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Last Updated: 3/11/2009

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Wednesday, March 11, 2009

IT'S TIME, GANGS...

The MySpace. She is a-dyin'. I'll now be typing over at Tumblr.

http://remainchampagne.tumblr.com

Yup. Sorry. But...uh...this is just sad now.

Not leaving MySpace yet, but not typing here anymore. I'm not in oil, but even I know the sound of suckin' wind.

I remain

Champagne

Currently watching:
Stop Making Sense
Release date: 1999-10-26

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1 Kudos

Thursday, February 26, 2009

CHAMPAGNE GETS SENTENCED TO FIVE YEARS IN PRISON.

My dad’s name is Kenneth. Kenneth Champagne. He lives—with my mom—down in Orange County. In Garden Grove. Pretty close to a city called Stanton.

I just read a story in the on-line O.C. Register about a twenty-nine-year-old man named Kenneth Champagne who was sentenced to five years in prison for shooting at a police officer. In Garden Grove. Maybe three minutes from where I grew up. If ya want, read about it.

The felon’s middle name is Sean. My dad’s middle name isn’t. But still.

Now: Not only is it weird to see your dad’s name in the paper like that (or the name of a guy who happens to share your dad’s name), but it’s also weird to see your own name in the paper like that. Especially connected with a crime like that. Since his name is my name. Champagne. You’re reading this story about some gun-toting, do-nothing piece of shit pushing thirty in Garden Grove, loitering in the parking lot of a hookah bar (classy) and thinking it’d be a great idea to flash a gun and shoot at people to better make his point—and you can’t decide how you feel: is it funny to see the name Champagne connected to some bad shit like that? Or is it kinda scary?

I’d never make it as a criminal. I’m too fearful. I’ve outgrown David Mamet, but one of the best observations in Glengarry is when one guy basically says to another guy: “Of course you get nervous around cops! You know who doesn’t get nervous around cops? Thieves.”

In the Register article, I read passages like: “Champagne waved a handgun out the window” and “Champagne was sentenced to three years…” And you get an odd taste of how it would look—using some imagination—if you had done something fucked-up and illegal like carry a gun and wave it at people and got caught. It’s not you, but it is your name. I don’t personally know any guys named Champagne who aren’t in my family. (Thanks to Google and Facebook, I happen to know there are many Matt Champagnes.)

What if I had never gone away to college? What if I had made no effort whatsoever to leave Garden Grove? What if I had never moved away? We all think about the paths we didn’t take. Again: I don’t think I could ever be a criminal; I was raised too well. And the name Champagne doesn’t make you think of crime right away. But obviously some guy named Champagne decided he was gonna be a piece of shit for possibly the rest of his life. Then I think about the old friends from grade school who used to know me and haven’t heard of or from me in a long time. Say they’re skimming the paper (not reading it completely, just skimming) and they land on the middle of the story rather than the beginning, missing the part where it says the guy’s first name is Kenneth. So all they see is a story about a guy named Champagne shooting at a cop in Garden Grove. How many of the people who used to know me thought that might’ve been me? Or a guy related to me? They must’ve thought: “How many unrelated Champagnes could there be in that area? It’s gotta be a relative. Or maybe it is Matt! Man, what happened to him? Looks like he took a different path!”

It’s silly of course. That's not my dad in that article. Or me. I would never drive a 1995 F250 pick-up truck. Everyone would ask me to help them move.

I remain

Champagne

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Friday, February 20, 2009

DON'T EVER BE IMPRESSED.

Everyone needs a job.

How fancy do you think celebrities are? How much better off than you do you think they are? Relax. Everyone needs a job. Tony Hale needs a job. Tony Hale? From Arrested Development? The show that gets continually fellated by all smart people who require intelligent comedy in their lives? Yeah. That guy needs a job. We were reading for the same part today at an audition. He and I. That’s what life is. You know what separates me (a cheese-ball commercial actor/comedian who still goes to open mikes in L.A.) and him (a well-known actor from a critically acclaimed television show)? Well, today…it was nothing. I was in the running with him. I was in the running with a lot of guys today. He was one of them.

Everyone needs a job.

You can be watching an actor getting interviewed about something on TV one second, and then see that very same actor at an audition looking for a job the next. I would say “Astounding!” to help paint a picture of the inner machinations of La-La Land, but it’s not astounding. In fact, the only way it’s astounding is how utterly ordinary it is.

