My Sister Has Diabetes: A fictional journal entry of a twelve-year-old boy

I’m sitting in the living room as my little sister (she’s 11) and mom are in the kitchen, listening to some loud, blond lady with glasses show my sister how to use a new “pump” for her diabetes. My sister thinks she’s sooo great because she has special needs. She always is putting insulin in her stomach after we eat and showing off.

All of my friends ask me about it and ask why I don’t have to put cool needles in my stomach. They say “Why don’t you have to do anything cool because of a disease? Your sister does.” I say, “Shut up! Anxiety and depression don’t require needles.” But nobody understands.

My sister gets all the attention because she’s so stupid. No one ever came over to the house to show me how to take my Prozac pills. Jeez. She’s such an attention hog. She’s so cool. She told me good job when I finally conquered Call of Duty 2 for the Wii. She knows things like carbohydrates and sucrose. She’s awesome. I hate that she gets all of the attention. I have a lot of good things that people should know about so I get attention, but my sister hogs it all like a hog in the family slopyard.

I can’t wait until this stupid, blond lady leaves our kitchen. I want to make peanut butter toast in there. She keeps talking to my sister and my mom like she knows everything. But there’s one thing she doesn’t know – that she doesn’t know everything.

My sister’s diabetes pump is so cool. It beeps like a video game or something. But I’m not jealous. I have a watch with the Froot Loops bird on it. That beeps too – when there’s batteries in it – and everyone likes that (or used to like it before my sister’s pump came along). I’m going to go put it on just to show her she’s not the only one with a cool beeping toy. CU L8R.

Looking Up

Today began in a way that let me know it could only get better. I awoke, stepped out of bed, and kicked over a full glass of delicious water onto my carpet. After relishing the science of a towel’s ability to soak up the spill, I walked into the kitchen and pretended it didn’t happen. And perhaps it really didn’t.

Hell's Kitchen, white Christmas and the first 48 hours

Once again, it has been so long since I have blogged. Why is that? I have a job! That’s right. I’m an outstanding Production Assistant for Fox TV’s “Hell’s Kitchen”. So far, it’s pretty darn good and should keep me employed through possibly the end of March. So, if you are planning on asking me for money, try to do it before the end of March, to increase your chances of great fortune.

Speaking of great fortune, I have the great fortune of being in Fargo, ND – my hometown – right now! I’m sitting next to a real Christmas tree by a bay window looking out at a bunch of beautiful whiteness. And that’s not just the predominantly white citizens of Fargo. It snowed three inches the day I arrived, so I’m guaranteed a white Christmas, which is exactly what I ordered from “Hutch”, the local weather man.

Thus far, I’ve played Scrabble, drank Guinness, slept with a cat in someone else’s bed, played a guitar, played a washboard (not my abs), played Mario Kart, jumpstarted a car with a British flag on the roof, argued about pizza, argued with a pizza, got bit by a dog and had fun with family and friends. And that’s just the first 48 hours! Looking forward to more!

Loose Thoughts: "Accidentally Stupid"

Sometimes I question whether some people with whom I spend my time think I'm as smart and skilled as I know I am. (Just the fact that I wrote such a complicated sentence should be proof enough.) 

So, I often act casually as I try to prove that I am indeed smart or skilled with this or that thing. In doing so, I frequently make mistakes that wouldn't have happened if I had not tried so hard to look casual. 

Therefore, I trip on the words I speak as I explain something complex or I tip over lamps while trying to accomplish daring dance feats or I cruise over curbs while taking sharp corners in a residential street. 

Sometimes my brain is a paranoid robot of insecurity that spins into an electric cyclone of dismayed gears. But most times it's not. I like those times the best.

Close Encounters with Jerry Seinfeld

I recently worked on a TV show called "The Marriage Refs". It just so happens that Jerry Seinfeld is the Executive Producer for this promising reality/talk show. For those who don't speak TV lingo, that means he's the big boss man.

Although we were only working on a tech rehearsal for this show (which means the video we shot is not going to go on the air; it was a practice run through, so to speak), Jerry Seinfeld was with us at the studio and there was a special energy in the air.

I usually don't get too excited about spotting celebrities here in the LA area. But for some reason, even seeing Jerry's car made me giddy. As I walked past the shining white Porsche before entering the studio, I could smell the new rubber freshness of the clean, black tires and feel the engine's heat rising from under the hood. The car shined with value and esteem.

When I entered the studio and saw Jerry standing there interacting with other producers, the stage manager and the host of the show, I couldn’t keep from feeling embarrassingly excited. I had to hide the smile on my face. It was crazy how absolutely similar he is to the character he played on Seinfeld. His speech, hand gestures and laugh are all the same. I kept expecting to see Elaine doing her horrible dance near the craft services (snack) table.

