4/11ths Life Crisis: The 6th Day of Giftmas 2009

4/11ths Life Crisis: The 6th Day of Giftmas 2009

I’ll be honest. I woke up crying today. Apparently that’s natural for people who turn 35. It’s also natural at this age to, no matter how long you shake it out at the end, have a little bit of pee drip out when you pull your pants up at the urinal. Don’t fight it; embrace it. Fall in love with denim. But anyway, I did a little research yesterday and found out that Paul Reiser was 35 when he came out with Mad About You. Now I know this is just the first day of the year, but I don’t think I’m on pace to even have a pilot episode of my sitcom ready by the end of 2010. I’m probably more likely to get my pilot license.

So I started to think about how I meant to do something with my life by now. I should have been Paul Reiser by now. Even just his earlier stuff from Aliens and Beverly Hills Cop would have sufficed by 35. Heck, I’d even settle for Greg Evigan’s career (the other father from 2 ½ Dads). But instead, I’m toiling around in the obscurity of the Greater Columbia Stand-up scene at best, forcing intellectual humor on people who want dick jokes 5 minutes at a time. So what the hell happened?

Well, in the midst of my crying fit a couple hours ago, I figured something out. I don’t know Paul Reiser. I don’t know his life. The real guy I fell in love with was Paul Buchman, his character on Mad About You. The one married to Helen Hunt (or I should say Jamie Buchman). That’s the guy I am. Every day. And Jen is my Jamie Buchman. I briefly fell victim to the Reiser/Buchman Inversion. This is what I aspired to be back in high school and college, Paul Buchman. That was my dream. Not Paul Reiser. That was a fantasy, and one I don’t even know that I’d want to live out. Though it would be nice to bang a young Helen Hunt. I still hold on to that fantasy.

So I controlled my uncontrollable sobbing with the realization that I am living out my fantasy. One of them at least. The one that involved two cats, not two hot college chicks dressed like them. And I’m not blind to the fact that this could all be justification and a poorly disguised coping mechanism, but I’m OK with that. The reality is that the alternative is spending 10-15 years of my life in poverty dedicated to busting my ass just to possibly make it in a world I’m not sure I’d enjoy – with no guarantee of success. And that’s just to give myself the best chance at success in the entertainment world. I could live out my happy Paul Buchman life and accidentally backdoor my way in anyway, maybe through this blog or forcing intellectual humor on people who want dick jokes. Who knows? And in case you didn’t recognize it, that’s the hope portion of the coping mechanism, necessary for survival at my age. That and denim.

Quote of the Day 1/1/10

“In show business, it takes 10 years to create an overnight success. You’ve heard that, right? But what you don’t hear is that that’s the exact same amount of time it takes to create a bitter failure.”

- Marc Maron

It only took me 2 years. Think of all the time I saved.

I don’t have the answers, I don’t have a plan,

Dustin Buchman.


Still Standing Right Here…

30 and Counting

30 and Counting

So it finally happened. However long I tried to postpone it, the earth just keeps rotating at the same pace, and that is something just out of my control (actually, the earthquake forced the earth underneath itself, causing the circumference to become smaller, thus speeding up the rotation by possibly a few seconds each year, but I swear I had nothing to do with that). Yeah, so I turned 30. Nothing special. No fireworks or sirens (OK, that's a lie). But I knew it was coming, so it wasn't that big of a surprise for me. It did, however, seem to instantly make other people age before my eyes. Some reactions were of surprise: "You're 30? When the hell did that happen?", some were of disbelief: "What do you mean you're 30? Aren't you still in college?", and still others were very poignant: "So when the fuck are you going to get a real job?" Hell, I'm ready to retire. So yeah, it seemed like a lot more people were upset that I was turning 30 than I was. Like the 19-year old college chicks I've been seeing who thought I was 23. And their dads. And boyfriends. Push comes to shove, age is just a number you tell people. And sometimes, it's not even that. For example, this is the seventh straight year I've turned 23. Some people are starting to figure it out. So I'm going to need all of you to keep it under wraps. If word gets out that I'm 30, I officially become invisible to 19-yr-olds. Just a UMBC Rec Sports polo and jeans walking around with no discernable face. And that's been one of my major demographics. This includes 24-yr-olds that say they're 19 also. Cause don't think that doesn't happen. As well as the 16-yr-olds that say they're 19 (remember people, this is a "humor" article in which I "embellish" and "lie." Everybody knows I draw the line at 17.) So the way I figure it, if you average the age that I act, the age that I feel, the age that I tell people I am, the age my birth certificate says I am, and the age my body parts think I am, it's somewhere in the neighborhood of 30. And that's good enough for me. All apologies to everyone who didn't see this coming. I should have prepared you better.

So I was talking with Mike D about turning 30 and other such issues surrounding it. He actually gave me a little bit of hope with his theory involving the difference between hooking up with younger chicks when you are in your late 20s as opposed to when you are 30...

Quote Of the Day 1/10/05

"See, when you hook up with an 18-yr old chick in your late 20s, that's kinda wrong. But if you do it at 30, it's like an accomplishment. Something to brag about to your friends."

-Mike D, 20-something


Awesome. I needed that. No I didn't. :)

Getting old and taking everybody with me,

Extendo 30.0.


Still Standing Right Here...

Bad Toes

Bad Toes

I'm getting cranky and anxious, so I'm going to spare you all a long paragraph about nothing in particular. I was backing out of my chair today, and accidentally clocked Gary (my boss) in the knee. He made this face and grunted something that I could have sworn sounded like "you're fired," but he just sucked it up like a real man and shook it off. He told me that I got him in the good knee too, to which I replied that he didn't have any good knees. He agreed and retorted...

Quote Of the Day 5/18/99

"Yeah. My only good knees are my toes."

-Boss Man Gary


I don't know what it meant, but it was random enough to make me laugh.

FaTKiD groupie,

ExTEndO.


Still Standing Right Here...