I remember seeing Andrew McCarthy at an audition once many years ago. Pretty in Stink. St. Elmo’s Fart. Week-End at Butthole’s. He, a bunch of other guys and I were all up for the same part, waiting our turn—one at a time—to go into this tiny room in Burbank and beg and plead to get a job. There were many of us there, sitting in these chairs against the wall. Guess which guy wouldn’t sit with us. Guess which actor wouldn’t deign to join us in the “sitting” area. Good ol’ Andy! He was so clearly uncomfortable. He so didn’t wanna be there. Standing down the hall away from us, wondering how the hell his career got to this point: having to audition against a guy named Matt Champagne. That’s gotta suck. But you think it sucks having to go up against Matt Champagne. Imagine being Matt Champagne.

I remain

Champagne

Currently watching:
South Park - The Complete Ninth Season
Release date: 2007-03-06

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Tuesday, February 17, 2009

THIS IS...

I’m very fortunate that I don’t have a day job, but if I did—

This is what I would eat.

This is how I would stand.

This is what I would wear.

This is how I would sometimes not shave.

This is how I would wear my tie: slowly loosening on its own, top shirt button unbuttoned.

That isn’t what I’d drink because I don’t drink coffee. (I’m assuming that’s coffee. The only other thing it could be is coke with no ice, but no one drinks coke in a coffee cup. And certainly not without ice.)

And this is how I would feel. (And you’re going: “How do you know how he feels?” I see the smile there: that thin-lipped upturn of air-conditioned peace, that quietly bemused mien of satisfaction and—even—victory at finally getting the one thing you enjoy all day, ham on a bagel at three minutes past one in the afternoon.)

Oh, and that’s how my head would look at my job: with the top half of it missing.

I remain

Champagne

Currently watching:
Righteous Kill
Release date: 2009-01-06

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3 Kudos

Thursday, February 12, 2009

"THANK YOU, MIGRAINE!"

It happens. Every six months or so. I see little black and grey squiggles flitting around in my upper and lower left line of vision, slowly burgeoning out laterally into the center of my sight. Usually I see them when I’m reading because I’m usually reading: dark, ephemeral worms writhing around like they’re getting electrocuted, obscuring the first few letters of every word I see. Instead of “however,” it looks like “**wever,” the “h” and “o” stifled in a maelstrom of shady ripples and roiling murk . And when I see stuff like this, I know one thing: in about thirty minutes, I’m gonna get a migraine headache. I have thirty minutes to down four, five Advil or whatever comes to hand and stave off the oncoming pain.

I appreciate this warning. Today, it was actually a great motivator to get to the store and run some errands, stuff I would’ve probably not gotten done until hours later. Which means…what? Apparently the only thing that motivates me to actually get dressed, showered, up and out is the threat of oncoming, unavoidable pain. I knew it was coming. I remembered what the first migraine felt like as a kid, back when I had not yet recognized these signs for what they were, back when I barfed in my bed. And so when I know one’s coming on, I move swiftly and get things done. Thank you, migraine! Thanks for the ass fire!

I think that’s what I may need as my main motivator these days: the threat of pain. “If you don’t get your shit together by ten o’clock, I’m coming over there to hit you in the stomach with a shovel! Now move it!” The threat of pain! You’d get off your ass if a parolee named Bessy promised he’d break your knees if you didn’t.

I always think about that one scene from Shawshank Redemption, where the one guard is calling the names and Tim Robbins doesn’t answer so the guard yells something like: “How’d you like me to thump your skull for ya!” I love the “for ya!” at the end. “I’m gonna commit this act of violence for you. Oh, and you’re welcome!”

I remain

Champagne

Currently reading:
Six Degrees of Paris Hilton: Inside the Sex Tapes, Scandals, and Shakedowns of the New Hollywood
By Mark Ebner

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0 Kudos

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

THANKS FOR THE WORDS, JOHN.

John Updike

1932-2009

***
I wanna write like John Updike

I wanna know that pain, feel that gloom
Take the joy out of the room
I wanna feel regret and some doom
Cheat on my wife but love her too
It’s complicated

Waste away in ol’ PA
Fight the boredome every day
I wanna write like John Updike

I’m gonna choke back my seething rage
As I look at myself age
I’m gonna look right into the mirror
Gaping at my growing fear.
Gonna drink a lot now.

