Karl Rove Blew My Cover

There oughtta be a law against people who let their blogs die a slow, lonely death.

Leaving for casting next week. Some obviously major differences between Los Angeles and Hawaii have raised their ugly head.

When casting a short video production with friend a few years ago, we put a small ad in Backstage West. 2 weeks later: 220 headshots received.

Casting my current feature in Hawaii and advertising in all 3 major Hawaii newspapers, 2 weeks later: 6 headshots received.

I feel sweaty. As luck would have it, most of my old friends will probably be playing the major roles, but Jesus Tapdancing Christ, only 6?

Yesterday my attention strayed away from the twins for exactly 40.2 seconds, after which my daughter's ear-piercing cries brought me back. I turned around, and saw my son holding half a blue plastic Easter egg in one hand and smiling like the little child of the corn that he is. My daughter, on the other hand, was screeching with her patented outraged/pain/"hey asshole, see what happens when you don't pay attention?" scream, and blood was pouring down her chin.

I still don't know what happened. I'll let the cops figure it out. As they were trying to figure out how to make handcuffs fit on a 18-month-old, I took a knee and explained that he should not hurt his sister. This lesson will be reiterated on our visit next week to Super-Juvie. I can only hope that by this time, my son will be the bitch-maker and not the bitch.

I'm sick and fucking tired of everyone with children talking about how advanced their own kids are; the percentiles and all that. I don't understand it.

"My little Anthony is only 7 months old, but I he's already saying a few words!"
"Tonya started crawling at 5 months!"
"Sam was potty trained at 1 year old!"

So I say: "Get this, bitches: My daughter split the atom yesterday. Created fusion, motherfucker! Deal with that!"

I'm going bowling tomorrow. This is no fun for me, especially since they outlawed my overhand technique.