6 years old (Icky Thump!), it also seems like I used to be a lot more happy. I’m not saying I’m unhappy now, just… a little more beleaguered. 

(I’m not so fresh-faced anymore.)

There’s a lot of Ska and “I’m awesome” style anthems peppered throughout my old music mixes. As a Federally licensed Disc Jockey (which means nothing), I always thought of my playlists as little radio shows, so there are enough sketches and interstitials in between to make a De La Soul album blush. I was big into those, almost as much as I was into the Superman theme, included on nearly every disk. Half of the songs on these CDs were added exclusively for ironic blasting. How could 22 year old me pass up a Money Pit reference by not jamming Sammy Davis Jr’s “I gotta Be Me” at traffic lights? 

These little dalliances into my past can be refreshing, but also sobering. Sure, I’m driving the same car, listening to the same CDs, and probably wearing a lot of the same shirts I did a decade ago, but I’m also like, totally different.

(dramatic pause)

No. Actually, I’m not. Bring on the Bosstones!

Roger Ebert has passed away at the age of 70.

Say hi to Gene. Rest in peace.

Every day when I drive to work I pass a big sign that says, “BE A MENTOR.” I look at it every morning and have the same thought: that is a horrible idea. I’m not saying it’s a horrible idea for me to be a mentor (though it is), I’m saying it’s a horrible idea to invite any random jackass to start thinking he’s Yoda. Not everyone should be a mentor. There’s already too much self-anointed superiority in this town. We can’t have these idiots thinking they should be training someone, or everything they say is a pearl of wisdom demanding dissection. Sure, anybody can be a “mentor,” but that doesn’t mean they should.

(At least he’s encouraging.)

It’s already out of control without the help of dumb billboards. In LA, if you mention you’re a “something,” like a writer, or cameraman, or actor, there’s a 90% chance the person you’re talking to will take that as an invitation to give you advice. They don’t even have to be the same thing as you. I told an actor once at a party, “I write.” He immediately started telling me about story structure, pausing only to ask if I wanted to sit down in another room so I could hear him better. I told him he was welcome to, but I had to get another beer. I left shortly after.

My first boss in LA really wanted to be my “mentor.” He told me I should introduce him as such, though the only thing he was teaching me was how to creep out the female interns. He was incredible at it, and I learned some tactics I never would have thought of and am still horrified by to this day. 

My Mentor advice? Don’t. Don’t approach life thinking you’ve got it all figured out. Don’t wrap yourself in a blanket of smugness and assume everyone craves your unique outlook. Be a student. Think of it like a driver’s licence: being a mentor is a privilege, not a right. If you think you’re THAT good, start a class and charge people. That way you can either make some money, or you’ll hold your tongue in public since you won’t want to give away your wisdom for free.

And don’t take advice from roadsigns.