Leave my family in the lurch.
Steal some money from the church.
I wanna write like John Updike

Let’s party down, straight east coast style
Deny the pain, choke back the bile
Let’s think of goals we had when young
And bristle as they don’t get done

I wanna write like John Updike

We’re gonna reconcile things by force
Taking three years to divorce
I’m gonna try to stop taking meds
And fill my empty shell with dread
It hurts to wake up

Watch familiar faces blur
Playing golf in a blizzard
Settle down to live the lie
Telling God to take a hike
Chasing all your past success
Giving up so you can rest
Run away from your children
Have a heart attack again

I wanna write like John Updike

***
I remain

Champagne

Currently listening:
Because of the Times
By Kings of Leon
Release date: 2007-04-03

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0 Kudos

Monday, January 26, 2009

"RIDE, SIR! RIDE!"

We’re very trusting of technology. We send very personal messages to people, whether through texting or Facebook or MySpace or whatever:

“I can’t wait to bang you again.”

That’s getting read by the girl you’re sending it to and God knows how many other people. We actually think the only person who has access to that message is the person to whom we’re sending it. That’s crazy. You know the powers that be can read that message if they want. Now: I love texting. I tend to stutter a whole lot less when I’m texting. But you see it in the news all the time: If a suspect in a crime investigation has made text messages or has a MySpace or Facebook account, law enforcement gets permission to look at that shit very promptly when they're working on a case. So your personal text messages are absolutely accessible, even the ones that have been deleted. Sleep tight.

I wanna get back to sending messages by horseback. Now that’s passion. That’s when messaging meant something. There were stakes. It was do or die. I wanna feel that urgency. I wanna push pen to parchment feverishly in the night by the light of a dying candle. I wanna drip a burgundy wax seal onto a faded, cream-colored envelope and deeply press my initials into it with an enormous ring. I wanna hand that missive into the well-weathered hands of a horseback messenger and—in the pouring rain, by the light of a shaky lantern—say to him: “Ride, sir! Ride! To the lady in the corset! Ride! ‘Tis a message of great import and vitality and you must see that she gets it. Now go, sir! Here’s an extra bag of oats for your steed and forty coppers with forty more upon your return and news of the message’s safe arrival. Now off you go! Ride, sir! Ride! Into her hand and only her hand, sir! Only her hand!” And the messenger rides and he rides through sleet and snow and rain and hell, avoiding robbers and thieves and low, overhanging branches, pausing only to feed his horse and throw back a flaggon of meade, until he gets there and the French doors open and he limps across the salon with his muddy boots and wet frock coat and puts the message into the pale hand of the big-bosomed woman in the corset and she quickly breaks the seal and opens the message and reads:

“I can’t wait to bang you again.”

I remain

Champagne

Currently watching:
South Park - The Complete Eighth Season
Release date: 2006-08-29

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4 Kudos

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

"I SIMPLY MUST HAVE THE UNCOMFY CHAIR!"

First of all, where’s the steering wheel? I don’t know whether to sit on this or ride it or play it. If you didn’t tell me this was a sofa, I might try to blow through one of those holes, summoning the robot dolphins of the future. Or I’d try to ride it. Those holes look like exhaust pipes. I bet this thing could hit at least mach 3. Midgets would love to sit on this. They’d try to rest their back against the brace there and fall right through, tumbling to the ground in a gleeful spill. Of course, by the time a sofa like this gets popular, it’ll be pretty far into the future, and there probably won’t be midgets anymore, nor, consequently, comedians. I’ll consider a sofa like this the next time I’m decorating a space station. My personal space station.

Water nap, anyone? News item: “Today in Downey, a sixty-two-year-old man drowned in a bizarre napping accident.” This sofa is great for those who like to lounge in chlorine or who are thinking of opening their own baptizing business. “Yes, I need the pool boy to come out and drain my sofa. No, that’s not a euphemism for something else. I need him to actually drain my sofa.” I don’t think a purchase like this is worth unless it comes with jets.

Okay, now you’re being a dick. Who made this? Who’s to blame? I’m sure this sold like hot cakes too. “Oh yes, Sigmund! I simply must have the uncomfy chair!” The uncomfy chair: the perfect gift for dicks.

Nice! This sofa will look fantastic next to my nightstand made of bacon. And my orange juice fountain.

“Excuse me, there’s a guy in my ice fries.”

When I’m not sitting on this sofa, I like to store my giant eyeglasses in it.

Finally a piece of furniture for me.

