Letterman's Couch

I can’t even remember the last time I sat down to blog. But, there’s something about writing daily in my “my head is fucked, I need to unfuck it” journal that naturally leads to me writing out here. I’ve taken lots of breaks from that journal recently. But, realized today that I haven’t missed a day in over six weeks. And that makes me a better person.

When I’m not writing, I forget how much I love it. i get stuck in my own head and have trouble seeing outside myself. But, when I am writing, that’s when I notice the little things and have things like music and movies effect me (affect me? Fuck. It’s been too long. Nice writing, English major) to the point where I need to write.

I just tried to write a facebook post about this and it was going to be well over the acceptable number of characters, so here I am matthewblakeatkinsoning for old time’s sake.

I’m old. It happened all of the sudden, but it’s a reality that I am having trouble accepting. a couple of years ago, I met a 70 something in the mens’ room at johnnys. He decided our friendship had reached the “talk at the urinals” level, because we’d never met. But, we were drunk, so it was all in good fun. He confided in me the following, “you know what the worst part about getting old is? You want to pee, but it’s just drip, drip, squirt.”

We shared a hearty laugh. Oh, what an hilarious moment. Until I became that guy. I’m arguably only 46. But, every time I don’t get a full stream going, I’m haunted by the ghost of johnny’s restrooms past. But, it’s not just that.

I wanted a john’s space age donut yesterday.  No man, it’s closed. The people that have run that place since I was in high school are retired. What the hell happened? Where did the time go? How is my daughter going to high school dances and my son having different girls be his snapchat best friend. See. just the way i phrased that is wrong. i'm old. what's a snapchat?

Fuck me. I can’t be this old. it’s not possible that i black out drunkenly missed my 25 year reunion (I was there, but just not coherent.) 25 years? i think maybe I’ve always seen myself as a high school senior. Full of potential. Just not quite there yet.

And now to have it sink in that life has kind of passed me by. And I’m being replaced by my kids. it’s this weird wakeup call that I don’t actually have that much time left.

And absolutely none of that is why I sat down to write. Tonight I’m watching the second episode of dave letterman’s Netflix show. He chats it up with George Clooney. They eat in n out burgers for god’s sake. It’s beautiful.

And there was something about it that took me back to 8^th grade matthew. I used to record late night with david letterman on vhs tapes and watch them the next day. He’s an absolute comic genius. I wanted to be him. the reason I turned oral reports into stand-up comedy was because of him. he is why I wanted to be clever. And probably why I took to writing.

There was this moment during the Clooney episode where dave talked about his dad being a funnyman. He was an alcoholic and AA saved his life in two ways, according to dave. It kept him from the drink, but it was equally important for him to have an audience to play to.

And there it is. I don’t have an audience anymore. Life was grand when I was writing poems about german writer Goethe. I described his extramarital activities with this line, “for a man more famous than even sir lancelot, he sure was found without his pants a lot.” I totally stole the “pantsalot” quote, but it got the desired effect. The class told me I was worth something with their laughter.

Titling every paper “Norway the land of my roots” no matter the subject or topic was just who I was. Anything for a laugh was my theme senior year. I was action Jackson for god’s sake. Life was easy. And hilarious. And in my mind I was the dave letterman of the smart kid classes at Shawnee mission west. Granted, no one else was trying to be funny in those classes, so it was a rigged game, but god damn I miss it.

I’m not funny anymore. My kids roll their eyes at my killer jokes. I don’t have a clarette or a hyatt or pierponts to practice my craft and get feedback.

And I guess, how this impossibly long facebook post wraps up is that a million years ago, I wrote a screenplay called “letterman’s couch”, because it was my dream since 1985 to end up next to letterman one day. The screenplay was terrible, but the conclusion was kind of that it wasn’t the approval of the masses or dave that I really needed. In the screenplay, Letterman ended up being the name of the therapist that saved my life.

And in a crazy twist of art turning into real life, the therapist that really did save my life was named Ketterman. She was a godsend. When I was seeing her, I didn’t need an audience. Or approval. Or to be funny to feel okay about myself. All was good.

And since she broke her hip and stopped practicing, I haven’t been the same. I think I need an audience these days. But, I don’t have one. I have to work all the time to just barely keep up. The kids are good. And they’re what matters, but my god I miss the glory days when letterman was being recorded and my whole life was in front of me.

Now, I’m two clicks away from being the old guy in the men’s room who tells you about the worst part about getting old. but, then. Come on. Life is great. Life isn’t about me. It’s about the kids. and I had this profound moment yesterday where I just wanted to take a picture to remember forever. I sit in the living room all day every day and work. And, yesterday, not one, but both kids decided to do their homework in the living room with me. And it’s got me all choked up, because they're a few years away from being off at college and I know I have to soak up these moments while I can. It meant something to me.

and so did my chat with riley on the way to dance on wednesday about there needing to be a real version of instagram. where pictures aren't only in perfect light on good hair days on a beach somewhere. but, instead, having a shit day would be celebrated with blurry or out of focus pictures of us at our worst.

And that's the thing...I hope one day, that the real is what the kids value. all the battling I’ve done…cutting off my dad. Therapy. Writing. Trying in vain to get my head unfucked, but still…trying. That all that matters to them. Not in the “they appreciate what I’ve done” sense, but in the “they never have to know what it’s like to be me” sense. I hope that they will have a great sense of humor, but not need it to feel okay about themselves like I do. Because, as I’m sure letterman found out, once the audience is gone, it’s really fucking hard to play to an empty room.

I miss dave. And sharing laughs. And trading stories. I need people to make me, me. Cheers to all the great friends I’ve had throughout the years. cheers to not being dead yet. And to life beginning at 46. i'll be playing the men's room at betty c's all week.