Today, I woke up again late in the day, after only a few hours’ sleep. This diary schedule is killing me. I feel overwhelmed. I need a ghostwriter. I can’t work with a deadline, and I don’t do that well without one. Do they make diary software programs? Where’s a template when you need one?
I have learned a valuable lesson over the last five days. I hate writing. Don’t get me wrong. I like the idea of writing. If I ever appear on Politically Incorrect again (when Mother Love cancels), I wouldn’t mind being introduced as a comedian slash actor slash writer. It’s the actual writing that disturbs me. It’s hard. I know it’s not as hard as working in a coal mine, but it is exactly as hard as writing about working in a coal mine. The problem is I promised my agent that I would come up with a sitcom script for pilot season, which is now starting. Maybe they will accept an outline, or an audio tape of my stream of consciousness ramblings. Maybe I can call the sitcom Stream of Consciousness. What about an interactive sitcom? The audience writes it, and I act it out. Nobody gets hurt.
If I don’t write my own sitcom, I will be forced to audition for other people’s sitcoms. Last year, I refused to go in for most auditions because the quality of the pilots was so bad. It’s not like I can afford to turn down work because I’m rich. I need to earn a living. It’s just that I can’t stomach being in something that I know will make me queasy. Most of what’s on TV is unwatchable. I’m not being an elitist. It’s a fact. Try tuning into anything on the WB network. Not only will you find it impossible to laugh, there’s also a danger you might be plunged into a lifelong depression. I’m not kidding, and neither is the WB.
Next week, I am scheduled for my annual physical. My mother is concerned. My father has had high blood pressure since he was 30. Mine was normal until about a year ago. Now, according to my home blood pressure kit, it seems to be edging up. When I was in New York over the holidays, visiting my family, it was really high. Isn’t that odd? I don’t want to take blood pressure medication. I don’t buy all that diet and exercise stuff. I love salt, and I refuse to cut down on red meat. Can’t I have some kind of surgery, or live in denial? My mother keeps using the expression “silent killer.” That cheers me up. If I’m going to be killed, maybe it’s preferable that I don’t make a racket.
It’s now Friday morning. I have a big weekend ahead of me. Saturday, I plan on taking my blood pressure every half hour. Sunday, I will root for the Jets and toy with the idea of working on my script. By Monday, I will be rested and ready to start avoiding auditions.