I remain

Champagne

Currently watching:
Opening Night
Release date: 1998-04-14

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9 Kudos

Sunday, January 18, 2009

AN OPEN LETTER TO THAT GIRL YELLING AT HER MOM ON HER CELL PHONE IN THAT GREEK RESTAURANT

Hey. I couldn’t help but hear your end of that cell phone conversation you just had with your mom. And the reason I couldn’t help but hear it is because I literally couldn’t help but hear it. I really tried not to hear it, but you wouldn’t let me. You forced me and everyone else in that place (including the poor guy you were with) to hear you yelling at your mom. And can I just say something? I’m on her side.

“Mom! You don’t have to do that!”
“Mom! I got it! Yes! I received it!”
“Mom! I never said that!”
“Mom! Why do you do this all the time?”
“Mom! I’ve gotta go! My food is here!”
“Mom! I’m thirty years old! I can pay my own cell bill!”

You mean the bill for the phone that allows you to yell at your mom in public? That bill? You better be paying that bill yourself. Why should your mom pay it? So she can get yelled at by you? What a bargain!

I didn’t even hear her end of it and I’m on her side.

What, you just get your first cell phone yesterday? You’re thirty years old and you just got hip to the whole cell phone craze and have yet to learn some common cell phone etiquette? If I hung out with you a lot, I’d always have a book with me so that I’d have something to do while you fight the good fight and yell at your mom.

And it’s not even the fact that you were doing it in a restaurant. That’s actually not what gets me about this. It’s that: if you take a personal call on a cell phone in public and make absolutely no attempt to lower your voice, then you want to be overheard. You are basically saying to everyone in that restaurant: “Look at me! Look at me! God in heaven, please look at me!” I mean, you might as well have said to her: “Mom! I’m losing the other customers’ attention! Could you please say something outrageous so I can really lose my shit?"

Now I’m starting to think you weren’t talking to anyone. I bet your mom wasn’t even on the line.

I remain

Champagne

Currently watching:
Barry Lyndon
Release date: 2007-10-23

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0 Kudos

Thursday, January 15, 2009

DIALOGUE

STEER: You gonna propose?

COWBOY: Shut up. I’m busy.

STEER: Anything this close to my face better ask me to marry it.

COWBOY: Quiet! I’m working here!

STEER: I don’t know what kind of a mate I can be for you. They did cut my balls off. You know that right?

COWBOY: Listen, shit-maker, the judges are watching and you are not gonna win this one.

STEER: I just wanna make sure you’re not hugging me right now. If this is your way of showing affection because you never knew your dad, then I take it all back and I’ll stop resisting. Actually I could use a hug right now because, like I said, my balls have been cut off.

COWBOY: Why you gotta bring my daddy into it? That’s it! You’re goin’ down!

STEER: Look, just taser me, okay? Seriously. Taser me, bro. If you’re gonna have a sport as lame as steer wrestling, you might as well have some lame rule where you’re allowed to taser the livestock. I mean, why not?

COWBOY: I must…win…

STEER: Oh, yeah. You wouldn’t wanna bring shame to the steer wrestling community. You might lose all your cred. You know, in the steer wrestling community!

I remain

Champagne

Currently watching:
South Park - The Complete Seventh Season
Release date: 2006-03-21

(Add Comment) |

2 Kudos

Thursday, January 08, 2009

FOUND IT.

Finally. A film made before 1963 that I actually enjoyed. Not just sat through. Not just appreciated. Not just tolerated. But actually enjoyed. Like, I liked it. You know?

The Best Years of Our Lives. 1946. My friend Ellen recommended it a long time ago because I was saying how I don't know of any old black and white movies that I actually dig watching. I always feel like I'm in some film appreciation class and I can't get into them. So I Netflixed this flick, this two-hour-and fifty-minute flick, and was...not bored. Seriously. Not bored. I don't wanna say anything more. Just give it a shot. If the running time and the poster and even that title (I know) bum you out, I understand. But you gotta see it. Imagine a movie coming out in 1946 that de-romanticized the whole "coming home from World War II" thing. Yeah. Just…give it a shot, is all I'm saying. It's a lot to ask, I know. I wouldn't recommend it if I didn't think it was worth it. Try it. That is all.

You know—one more thing—I can't even say "enjoy," really. "Enjoy" is not the right word for my reaction to this flick. Let's just say I was constantly interested. Yeah. That's it. And I've never been constantly interested in a black and white movie from 1946 ever.

I've also been watching this great doc about Nazis too, but...Nazis are usually easier for me to like than old movies from 1946.

I remain

Champagne

Currently watching:
The Best Years of Our Lives
Release date: 2000-07-18

(Add Comment) |

4 Kudos

Sunday, January 04, 2009

"WHAT DAY IS IT?"

