18 September 2009

A Conversation With A Friend From High School In Which We Each Think We're Talking About A Different Horrible Part of My Life

HS FRIEND: Hey Chris, long time no see. What has it been, eight years?
ME: Must be. Long time.
HS FRIEND: How are things with your family? I heard awhile ago about what you all are going through. I am so sorry.
ME: Oh it's okay. It's been pretty rough, yeah. But we're hanging in there.
HS FRIEND: Wow, so it's still a problem?
ME: Yeah. I mean, it's not going to get better. We're kind of just doing the best we can.
HS FRIEND: Oh, I thought for sure your mom would have gotten better by now.
ME: No. I mean, she's not going to. But it's okay. It is what it is.
HS FRIEND: And your dad?
ME: He's sad obviously. Really sad. We all are. My sisters, my dad, all of us.
HS FRIEND: Your sisters? I thought your sisters didn't care.
ME: Umm...what? Of course they care! Everyone's really torn up about it.
HS FRIEND: Oh, I thought they were okay with you being gay.
ME: Oh. Wait. What are we talking about?
HS FRIEND: You coming out to your family. I know your family was having a hard time about it.
ME: That was six years ago. My mom's actually totally fine with it now.
HS FRIEND: Oh, that's so great to hear! Wait. What were YOU talking about?
ME: Oh, now she has terminal cancer.
HS FRIEND: Oh. Oh my god. I'm so sorry.
ME: It's okay. This has been hilarious.

In the future, I'm only going to be writing to my new blog, which you can find here:


24 June 2009


This is a blog I'm keeping about my mom. I feel weird promoting it or directing people to it, but if you want to read it, you may. It's mostly a project for me, but she is a great woman, so if people want to read it, why not?

Reasons I Love My Mother

11 June 2009

I'm Going To Be Single For The Rest Of My Life

I just cannot seem to pull it together.

For the last sixteen days, I have been filming for work almost every waking hour of the day. I have been walking around in a half-awake stupor, leaving contact lenses in overnight to save me the three minutes each morning of having to put them in, allowing me to sleep in a three precious minutes longer. On top of that, I recently moved, and I have yet to find the time or energy to take my clothes out of the large black plastic bags I shipped them in. So there my clothes sit, in six trash bags, crammed into my closet. Every morning I literally dip my hands into one of them and put on the first two things I pull out, hoping to god one is a shirt and one is a pant. One morning, the second thing I pulled out was a scarf, and I had a good five second hesitation, wondering if I could wear it as a shirt because I was too tired to dip in again for another option.

Not only that, but I have been sleeping in my clothes. Unless something literally has feces smeared down the front of it, I have been able to find a way to justify wearing it because its "not that dirty". In all fairness, I've been spending my days mostly in the dark shadows of the ONN set, surrounded by people who are equally tired and lazy about changing their clothes. It's not uncommon for me to be in a conversation with people on that set where people see who's gone the longest without showering or wondering if washing one's face practically counts as a half-shower.

Two days ago, the first thing I pulled out of one of my trash sacks was a pajama shirt. It's a V-neck I never wear out in front of people because I don't have that sort of douchey, sculpted chest that would make me want to buy and wear a V-neck. It's actually not even that deep of a V, but just the idea of wearing it makes me worry that everyone around me is thinking, "What does he think that V is doing? Is it supposed to be showing off something? Because I can't find it." But I put it on anyway, then spent the rest of the night tugging at the back of my shirt, trying to pull the V back, so it was more of a shallow V. But then the back collar of my shirt was too low and it exposed the neck zit I had/have. It was a constant struggle.

Sidenote: One time I went to get a haircut and the woman was shaving the back of my neckline, then stopped and said, "I can't quite finish. You have a zit back here I'm going to have to shave around." Really, hairstylist? You couldn't have let me just leave without that little piece of information? Am I really going to notice a small portion of my neckline being uneven? It's clear from the zit that I don't go back there much.

But anyway, the second thing I pulled out of my sack the day of the V-neck was a swimsuit. I didn't give it a second thought before putting it on. Plus, I didn't have to wear underwear!, I thought. That's how much of a mess I am. I justified it to myself by saying it was summer and I'm from California, and for all people know I easily could have just come from the pool. Within minutes of getting to rehearsal, everyone was like, "Is that a swimsuit?". I personally didn't see what the big deal was. But everyone was legitimately concerned, asking, "But what if you met someone today, someone you found attractive? And you were wearing that swimsuit?" To which I thought several things:

1. I'm not going to be meeting anyone.
2. No, really. I'm not going to be meeting anyone.
3. If I were to meet someone, I still would probably find three reasons to hate them in the five seconds it would take them to think, "No, that couldn't be a swimsu--".
4. I want to end up with someone who would be down with wearing a swimsuit as shorts when you're having a long, hard week and you don't want to put any work into looking like a person.

Then I went off on a long-winded day dream about meeting my life-long partner in this life while wearing said swimsuit. We would laugh about how off-kilter I was, about how I was just one sidestep away from having it together. He would be charmed. I would be discreetly pulling the hot mesh from off my ballsack because I forgot swimsuits have netting. And then we would kiss. And that would be that.

