WWdN: In Exile

maybe you can just enjoy the tour

Though I've been there for several auditions, I haven't been on the Universal Studio Tour since  A-Team and Knight Rider were in prime time.

I can mark that particular period of time with this degree of certainty, because I clearly recall talking with KITT, and wanting to ask it if it ever raced the A-Team van around the back lot, but actually asking something stupid about how fast it could go.

I also recall taking a scratch off game with me on the tour tram, where we were supposed to look for A-Team characters in various places, and scratch off the appropriate image on the map, with the promise of a prize for kids who turned in correctly completed games. I can't remember all of them, but Mr. T -- well, a model of Mr. T's head, anyway -- was in this out of control train that was supposed to come within inches of crashing into the tram, and I was so busy trying to figure out how they did it, I forgot to scratch him off . . . until the tour guide reminded all us kids to scratch off that circle on our map.

"That's stupid," I told my mom, "if they're just going to tell everyone where the A-Team is, why should we even look?"

"Maybe you can just enjoy the tour," she said.
. . .

Yesterday, I went to Universal for my second on-camera audition in the last six months. The call was to play a very complex and dark character on a pretty popular prime time series, for casting people I've seen a few times in the last year.

Ha. In fact, I think two of my five on-camera auditions this year have been for these people, now that I think of it, so for all you struggling actors out there: it's true when they say that every audition you have is for more than just the current job; if you do well, and show them that you're competent, they'll bring you in for other roles in the future, until they find one where you fit.

I'll be honest: I was writing yesterday morning right up until I had to get myself ready to go, and I really didn't want to leave the house. Though I knew I had a good handle on this character, and for the first time in ages I felt like I actually looked the part I was reading for, I was in that weird writing place that I love so much, and experience shows that if I walk out of that place before I'm done, it's very hard to find my way back.

Auditions are few and far between these days, though, so I wrote until the very last possible second, and drove out to Universal, knowing that the path to the weird writing place wouldn't be easily located when I got back home.

I gave the guard my ID, and drove onto the back side of the studio lot through the Lakeside gate. The road is narrow and follows the Los Angeles River on one side. The other side is lined with sound stages, dusty props and vehicles in this absolutely gorgeous monument to movie magic.

I looked at a jumble of carnival wagons, police cars, traffic signals, and street signs, and I got a flutter of excitement in my chest that I haven't felt in a long time. I absolutely love being part of the magic of movies (the politics and bullshit and business, not so much, but getting paid to play pretend? Oh yeah. It rules.) and all those dusty props and vehicles, which could have been a junkyard anywhere else, were a film crew and some actors to away from being something magical.

I drove past them, more slowly than I needed to. Behind them, I saw the facades of the back lot, and forgot about missing the weird writing place. Right there, a hundred yards to my left, was the weird acting place.

Admission to the weird writing place is granted through inspiration, dumb luck, and a great amount of discipline and focus. Admission to the weird acting place requires all those things, plus the permission of a committee of people who don't usually know how great the weird acting place is and why it matters to people like me.

"Man, I miss the movie magic." I thought. "Man, I miss creating a character, and working with other creative people to bring him to life. Man, I can earn this job, if I just go in there and do my best. Man, I better stop staring at the back lot and park my car."

A minute later I turned off my engine, focused myself, and walked into the casting office. The office is actually a trailer, but once inside, it's the same as every other casting office, whether in a building on a studio lot, in a strip mall, or on the top floor of an historical building on Miracle Mile: stained old carpet, framed publicity posters awkwardly hung on wood-paneled walls, a few mismatched chairs and a particle board desk with a fifth generation photocopy sign-in sheet on top.

I signed in, picked up the latest copy of the sides, and waited in a room filled with pretty young girls and a couple other guys reading for the same role as me. One of them wore a striped shirt almost identical to mine.

I waited and waited, and after fifteen minutes or so, I went in and did my thing. There were two scenes, and I will cheerfully admit that I had an insanely fun time performing them, even if it was just in a casting office. I will also cheerfully and gratefully point out that these particular casting people are always awesome when I read for them. They are warm, welcoming, supportive, and always seem genuinely interested in whatever I'm doing.

"That was magnificent, Wil," one of them said to me when I was done. "I'd like to see the first scene again, though, and see if you can make him a little more charming, because he knows that he's smarter than these guys and can toy with them."

"That's a really good idea," I thought. "I should have done that the first time."

"I can totally do that," I said.

I did the first scene again, and this time my whole point of view was different. I enjoyed the interrogation. I teased them with information that wasn't quite enough to let them get me, but just enough to frustrate them. Through it all, I was as charming -- almost flirtatious -- as I could be.

It was awesome. It was fun, and it was tremendously satisfying.