If I told you the things that made me laugh for the past four days, you wouldn't think they were funny. And that'd be fine by me. "You had to be there." That safety phrase applies in two fundamental ways here: "you had to be there" to get what it was we were laughing at and "you had to be there" because the "there" was Cayucos.

Every year, around December Twenty-Ninth to about January Third or something, a bunch of friends and I split the cost of renting a beach house up in Cayucos fourteen or fifteen or sixteen ways, however many people end up going. It's like The Big Chill, except if you cry in the shower, everyone else joins you. Cayucos—half-way between Los Angeles and San Francisco, thirty miles from Hearst Castle, not far from Cambria, full of sea lions and salt and big rocks and clouds—is how I've been bringing in the new year for the past several years, since about 2002, I think. The air is cleaner than a church, the houses are cuter than kittens, and the food is fantastic so long as you have good friends who make it for you. Nick made pizza (he made it), Eddie made a kind of Mexican cheese/bacon/hangover-sucker thing. Rusty made some kind of egg quiche thing, Sean made jambalaya, and a guy named Guinness made this drinky stuff that gets ya drunk for two of the four days you're up there. Weird. The music was seventies rock, the soup was bread bowl clam chowder and the game was Yahtzee (mixed with Sudoku and poker and a thousand-piece puzzle of two creepy German girls drinking hot chocolate).

Did I sleep outside for some of it? You bet your ass I did. Did I resume my drinking first thing in the morning with a Bass? You bet your ass I did. Did my phone ring at all during the four days I was up there and did I care? It didn't and I didn't. (Well, I was a little concerned it was busted, but not too concerned.)

We played this game where one person asks a question of the group, everyone writes down their answer, then the person who asked the question has to guess who gave which response. One question was "What is the last thing you would say on your death bed?" My answer: "Later, fags." Another question was "What is the thing that people say they like about you?" Eddie's answer: "The power of my cock." Typing it now, I'm laughing again. I related to the group a story of Eddie playing Scrabble and trying to use the word "toyman." I don't know if reading that makes you laugh, but it made all of us die for way too long. Like, "toyman" would be something you would say sarcastically to Santa Claus if you didn't like him. "All right, toyman! What's the story? Think you're a tough guy…toyman?!" We died and died. Of course—the killjoy I am—I can't laugh like that without also thinking shit like: "Is any of this gonna be funny in the morning?" And it was. I woke up giggling. I felt like someone had been dropping boulders on my stomach for three hours. My abs were ripped from laughs.

I normally stay two days on this trip. I stayed four this time. I was supposed to host an open mike Friday. Didn't go. Wanted to stay. Wish I were back there now. Didn't know what day it was up there. I was constantly asking: "What day is it?" If you're constantly asking "What day is it?", you're either suffering from sensory deprivation in Guantanamo, or you're having an absolute blast with some lovely, lovely people whom you don't see nearly enough.

I remain

Champagne

Currently listening:
Aha Shake Heartbreak
By Kings of Leon
Release date: 2005-02-22

(Add Comment) |

10 Kudos

Friday, December 26, 2008

UNLIMITED TEXT REJECTIONS

Received today at 10:49 a.m.

"Matt,

Sorry to have to cancel our plans today. I've had a rollercoaster year and this is just not what I'm looking for right now. But you are incredibly talented and I hope to work with you again in the future.

Best,

[Her Name]"

Yup. The best.

I remain

Champagne

Currently watching:
Going to Pieces: The Rise and Fall of the Slasher Film
Release date: 2007-03-20

(Add Comment) |

9 Kudos

Monday, December 22, 2008

VANCOUVEY BE GROOVY.

Vancouver. Nine days. Guest spot on the show Reaper for the CW. Working. Working? Yeah, right. Work's for jerks. Tell ya what: Look at these pictures and you tell me how much of it looks like work.

This was where I was staying. For nine days. The Fairmont Hotel, downtown Vancouver, where they always called me "Mister Champagne." For nine days. I knew the party was over when I got back home and no one was calling me "Mister Champagne" anymore. But cool digs, right?

Because being in all of four scenes on a TV show is—lemme tell ya—grueling work. Oh, the emoting! The commitment! The torturous dedication to one's craft that goes into acting!

Look at the excruciating expression of agony and creative pressure on my face as I prepare to go, once more, unto the breach and act in a scene for network television under an AFTRA contract. Can you see the artistic strain and pledge of solemnity wrought in that bespectacled visage?

Neither can I. That's a dude on vacation.

My view of the outside of my hotel. That's right, my hotel.