Eventually, I got over the giddiness as I realized that (A) he was an executive producer, so he wasn’t there to sign autographs (no, I didn’t try to get one) and (B) he might not be as excited to see me as I was to see him. In fact, I found myself disappointed that he wasn’t reciprocating my friendly advances. I smiled at him when we were on the far side of the stage, watching the rehearsal next to each other. He didn’t seem to notice me. When he passed me in the production office hallway and I tried to gain his attention, he simply scratched at his face with a finger and walked past me. “Harumph!” I thought.

I pondered how I might make him laugh. Perhaps in the bathroom. I pictured myself next to him at an adjacent urinal and saying something funny and unexpected like, “I bet you never thought you’d be peeing next to me”. I figured that even if he didn’t laugh, it would at least be something he remembered and maybe even talked about on Conan O’Brien’s show or something. I could be one of Jerry Seinfeld’s talk show anecdotes! I’d say “That bathroom story he just told Conan is about me!”

Unfortunately for me – and fortunately for him – Jerry had his own bathroom where he could create his own anecdotes (or maybe simply do what people normally do in bathrooms).

After some thought, it occurred to me that big name stars like Jerry probably have to create a kind of wall around themselves. One that serves to keep every would be comic from chatting his ear off about their MySpace page or to keep aspiring TV show producers from pitching hackneyed shows to him (“It’s like ‘Seinfeld’, only the difference is…”). He has to create a barrier or he’d never get anything done. He’d be too busy pretending to be as interested in his fans as they are in him. (“Really? Your mom watches reruns of my show? How interesting. Go on…”)

Having said that, I do appreciate celebrities who take the time to be friendly to their fans. I’m told that Drew Barrymore and George Clooney are very gracious in that regard. It speaks well of their personalities and patience. My hope is that sometime soon, I end up in some Los Angeles bathroom, relieving myself next to George Clooney. I know he’d reciprocate.

Dance Band on the Titanic

Early this morning, I was awoken by a Roto Rooter man fixing a bad toilet-related situation in a pipe outside my window. I arose and in-line skated for a half hour. This song was in my head the whole time. Love it.

Thai Day!

My Thai landlord and her daughter live on the same property as my roommates and I, so we've gotten to know them over the course of the ten months we've lived in Burbank, CA. The story of Thai Day - which isn't a real holiday at all (I just named it that moments ago) - is an example of why they are top notch!

Dim Sum, Everybody!
Last week, my friend and I joined our landlord and her daughter in celebrating our landlord's birthday. We went to Empress Pavilion in Chinatown and our landlord paid for it! She said we are like her children! Now I have two moms. That last sentence sounded like a quote from a "progressive" TV drama in the mid-nineties.

Anyway, the Empress Pavilion serves some of the most delectable "dim sum" that a pavilion can legally have. "Dim sum" does not refer to an uneducated answer to an addition problem on a math worksheet. It refers to snacks served during tea time, a Chinese tradition. My favorite was Shiu Mai (pictured above), which are pork dumplings with savory mushrooms and flavor that will make the angel babies cry with delight.

Once you get to the Empress Pavilion, you are seated in a huge ballroom of sorts (Picture a big ballroom in a nice hotel and then fill it with tables... and Asians). As soon as you sit down, you're given hot tea and women come around from table to table with carts of steaming food that they offer you. "You want spinach dumpling?" Sometimes, I didn't know what they were offering me, but my Thai friends would "translate" Chinese English to Thai English, which I seem to understand better.

Since our landlord wouldn't let us pay for lunch, we decided it would be best to make her a cake to show our gratitude. However, we were unable to do that because she invited us to get Thai massages that very night at Master Wong's Foot Clinic in nearby Alhambra, CA!

"Come on, come on, come on, come on, come on now touch me, babe."
For months, I'd wanted a professional massage, and I was so happy to get the inside scoop on a very affordable, very effective Thai massage. Before you make any jokes about a "happy ending", I'll tell you this is not that kind of place. The only clothes you remove are your shoes and socks.

For two hours, I was rubbed, pressed, stretched, caressed, oiled, smacked and utterly relaxed by a wonderful Thai woman. There were about twenty massage recliners in this medium-sized operation, and almost all of them were filled with relaxed souls like me. I had never been massaged - professionally or otherwise - that well for such a length of time. It was amazing. As I sat in the dim light, listening to relaxing music, I distinctly remember two thoughts:

1) "This music sounds like it belongs in a 1960's early color Western movie."
...and later...
2) "I feel like I can do anything."

As much as we tried, our landlord wouldn't let us pay for the massages. She did let us tip our masseuses, and for that we were grateful. I think we both kind of felt like mooches.

Pretzels and shirtless healing
I wonder how we could ever repay our landlord. Maybe we could treat her and her daughter to a "German Day", since I think all three of us roommates have some German blood in us. It would be like our version of Thai Day.

We could start by taking the two of them to Schmidt's Brahaus for pretzels, sausage and schnitzels... and beer. Once filled to capacity with food and drink, we can nap for four hours and then visit our old friend, Dieter, German energy and touch healer. Through massage, Dieter will shirtlessly relax our bodies and minds. Wow. I think that will work! They'll love it! Thanks, Dieter!