There was a little gasp of silence, and a smile from the director when I finished. "That was a great adjustment," the guy who asked me to read the scene again said. There were murmurs of agreement from the room that seemed genuine, but I've been around long enough to know that all compliments issued in a casting office should be taken with the obligatory grains of salt.

I smiled back at them. "Thanks, that was fun."

I picked up my stuff, waved goodbye, and walked out. I'd done everything I could to gain admission to the weird acting place, and I'd done my very best. Now that it was out of my hands, I could begin the journey back home, and hopefully back to the weird writing place.

Just outside the door of the office, I ran into an old friend who is a tremendous actor. He'll probably want to remain nameless, but I'll just say that you'd know him if you saw him, and you may even think better of me for knowing him.

We talked for a minute about life, the universe, and everything.

"Hey," he said, "how is it in there?"

We actors always ask each other this question, because even though we're competing for the same roles, when you divide the world into Us and Them, we have to stick together.

"It's a great room," I said. "It's always a great room in there. They'll make you feel welcome and it's not like this -- " I crossed my arms across my chest and frowned, "at all."

"That's a relief," he said. Then, "Hey, I, uh, wanted you to know that I read both of your books."

Really?

"Really?"

"Yeah." He said, "and I wanted you to know that I loved them both. As an actor, and as someone who's known you for as long as I have, I want you to know that you really inspired me."

"That is . . ." I said. "Uh. Jesus. Thank you."

You're doing more than this," he pointed to the buildings around us, "and what you're doing really matters."

"Ha. It's funny that you say that. I was writing right up until I left to come here today, and I can't wait to get home and get back to work."

"Are you doing another book anytime soon?" He said.

"I hope so," I said. "I have ideas and I have some stuff already collected, but it's not as easy as it was the first time. There's expectations now, so I'm a little gunshy."

"Well, I can't wait to read whatever it is."

"See," I said, "that's what I mean!"

We laughed together.

"It's really great to see you," he said. "and it's great to know that you're doing well."

"Thanks," I said, "and I can't tell you how much it means to me that you read my books and liked them."

The casting director called out his name.

"I gotta go," he said.

"Yep." I said. "Break a leg."

And just like that he was into the room, finding his own version of the weird acting place, where I just was a few minutes before.

I walked to my car, and opened my door. A studio tour tram drove past, filled with tourists. I could hear the sound of the guide, but couldn't make out her words.

"Maybe you can just enjoy the tour." My mom's voice said, twenty years ago.

I don't know if I'll get the prize at the end, or if I even scratched off the correct spots on my card, but yesterday, I sure as hell enjoyed the tour.

a statement of conscience

As I write this, the United States Senate is engaged in a bit of political theater, while they pretend to debate whether or not they will make torture an American value. They are pretending to debate whether or not to give one person -- in this case the president -- the ability remove rights that we've all taken for granted under our Constitution for over two centuries from anyone he (or she, someday) identifies, without any accountability or oversight. They are pretending to debate whether our Democracy even matters, any more.

The legislation before the Senate today would ban torture, but let Bush define it; would allow the president to imprison indefinitely anyone he decides falls under a wide-ranging new definition of unlawful combatant; would suspend the Great Writ of habeas corpus; would immunize retroactively those who may have engaged in torture. And that's just for starters. . . .

Today's vote will show more clearly than ever before that, when push comes to shove, the Republicans who control Congress are in lock step behind the president, and the Democrats -- who could block him, if they chose to do so -- are too afraid to put up a real fight.

This is far too much power for one person to have, and is antithetical to everything America and freedom and Democracy stand for. In fact, this is the sort of power that someone like, say, Saddam Hussein had. Or Stalin. Or Pinochet.

I haven't written much about politics here in recent memory, because there are others who say what I want to say and they do it much better than I do: Glenn Greenwald, Josh Marshall, John Cole, and Digby, for example. But even though I've become entirely disgusted with what used to be my government and I don't have a whole lot of faith in the congress or the president to listen to me (actually, I don't have a lot of faith in the president listening to anyone who doesn't tell him exactly what he wants to hear,) I still believe in the underlying principles of Democracy. I still believe that it is the responsibility of every American, whether they feel adequately represented by the current congress or not, to stand up for their beliefs, even when they speak them to deaf ears in the halls of power. Even -- no, especially -- when those beliefs are unpopular.

My government is supposed to represent me, and as an American citizen, I must accept responsibility for the things my country does in my name. It is with that responsibility in mind that I feel compelled to write the following, not for congress who have already ignored my calls and letters, but for my own conscience, and for my children, should they one day ask me, "What happened then? Why didn't anyone try to do anything?"