Then yesterday, I had to go to a concert at Radio City Music Hall, and about an hour before going, I spilled coke all down the front of my shirt. I had already been wearing it for two days, so it was on its last leg when it was doused in my drink. So I walked across the street to H&M to buy a shirt. That's how lazy I am. I would rather pay money for a new shirt than just do laundry. So I put on the shirt, and it was perhaps the first clean thing that had touched my body in weeks. I felt so good about myself. An hour later at dinner, I realized the tag was still on, hanging from my armpit. And I had just ridden the subway with a coworker for 30 minutes who HAD to have seen it, but didn't say anything.

But now the shoot is over. I'm going to do laundry tonight and take a good long shower. And a good long look at myself. That's probably the more important of the two looks.

If you see me, please give me a hug.

01 June 2009

Moving Day

The best way to describe this weekend's
moving-day experiences would be by allowing
both of yesterday's manic-depressive voices to speak:

I'm moving! I'm so excited! What a fresh start this will be. I'll gather up all my stuff - not that much really; it shouldn't take any more than four hours. Five tops.

Where the fuck did all this shit come from? Why do I own the collector's version of Apples to Apples in a giant 10lb box? Why do I still have this printer from college I never once opened because I didn't want to ever have to spend time setting up a printer? Why is there a clock with no batteries under my bed? Where did that come from? Motherfucker!

I think I'm going to paint. You know, it'll take awhile, but in the end, it will feel much more like home. I'll stay up till 4am painting, but it'll be fun. I'll put on some music, buy pizza, and just relax and paint, paint and relax.

I forgot about the motherfucking two-coats rule. And this room has a BORDER near the ceiling? Well, I have to paint that too. Goddamnit, why do I have to be so fucking meticulous? Did we just break the stove when we stood on it to paint? They really should build these to stand on! What if you were warming up a hefty stew? Then what, stove? I couldn't possible weigh more than a hearty stew!

Oh look, while we're moving all our stuff in, we get to meet all the people in the building. There's a girl who also went to UCI, a couple of seemingly attractive people, and children! What a fanciful arrangement of people. It's as if there's one of every type of people in this building. Except rich people. Look how the children play!

Get the FUCK out of my way, kids! You're really going to play on your scooters up and down the hall while I'm carrying a motherfucking mattress past? MOVE THE FUCK OVER!!!

You are pretty adorable though. Your name is Nathaniel? That's cute. What was that you asked, Nathaniel? What am I doing? You mean with all these boxes I'm bringing in?

MOVING, you DUMBFUCK KID! And I have never been more sore in my goddamn life. Look at you, all young on your scooter. Well you know what, life is hard. Pretty soon you grow up and you have to do things like move. You wouldn't love that scooter so much if you had to carry it up three flights of stairs while little kids played on other scooters at your feet!

Ooh, this giant TV my roommate inherited from a friend of his is going to be great in our living room. It's humongous and shows will really look great on it.

Oh what? It's 150lbs and not a flat screen? And it's lopsidedly-heavy? And we have to carry it up 50 stairs? No one has known pain like this before! Motherfucker! What does it look like when you burst a blood vessel in your hand! Is THIS what it looks like?

Ahhh, at least we're all finally moved in. It was a long day, but I really love this little place. Ahh.....

Oh fuck, is that a cockroach?!?

19 May 2009

08 May 2009

Three Reasons Why I Love My Mother

1. My mom wanted to know if this was the last season of LOST a few days ago, and when I said no, she replied with 'What?! So we are STILL not going to know what's hiding out in that forest?". This woman has clearly not watched the show in years, and even when she did, she would watch it from the kitchen while she made dinner, hearing only every other line and talking over the entire episode with rhetorical questions. I watched one episode with her once and these are questions she asked (from the kitchen, unable to hear - but not see - the television):

- What? WHAT? I don't think so. What?

- Really? REALLY? I don't get it. What? Really?!

- Who's this now? What is going on? Why do people watch this show? Who is this? Is this the same guy from the other scene? Where did he get that bullet wound?

- I don't know what is going on. The plane crashed again? How many times is this plane going to crash? What? WHAT? Who, what?

2. Every time I go home to visit, we see a movie as a family. My mom thinks its fun to see a movie on Christmas Day and other holidays. She has terrible taste in movies. For awhile, she made certain SHE chose the film so that it was something everyone could see, even though my youngest sister was 16 at this point. However, for all her trying, the movies we went to always ended up being not only the most awful film currently in theatres but the most horrific. It didn't get better than when we saw Mr. Brooks (I think on Easter or something). In the first 20 minutes, a naked woman is shown fellating a man, before being shot in the back of the head by Kevin Costner, who then kills the man, and positions them in sexually grotesque positions to be found by police.

Then there was the "family movie" she chose because it had teens in it. Everything was going well until one teen lit himself on fire and we watched in real time as his face melted off his skull.

3. She is wonderful and brave and lovely.

12 March 2009

Hangin' With Mr. Cooper

My parents visited this weekend and as we walked through the Upper West Side, we passed by Richard Kind, who played Raul Reiser's friend on Mad About You. To jog your memory, this is his face.