My view of the inside of my hotel. That's right, my hotel. (And that is not coffee. That is hot chocolate. Don't like coffee. Still tastes like a grown-up drink to me.)

The lobby of my hotel. Where Christmas was invented.

This is either Mavis or Beau. The hotel had two dogs that I thought would help carry my luggage. They didn't. They just lounged around and made you wanna pet them. One of them just turned four. No party. Just a sign saying: "Beau turns four today!" Or maybe it was Mavis' birthday. Can't remember. The dog in this photo looks pretty content, but you know it hopes one day to work valet.

Came unprepared. Had to get one of these. At Winners. Thrifty me. Talked to this girl in line, told her my name, she said: "Ooo. I've had bad luck with Matts." Sort of a dis. Her name was Angel. I should've said that I had bad luck with Angels, because even though she was the first Angel I'd ever met, I was clearly having bad luck with her.

Now that is a walk signal. Canadians do this much better than we do. Look at the posture, the stance, the stride, the gait. This man is walking. Moving with a purpose. And, though having no hands, is clearly wearing a suit. Look at those shoulders. You can't see it because it's a silhouette of course, but that's tailoring, people. Get into it.

Snowing. Mini-skirts. McDonald's. The classy ladies of Vancouver. Just do it.

Snow. High altitudes. Coniferous. The classy trees of British Columbia.

Work. That's right. Work. "In-between shots," as people in the business like to say. And I may not be one of those people anymore. Some day. Maybe. I can't believe I get paid for this stuff. And you know what? For all I know, I won't be anymore. SAG will be devoured by not only its enemies but also its own members, especially those who have more in common with the studios than they do in their own union. So I have to start thinking: What if I have to quit acting? What if this cushy trip to Vancouver I just got back from turns out to be my last hurrah as a working actor? It certainly felt like a vacation. I may have to get into another line of work. But until I have to, by all means, keep giving me these undeserving per diems and putting me up in these five-star hotels to alleviate the admitted ease of playing the same kind of part I've been playing my whole life: a tense, uptight, judgmental dude with a penchant for vengeance.

Happy Holidays, kids. At least to those who are left on MySpace. Isn't it dying? This post is as wintry as I can get.

I remain

Champagne

Currently watching:
The Organization
Release date: 2001-01-09

(Add Comment) |

2 Kudos

Monday, December 08, 2008

DR. JAMES W. JACOBSON, D.D.S.

James W. Jacobson, D.D.S. has been my dentist since I was—seriously—six. And I just got a letter saying he's retiring.

I didn't cry. But my throat did get a little lumpy. He's not dead, but this is the end of something. This guy has filled I don't even wanna tell you how many cavities. I've seen my files from when I was a little kid in his office. My completely jacked-up teeth looking like a damn bomb went off in my mouth. Teeth growing out my ears. All that Novocain. I really need to get him something. He likes to sail, I think. Lives in Huntington Beach. Some kind of nautically-themed gift basket. Maybe a plankton scraper. I don't know. Hell, he's a dentist. Isn't a plankton scraper one of his tools anyway?

I wish he had given more notice. I got the letter on Thursday and it said it would be effective by Friday. Wow.

"After 46 years in dental practice, I have decided to retire. I want to express my deepest gratitude to all of my patients whom I have had the pleasure of providing dental care for so many years."

Damn. I remember the first visit. The toy box in his office. You were allowed to pick one. Usually a plastic car or something in a cheap cellophane wrapper. That toy box is still there today. I remember the first visit where I felt too old to take a toy anymore. Just last week.

Your long-time dentist retiring. Makes you look at things. Like: "Oh shit. My dentist is retiring. Maybe I should get to work on that novel." Or: "My dentist is retiring. Maybe I should finally go skydiving."

I really should've taken better care of my teeth when I was younger. I ate so much candy and brushed so little. I deserved the cavities. I've had so much crap done to my mouth I really should throw a party for every dentist, orthodontist and oral surgeon I've had in my life. Yeah, even the orthodontist who kinda fucked up the first time around. When those braces came off the first time I knew he wasn't done. I knew there was more work left. You can see my teeth in my high school graduation photo with my mom. Braces went back on that summer. It sucked.

So thanks to the Doc. As time does its time thing, doctors play a bigger and bigger part of your life. And I hope all my future doctors and yours will be as kind as my dentist, Dr. Jacobson.

I remain

Champagne

Currently watching:
Fight Club (Two-Disc Collector's Edition)
Release date: 2000-06-06

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