What the House did yesterday, the Senate looks to do today, and the President will surely enact as soon as possible, is a direct assault on American values, and contrary to everything our country stands for. Though cynically and cowardly enacted as a purely political tool during an election, those who supported this bill do not speak for me, do not act in my name, and do not reflect my values.

Torture is not an American value. Torture is a totalitarian, sadistic value. Suspending access to courts and the right to face your accuser is not what Americans do. It is what tyrannical dictators and despots do, not a democratic republic like the one I was brought up in and love. Time and again, torture has proved unreliable to prevent or solve crimes, and it reduces our country to the level of the very terrorists we are supposedly fighting.

I believe in the right to a speedy and fair trial for everyone, even the most repugnant of defendants. No, especially for the most repugnant of defendants, because if we, as a society, can't guarantee the most hideously accused among us that right, what is it worth to the rest of us?

George Bush and his enablers in the congress -- Democrat and Republican -- has done more damage to our country, and our once impeccable moral standing in the world than all the terrorists combined. President Bush and his Republican allies in congress like to say that "they hate us for our freedom," but President Bush and his Republican allies in congress have spent the last five years working very hard to take that freedom away from the people they supposedly work for, and vest that power in something they call the Unitary Executive. If the Democrats won't stand up to stop torture, what will they stand up for? If Congress won't do its constitutional duty now, then when?

I am disgusted with, and ashamed of my government.

Shame on President Bush. Shame on his Republican allies in congress, and shame on the spineless, cowardly Democrats who did not stand up to them. Shame on them all, and shame on all of us if we do not turn out by the millions in the next election to put men and women into congress who will have the courage to do their constitutional duty, and defend the Republic from all enemies, foreign and domestic.

dewdrops in the garden

Right after I turned in next week's Games of our Lives this morning, I turned to my rather long list of things I want and need to write about. I was prepared to have a very productive and creatively satisfying day.

Yeah. That lasted as long as it took me to glance out the window.

"Man," I thought, "it's beautiful today. The last thing I want to do is sit here and write."

"Then you should go outside and enjoy the day," Bad Wil said.

"I don't know," I said. "I spent my entire day yesterday playing poker, and I should really get some of this stuff done."

"Why are you a freelance writer if you can't completely blow off for a few hours and enjoy a truly beautiful day?" Bad Wil said.

He had a point.

Anne came out of the back of the house, half-asleep, and nuzzled my neck at the breakfast table.

"Is there coffee?" She said, in a tiny not-quite-awake voice.

"Yeah," I said. "There's coffee."

She rubbed her eyes and walked into the kitchen.

"Did the kids get to school okay?" She said, while she poured herself a cup.

I sipped my own and said, "Yeah. I told you I would take care of it so you could sleep in today."

"Did you --"

"Anne. They're fine." Man, you take the kids to the racetrack instead of to school one time, and you never live it down.

She took her first sip from the Crabby 'till I get my Coffee mug, and sat down across from me.

"Dude." Bad Wil said. "You should take Anne to do something outside today."

I looked at her. She blinked at me and held the mug close to her nose. It steamed up her glasses. She looked --

"She looks pretty goddamn cute, doesn't she?" Bad Wil said.

"Dude!" I said.

"What?" She said.

"Er, nothing." I said. "Do you have to work today?"

"Nope." She said.

Before she could tell me how she planned to spend the entire day doing crap around the house that neither of us wants to do, I said, "Will you go out with me today?"

"You mean like on a date?"

I smiled. "Yeah. A date."

"Don't you have to work?"

"I'm entirely stircrazy, and sick to death of being stuck in the house. Any 'work' I do today is going to suck because I really don't want to be here." I said. "Besides, why am I a freelance writer if I can't completely blow off for a few hours and enjoy a truly beautiful day with my wife?"

Bad Wil pumped his fist silently in the air.

"Well, I was going to do some stuff around the house," she said.

I may have pouted, just a little bit.

"But I would love to have a date with my husband, especially on a beautiful day like this."

I closed up my computer, and finished my coffee. Anne finished hers, we both got ready to go, and we drove up to San Marino, where we spent the afternoon at the Huntington Library. On a date.

tables so green

So yesterday, I played in the Pot-limit Omaha high-low split event in the WCOOP at PokerStars.

1303 people entered, many of them the very best PLO/8 players in the world.

Somehow, I managed to play smart, get lucky a couple of times, not get unlucky a couple of times, and finished 70th.

Holy shit. I finished 70th out of 1303 players, many of them the best in the world.

If I hadn't suffered a really bad beat by a hand I had completely dominated pre-flop, I probably could have finished in the 30s.

CardPlayer.com even included my finish in its coverage of the event:

Actor Wil Wheaton also made it past the bubble in the tournament, landing himself a 70th place payday of $742.71.