When my dad passed by him, he was almost compelled to stop him and say how much he liked his work opposite the famed Hunt/Reiser comedy duo from 1992. He asked me if celebrities like that. Now while I'm sure Richard Kind would have been flattered to be called a "celebrity", I told my dad it was probably best to just keep walking.

Then my dad asked me if I remembered "Hangin' With Mr. Cooper". Apparently while in Santa Monica last week, my dad saw Mark Curry, who played Mr. Cooper, in a Starbucks. He was so excited, that when he saw him again in the parking lot, he drove up to him, rolled down his window, and said, "I just wanted to let you know that I loved your work on "Hangin' With Mr. Cooper". At which point, I'm assuming this guy was either assuming he was being mocked (again) or his year was completely made better by my father.

I just like the idea of my dad stopping a man who's most famous role is from a shitty TV show from 16 years ago to tell him how much he "appreciated his work". I bet Mr. Cooper went home and told his kids (that he probably has custody of every other weekend) about it!

12 February 2009


I think this video is pretty sweet. But this kid is only like barely autistic.

Also, is it bad that I would have been more touched if he was like crazy autistic?
I was ready to cry but then I watched him talk, and I was like "Oh, that's not so bad."

Also, what the hell is wrong with this coach? If you tell an autistic kid to do something 100 times in a row, isn't that exactly what they're good at? Why did he wait so long to put this kid in?

26 January 2009

I'm Just Like One Of Those People That Like Writes Blogs Sometimes

One of my least favorite genres of people are the ones that start sentences with "I'm just like the type of person that...".

If you saw the last sketch show I was in, you saw a scene I wrote with my friend Jill about just these types of people. But I can't let it go. They are all over the place. When I was on set last week, I heard someone say, "I'm just like the type of person that like always uses their cell phone." Oh, really, idiot? Really? You're one of those crazy rare breed of people I often hear tell of that, in 2009, use their cell phones a lot? Really?

I hate when people try to co-opt some insignificant detail that all of humanity shares as some sort of special thing about themselves. Because it's never something like, "I'm just the type of person that is [something actually unique or impressive]"; it's always just some arbitrary non-thing that everyone does or is.

Here are some recent ones I've heard in my life. There's many more, but these come to mind:

"I'm just like the type of person that like NEEDS my weekends."

"I'm just like the type of person that gets like so tired after a long day."

"I'm just like the type of person that like can't always be on, you know? I just can't always be on."

"I'm just like the type of person that is like super trusting until you do something to make me not trust you."

What else? What else, people? You might as well tell me you're the type of person that needs to like inhale oxygen in order live. Or that you're the type of person that like NEEDS to consume food when you're hungry or you'll like die.

Someone once said they're the type of person that has like a really good sense of smell. Guess what? I bet they're not. I bet their sense of smell is exactly like mine: average. I bet you they just decided they were going to make that part of their personality; make it something that's "totally them", when it's nothing. It's nothing.

I'm actually not in a bad mood, despite how venemous this post was. I guess I'm just like one of those people that like sometimes are in a good mood and sometimes are not?

24 January 2009

An Open Letter To Battlestar Galactica

Dear Battlestar Galactica,

I am writing this after finishing Season 2.0 of you. I have spent the last six months hearing about how great you are, and after a miniseries and about 20 episodes, I can say this: you are decent. I think you could be great though, BSG, if you called yourself Battlestar Galactica: 5,000 Cylons, and every episode including the revelation that there's one more cylon than everyone previously thought. For example, I think every episode should be structured exactly like this:

1. Lights up on the revelation that there's actually one more
cylon in the fleet than they thought.

2. Cut to two attractive Galactica crew members
fucking somewhere on the ship.

3. Right as they finish, one of them realizes that
the other one is actually another cylon.

4. They do battle.

5. Cut to the cylon being imprisoned,
and as he/she is behind bars,
the attractive non-cylon says:
"Well, at least we know who all the cylons are now."

6. Cut to the cylon smiling knowingly, sexily.

7. End episode.

Basically, I want every episode to just involve your beautiful cast members having sex, finding out one of them is a robot, and then doing battle. Is that too much to ask, Battlestar Galactica? It's just that when some of your actors playing cylons talk about wishing they could feel love, I get a little queasy at the terrible acting and the stilted writing. And when Lee Adama starts talking I start thinking I'm watching an 8th grade play inexplicably set in space. So let's cut the nonsense and the extra dialogue, and let's just get right to the fucking, the cylon-revealing, and the battling. Okay?

Also, one last thing I don't understand, Battlestar Galactica, is why everyone on your show is so desperate to get to Earth. There are like a hundred of you floating around in space, and all of you are beautiful. Take it from me, Battlestar Galactica: I LIVE on earth and you are not missing ANYTHING. Have you SEEN the people we have down here? A lot of them look like this:

Also, Gaius Baltar is just a whiny, snively version of Desmond from "Lost".

Love, Chris

P.S. I am also going to spend the next 8 hours of my night watching you, Battlestar Galactica, so take everything I just said with a grain of salt. You know I love you, BSG.