Even though I've made it very, very deep in events before (top 20%, including 40th at a Legends of Poker preliminary event this year) it's been in events where 10% makes the money, so this was my first tournament cash. More than the money it put into my pocket (which is going directly into the fix up the house fund, with a little skimmed off the top to buy some new CDs) it took a Prove To Everyone That I Deserve To Be On Team PokerStars monkey off my back that was starting to dig its claws into my brains pretty deep.

So I'm skipping around just a little bit today.

Okay, a whole lot.

Okay, the most.

Seriously.

ROCK!!1

concerning the ufo sighting near highland

I am way too busy to do anything meaningful here right now, but everyone should to to Ron Moore's blog, and read his story about his first time on the set at Next Generation, and how he got his job writing for the series.

They were shooting scenes for the second season episode "Time Squared" down on Stage 9, where the Sickby, Corridors, Engineering and Shuttle Bay sets were located. We walked through the Engineering set, which was covered in plastic tarps, and then found a dark, out of the way place to watch Patrick and his photo-double rehearse a scene where two Captain Picarcds are in the same shot next to an Enterprise shuttlepod. It was exciting and thrilling to actually stand on the starship Enterprise after all those years of imagining it, but there was this other part of me that felt like I'd finally come home. Usually, when I'm experiencing a singular event, there's a strong part of me that is constantly whispering, "Look around, enjoy this while it lasts, you won't be here again." The fleeting nature of life and our experiences is something I've always been hyperaware of, ever since childhood, and it usually feeds into my innately sentimental streak, prompting me to try and imprint the moment into my fallable memory with some kind of permanance.

But on that day, I wasn't looking around with the idea of trying to memorize it all before it vanished, I was actually looking around thinking, "Don't worry, I'll be back." Somehow, I just knew this wasn't the last time I'd be on these sets, wouldn't be the last time I'd stand on a starship, that I'd get another chance to meet Patrick. I remember walking out of the soundstage without any covetous looks over my shoulder or secret swiping of souveniers -- I just assumed I was coming back, without any plausible reason for feeling that way.

We were so goddamn lucky to have Ron writing for us, and though I know that I was too young, brash, and naive to appreciate him and his work, I really hope the rest of the cast and creative people did.

from dark skies to wet grass

It's been one of those days where, no matter how hard I try, I can't ever seem to really get started, so I've spent much of it in a sort of pissy mood, mostly annoyed at myself for feeling bored or uninspired by everything.

However, I've had a couple of amusing stories come out of me, that I think are worth sharing. I think I may have written about the first one before.

Around 1987 or 1988, I saw Larry Niven at a convention. I was officially there to be the Star Trek guy, but I didn't have to go on stage for a few hours, and rather than sit in some suite with the rest of the Star Trek people who didn't want to get too close to the masses, I grabbed my backpack and wandered around the convention as nerdy fanboy number 42.

I bought a ton of crap in the dealer's room (mostly FASA sourcebooks, and some bootleg anime videos IIRC) and on my way down a hallway toward the gaming room, I saw this guy who was dressed in a Space Shuttle flight suit (blue) sitting behind a table that had some books on it.

Holy shit, it was Larry Niven.

I walked up to him and the conversation went something like this:

Me: OMG YOU'RE LARRY NIVEN!

Him: OMG YOU'RE WESLEY ON STAR TREK!

Both: CAN I HAVE YOUR AUTOGRAPH!

Both: YOU WANT MY AUTOGRAPH?!

Both: YES!

Me: I don't have a pen.

Him: It's okay, I have several.

He pulled a pen out of the shoulder pen-holding pocket thing on his blue Space Shuttle flight suit. I was so out-nerded, it wasn't even funny. I tried to counter-attack by producing my own copy of Ringworld that I had in my backpack, because I carried it with me everywhere in those days, just in case, you know, I felt like reading it. (I am not exaggerating at all. I loved -- and continue to love -- that book that much. For reals.)

This prompted the question, "Do you ever get bothered that you can't just walk around a convention like everyone else? Does it bother you that people are always trying to talk to you, even when you're supposed to be having your 'own' time?"

To which I replied, "It depends on how much Sailor Moon porn I'm attempting to buy."

I made myself laugh, and then I realized that there probably really is Sailor Moon porn, and there are probably people who buy it. Then I threw up in my mouth a little.

Have you ever had to laugh while there's vomit in your mouth? It's worse than holding a drink in your mouth while you get under control enough to swallow it.

Wow. I really just bounded over the line on that one, didn't I? I mean, normally I can at least see the line behind me, but it's way behind the horizon right now.

Okay. Good to know. Moving on.

The second amusing anecdote is from a few years later, probably late 1992.

I went to a midnight screening of the director's cut of Blade Runner in Westwood, which is the home of UCLA, and before the Arclight and Bridge theaters, was the only place you went to see movies other than the Chinese or Cinerama Dome. The screening was sold out, and when the lights went down, there was a mighty roar from the crowd, quickly replaced by reverent silence as the crawl began.

When the crawl was over, with impeccable timing, someone from the theater shouted out, "I can't read!"

Hilarity ensued, but reverence was quickly restored. For a moment, I hoped that we'd be MST3K-ing the film, but it turns out that we didn't get to do that, though it would have been deliciously ironic to provide our own commentary over the removed voice over.

And with that, I'm off. Have a good weekend, everyone.

It happens sometimes. People just explode. Natural causes.

Backstage during the run of Acme Love Machine, the cast engaged in a debate about movies that we thought were great the first time we saw them, that somehow attained cult status in our memories, but really don't hold up when you watch them today.

There were a lot of movies mentioned, but the most controversial were Fast Times at Ridgemont High (we were split on it; I think it holds up just fine) and Repo Man.

I was convinced that Repo Man was a brilliant movie that would totally hold up, but nobody agreed with me. Before I could beat them all senseless with a little air freshener tree, or force them to look in the trunk, the stage manager called places. The argument was tabled and never revisited, and, I forgot about the discussion until last night, when I saw that Repo Man had just started on cable. I put down Planetary (which is awesome, by the way) and watched the movie, so I could Prove To Everyone That Repo Man Still Rules.

Actually, I kept an entirely open mind and watched with a critical eye, as objectively as possible.

Guess what? Repo Man still rules.

No, really. It does. It's funny, it's clever, it's insightful, it has cameo appearances from some of the greatest Los Angeles punk bands in history, and it's entirely unique.

There's also this thing that really hits me about the look of the film: I lived in Los Angeles in 1983 when the movie was produced, and the look of the exteriors remind me so much of being 11 years old, it's easily worth an additional star in my personal review of the film. I can't quite explain it, but if you lived here then, you should recognize the quality of the light, the smog, the buildings and cars in films like Repo Man, Fast Times, Valley Girl, and all those early 80s cop shows on television. Things have changed dramatically in twenty years, but it's pretty cool to have so many films that capture how my formative years looked, you know?

Via Wikipedia, I found a great interview with Director Alex Cox about the making of the film, and some totally awesome trivia: Repo Man was produced by Mike Nesmith, whose mother invented Liquid Paper. He was also in some band in the 60s.

pandora + airfoil + airtunes = totally awesome

It's no secret that I have a huge crush on Pandora, and can rely upon it for my Rilo Kiley, Bob Mould, Soul Coughing, or Based Upon John The Fisherman radio station needs (just to name a few.)

Via Lifehacker, I found 15 ways to get more out of Pandora that are especially useful from a software and "digging around for music" stand point . . . but just this afternoon, I found Airfoil, from Rogue Amoeba Software. For 25 bucks, Airfoil lets you stream Pandora, Last.fm, Realplayer, VLC, or just about anything else that has audio and goes through your computer over your Airtunes connection. It's available for Windows and for Mac.

And speaking of Windows and Mac and things that are awesome, did anyone see the [adult swim] bumper last night with the BSOD, then the BBOD, and the decision to switch to open source? (Thanks to PaladinPhoenix for the link.)

blue light special

If someone asked you what toy defined your childhood, what would you say? My kids would probably say Gameboy (Ryan) and Micro Machines (Nolan.) My brother would probably say NES. My sister would probably say Cabbage Patch Kids. My dad would probably say Baseball cards.

My answer comes without a moment's thought or second guessing: Star Wars figures.

They were affordable, easily obtainable at K-Mart, and allowed me to create my nine year-old version of fan fiction, reenacting scenes from "my most bestest movie ever" or making up my own. My core cast was Han Solo (in Hoth and regular outfits) Luke Skywalker (X-Wing Fighter or Bespin version) Greedo (shoots second, goddammit, version) Obi-Wan Kenobi (I lost the plastic robe and broke the tip off the light saber version), Princess Leia (pre-slave girl "man I wish I could hit that" version) C-3PO (tarnished version) and R2-D2 (head stopped clicking a long time ago version.) They spent a lot of time fighting on Tatooine (torn cardboard backdrop version), flying around while crammed into a TIE fighter (one wing really wants to fall off version) or rolling around the kitchen floor in my LaNdSPEEdR (kEpP YOU hANdS OFF OF It OR ELSE !! version.)

Yeah, I loved my Star Wars figures, and I took them everywhere with me. I never owned one of those official carrying cases that looked like C-3PO or anything, but they travelled with me in a Vans shoebox that could double as a rebel base whenever the need arose.

Last night, Nolan and I ate dinner at Islands, and right after we put our order in, I saw a kid, sitting in a booth at the end of our aisle, playing with Star Wars figures on his table. It was like looking through a wormhole into 1981, and seeing myself in Bob's Big Boy with my parents.

The kid was eight or nine years old, and had a mop of shaggy long hair that was probably cut by mom. He wore a dirty blue Hot Wheels T-shirt, maroon nylon shorts, and velcro tennis shoes. On the seat next to him, there was an open shoebox. His Star Wars figures were lined up on the table in front of him, and he made two of them fight.

I fell into the wormhole, and landed at K-Mart in Sunland, in 1981. It was back to school season for me, and my brother, and we were there to buy clothes and school supplies. My parents never let us feel how poor or white trash we really were back then, so I didn't know that shopping at K-Mart and getting an ICEE and a pretzel was a real luxury for us; like all kids, I just took it for granted that we got to have new clothes and treats, because, well, they were there, you know?

After our corduroy pants and collared shirts and Trapper Keepers and economy packs of pencils and wide-ruled paper were piled up in our cart, our mom took our three year-old sister with her to the make-up department to get shampoo and whatever moms buy in the make-up department, and my brother and I were allowed to go to the toy department.

"Can I spend my allowance?" I said.

"If that's what you want to do," my mom said, another entry in a long string of unsuccessful passive/aggressive attempts to encourage me to save my money for . . . things you save money for, I guess. It was a concept that was entirely alien to me at nine years old.

"Keep an eye on Jeremy," she said.

"Okay," I said. As long as Jeremy stood right at my side and didn't bother me while I shopped, and as long as he didn't want to look at anything of his own, it wouldn't be a problem.

I held my brother's hand as we tried to walk, but ended up running, across the store, past a flashing blue light special, to the toy department. Once there, we wove our way past the bicycles and board games until we got to the best aisle in the world: the one with the Star Wars figures.

Row after row of glorious Star Wars figures in blister packs hung from pegs in a wall that stretched up to the sky. Bright orange price tags, cut into jagged sunbursts marked $1.99! were on the corners of them all.

The smell of slightly-burnt popcorn, kind of like the smell in the Rainbow theater (where I'd go on countless dates of the 8th grade variety and watch Ghostbusters over and over again in 1984) hung heavy in the air as I stood there, experiencing what Douglas Coupland would eventually describe as "Optional Paralysis," pondering one of the most difficult and important decisions I would ever make: which Star Wars figure would I purchase? They didn't have the Chewbacca that I really wanted -- and needed -- to fill a gaping hole in my cast of characters. They had lots of droids, but I already had the only two that mattered. They had some cool snow troopers, but they could only fight Han Solo in his Hoth outfit, and I didn't even have a Hoth playset (it made sense at the time.) They had IG-88, who was kind of cool and had an awesome gun, but was only in one scene in Empire Strikes Back and didn't even talk. I stood at the wall of toys and wished, as I always did, that I could just get them all, and sort them out at home, while my jealous friends watched.

My brother said, "Come on, Wil. I want to go look at the Legos."

"In a minute," I said. I flipped through the ones I could reach, and hoped that maybe Chewbacca was in the back behind one of the lame figures up front (that's how I found Luke Skywalker in the Bespin outfit, which had a really cool lightsaber that you could take out of his hand and lose in the back yard the first day you played with it.)

"Come on, Wil . . ." my brother said, tugging on my hand.

"Quit!" I said. "This is important!"

"Lando Calrissian? He was a dick in the movie. There's no way I'm getting him. That guy with the bald head and the light up headphone thing around his head? What is this, the Bespin Cloud City store?" I thought.

"Willlllll," my brother whined, as my mom came around the corner.

"Willow, look what I found for you!" She held up a package of Luke Skywalker X-wing pilot Underoos.

"Oh cool!" I said. "Thanks!"

"And I have Batman for you, Jer Ber," she said to my brother.

"Wow! I'm Batman!" He said. "Thanks!"

"Did you find something?" My mom said, then pointedly added, "or are you saving this week?"

"Mom, I want to look at LEGOs," Jeremy said.

"Okay, Jer, I'll take you," she said.

She started down the aisle and added, "You need to be ready to go when I come back, Wil."

Left alone in the aisle, I could focus and make an informed decision. Suddenly, as if they'd materialized out of thin air, I saw several vehicles and play sets. The playsets were well beyond my budget, squarely in the realm of birthday gifts from relatives. A Death Star playset among them silently mocked me and my LaNdSPEEdR. However, the sunburst stickers on the vehicles were much more reasonable. I did some math in my head. If I saved, I could have my own Millennium Falcon in just a couple of months. If I could convince my mom and dad to let me do extra chores around the house, or if I got a commercial or something, I could even get it sooner!

Wow. The Millennium Falcon. It was so big, it took two hands to fly it. My friend Darryl let me watch as he put his together, and it had two sheets of stickers! It had this place where you could hide your figures, and you could recreate that cool chess game and Luke's fight with the training droid thingy!

Could I do it? Could I save my allowance until I had enough to buy it? What if they didn't have it when I was all saved up, though? Then what would I do? Mom would make me put my money in the bank, and I just knew I'd never see it  again, while it earned something stupid called interest.

My brother came running down the aisle, nearly losing his ever-present blue baseball cap in the process.

"Wil! Look! I got an airplane!" He held up one of those balsa wood planes that always broke on the second flight, provided you didn't break them during assembly.

"Oh no," I thought, "Mom will be right behind him!" I could hear my sister fussing in the cart as it turned the corner and squeaked up behind me.

"What did you decide, Wil?" My mom said. "Amy's getting fussy and we need to leave."

I hadn't had nearly enough time to make up my mind. This was all a plot by my mom to get me to save my money! I had to stall, so I pretended I didn't hear her.

"Oh, that's uh, neat," I said to my brother. "What's it do?"

It's a plane, you dolt. It flies.

"Wil?" My mom said.

"It's got a propeller, and that means it can fly for a long long long long time!" He said.

"Uh-huh," I said, my eyes darting from the vehicles to the figures to the playsets and back. "That's cool." A stream of numbers and calendar pages flew through my head, accompanied by John Williams' famous theme.

"Wil, I'm going to count to ten, and then we're leaving." My mom said.

Oh no! She was counting! This was serious.

". . . three . . . four . . . five . . ."

"Three? What happened to one and two?"

" . . . eight . . . nine . . ." Why couldn't I just make a decision? All the figures sucked. This should be easy.

"But there are so many right there, and how can I walk out of the toy department without buying something?! Jeremy has an airplane!"

"Ten. What are you doing?"

As if commanded by some unseen puppet master, my hand shot out and grabbed the nearest figure from the rack.

"I'm getting this one," I said. "This one is awesome."

"Ha! Take that, mom! Nobody is going to trick me into responsibly saving my money!"

"Okay, put it in the cart and let's go."

I looked down at the package in my hands, and saw my triumphant purchase: Lando Calrissian.

In my head, I thought of the worst curse word I could muster the courage to think.

"Wait. Mom!" I said.

"What?"

She stood there, hand on her hip, patience wearing thin. My brother flew his airplane -- which in the package didn't look anything like an airplane at all  -- around in little circles. My sister's fussiness was turning to tears. This was my last chance to back out, admit defeat, and tell my mom that I was . . . I was going to save my money.

I took a deep breath, and said, "I, uhm . . ."

My sister scowled and started to cry.

"What?"

The urge to walk out of the store with something in my hand and some stupid sense of victory overwhelmed the more rational thoughts of saving my money for something I really wanted.

"I, uhm, I want to carry it myself," I said.

"Okay, that's fine. Let's just go," she said. I thought of looking back wistfully over my shoulder at the Millennium Falcon, but I was so ashamed of myself, I was certain that I'd be turned into a pillar of carbonite. Instead, I trailed behind my airplane zooming brother and nap-needing sister, while my mother pushed the cart up to the checkout.

"Wil?" A voice that didn't belong at K-Mart in 1981 said.

I blinked, as the sounds of my infant sister crying were replaced with The Killers, and the smell of burnt popcorn was replaced with the smell of a fryer.

"Are you okay?" Nolan said.

". . . yeah," I said.

"Where did you go just now?" He said. It's a rather mature concept for a 15 year-old, but I vanish into memory so frequently he knows it when he sees it.

I told him about the kid over his shoulder, with all the Star Wars figures lined up on the table. "It's like looking at myself twenty-five years ago," I said, as John Williams' score began to play in my head.

He turned around and back. "You had Jar-Jar twenty-five years ago?"

"What?"

I blinked, and looked at the line of figures: Han Solo, Chewbacca, Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader, and way down on the end, there was Jar-Jar Binks.

A needle scratched across the record in my head. In my head, I thought of the worst curse word I could, and directed it at George Lucas.

Epilogue:

Lando Calrissian joined my cast of Star Wars characters, but was always the first to get killed in every battle and never got to pilot any of the ships. I tried to trade him several times, but his lameness was universally known around my neighborhood, and I was never successful.

A few months later, shortly after 1982 began, I booked a commercial. I didn't go back to buy a Millennium Falcon, though. Star Wars mania had offically given way to G.I. Joe mania, fueled by ultracool villains like Destro and Stormshadow. Over the next few years, Star Wars mania would take a distant third to Transformers fever, fueled by Megratron and Shockwave. Yes, like everyone else during the 80s, I gave in to the Dark Side.

Unlike George Lucas, though, I eventually came back.

Apple gave me back all my lost music, free of charge

Earlier today, when my iPod and my upgraded iTunes 7 got together and decided that my purchased music would really be happier living on a farm upstate with other m4p's, I did whatever I could to convince the music to come back.

I tried to reverse the polarity on my iPod, and I tried modify the navigational deflector on my Powerbook, without any success. It also turns out that the isolinear optical chips are only on MacBook Pros, but even if I had them here, Data was too busy laughing at me with his emotion chip to be of any use.

So I opened my hailing frequencies, and sent a subspace message to support at Apple.

Okay, I'm done with corny Star Trek metaphors . . . but admit it, wasn't that fun?

Though the company was unresponsive last time I contacted them about an iTunes Music Store purchase issue, they responded very quickly this time. A very kind woman named Kate called me, and told me that she'd read my blog about my problems with my purchased music.

Wait. She read my blog? Okay. That's weird and unexpected, and a stark reminder that, despite my impression that readership has fallen steadily in the last year, people still read my blog.

She said that Apple wants to keep their customers happy, and ensure that they'll be confident purchasing things from the iTunes Music Store, so she was going to push a Big Red Button that would allow me to have a do over, and download all of my purchased music again, free of charge. This seemed excessive to me, and way above what would be reasonably expected, but before I could tell her that, she told me that she'd read on my blog that I didn't expect Apple to treat me any differently than they'd treat any other customer. She assured me that this is Apple's corporate policy, and they'll do this for anyone who has a catastrophic loss of their iTunes Music Store purchases, regardless of the cause. I think that's really cool. Can you imagine walking into a record store and telling them, "Hey, guys, I lost all my CDs over the weekend. I know it's my fault, but . . . can I have some new ones?"

I think that's worth mentioning again, in hey-look-at-me bold text: If you make a purchase from the iTunes Music Store, and something horrible happens and you lose all your music, Apple will give you a one-time only do-over to replace all of your purchased music, free of charge. 

E-mail from Apple support was equally helpful. A woman named Sheila apologized for the inconvenience, and repeated the offer to give me a do-over on my downloads. She also included some polite advice on the importance of backing up music, and how iTunes 7 makes that easy with just a few clicks. (It is as easy as they say. I spanned 10 CDs of Lost episodes and purchased music.)

In retrospect, this was so quickly addressed and fixed by Apple, I'm a little embarrassed that this turned into such a huge thing, especially once it hit Digg, and became a "let's attack Apple because we can" thread. I'm a Digger, too, and I believe that when the wisdom of the masses becomes the tyranny of the mob, it reflects rather poorly on all of us. I'd also like to stop and admire all the schoolyard insults that were hurled my way over there. It's reassuring to know that there's still a place on the Intertubes where people can get in touch with their inner 6th grade bully. (Oh, it looks like this post hit Digg, too. Hello again.)

One thing that I want to clarify -- for myself as much as for anyone else who read my blog earlier -- I identified this as a DRM issue because the only files that disappeared were ones that had DRM on them. After a day's worth of reflection, however, it's more accurate to identify it as a backup issue -- which has sort of been addressed by the backup your whole library feature in the new version of iTunes. I'm still not crazy about DRM, and I don't like anything that restricts what I can do with what I purchase. However, I also believe that artists should profit from their works, and stealing stuff is bad, but I'm not sure if restrictive DRM is the best way to handle it. That's an argument that's been run into the ground forever, so on that subject, I'll just say "Abortions for some, tiny American flags for others!

In all seriousness, though, I want to thank Kate and Sheila from Apple for quickly responding to and addressing my problem. The way you treat a customer once they're out of the store is even more important than the way you treat them when they're in the store, and Apple has always taken good care of me, as a customer. Will I continue to buy things that are DRM-laden? If it's something that's hard to find and I absolutelymusthaveitrightnowbecauseineedit probably. But I think I'll be making physical purchases of CDs more frequently than not from now on. Also, don't forget that lots of CDs have incredible design in their packaging. Tool's 10,000 Days immediately comes to mind.

I also know that some people who are very much in touch with their inner 6th grader will say that this is just a publicity move, and I'm a stupid dupe for playing along. Well, it is good publicity to take care of your customers, and since it turns out that a lot more people than I can fit into my back yard read my blog, I'm happy to spread the word a little bit.