It's So Hard To Type With A Gun In My Mouth (50 page)

The clouds have formed a full thunderstorm in his head. The depression begins to form on the cold front and..... He's in a full depression.

Everybody sing: 

IT'S NOT EASY BEING STEVE.

DECEMBER 2, 2006 -
ALL NIGHT TALK

We are digging deep. Aren't we? I think it's only fair that since I devoted time to my father, I should relate a story about my mother, or as I think of her, the Jewish Joan Crawford.

I have lived in California since 1972. In that time my mother has made it out to visit me maybe four times. Maybe. On one of those momentous occasions, when she's put her civic duty aside and decided to play mother, we had a confrontation that almost put me in the hospital. It took 3 months of therapy to recover when she left and it was this trip that made me decide that perhaps four visits since 1972 was just enough.

She had decided to come to California for some reason. I don't know why... maybe she had a coupon. I remember that my shrink had put me on medication because my anger towards her was so deep I was unable to control it. I was on something to slow down my reaction time and give me time to think before I exploded.

She's in the house about two days and so far it's going O.K. She's saying hurtful things and I'm letting it roll off my back. But I knew the medication was working when she said to me. "You're using too large a light bulb in the bedroom lamp." And I said, "Which lamp?" And she walks me into the bedroom and turns on the bedside lamp. "You see, you're burning the shade right here." And she points to a place on the shade where there's nothing; no burn. "I don't see anything."  I say and she points again "SEE, it's right here.” I'm thinking, "She's out of her mind." But to her I say,  "I'll change the light bulb." How else do you deal with a lunatic? I'm taking medication! We should be giving it to HER.

About a day or so later I get a call from the Ice House, could I do a show for them? I was thrilled. Finally, my mother was going to see me work. I agreed to do the show and that night we drove out to Pasadena. Now for those of you who don't know the Ice House it's one of the oldest clubs in LA. It opened in the hay day of the folk era and people like Lily Tomlin, The Smothers Brothers and Pat Paulson got their start there. In the early 80's Bob Fisher bought the club and turned it from a dying white elephant to a dynamic Comedy Club, one in which the finest comedians in the country were getting their start. I shared the stage with David Letterman, Jay Leno, Tom Dreesen, George Miller, Gallagher and on and on and on.

I was excited that my mother was in town when I was able to headline this club. I make a few phone calls telling people I'm working tonight and like always Fred and Mary Willard make the long drive out to Pasadena to see material they have seen at least a hundred times; the sign of a true friend. To be honest with you I don't remember who else was in the audience that night but there were at least three other celebrities.

I do the show and it's gangbusters. I blew the roof off the place that night. The laughs were long and hard. They were continuous and loud. They were what comedians hope for every show. I got off stage and was a million miles high. I grab my mother from the audience and bring her back to the green room where I will greet people after the show. Within three minutes the room fills with well wishers. I was grinning from ear to ear. Fred and Mary were the most enthusiastic and they led the cheers. Everyone lingered for about half an hour and as the room thinned out I see my mother sitting in the corner, her knees tightly closed together, her arms crossed on her lap, holding her purse.  Her face is forcing a smile. Thars a storm a brewin'.

We get into the car and head home. It's about a 40-minute trip. She's not said a word. It's killing me. I want something from her... some kind of recognition, anything. I get nothing. I can no longer take it. "So, what did you think of the show?" And, like she was talking to a stranger and with all the sincerity of a car salesman she flips off, "It was nice."  "NICE? Nice is all you can say? It was nice. Did you see those people? Did you hear the audience? That show was a lot of things but nice wasn't one of them."  And she looks at me and with anger says, "What do you want me to say? It wasn't my cup of tea."  And I've got to tell you; I exploded, medication and all. I couldn't believe she could be so uncaring. I've seen her be nicer to hairdressers who just fucked up her hair.  I look at her and say,  "Ya know at my age I don't need a mother, I need a friend. And if you can't be my friend I don't want you in my life."  I guess this shook her because she started opening up and we began talking about our relationship.

We talked the entire way home. I spilled my guts to her. I cried. I got angry. She cried. She got angry.  We got home and I got undressed and we were still talking. She made herself a cup of tea and we were still talking. I told her things that I swore I would never tell her. I opened up. I bore my soul. I told her how hurt I was that she hadn't come out after  the divorce and my nervous breakdown. She replied, "I spoke to my sister and we decided it would be better for you to go through that alone."  And this set us on another round of conversations.  We talked and talked all night.  Soon it was four a.m. and we were still going strong. It was a deep, intensive talk that should cleanse the soul. It was the kind of communication you can only hope to have with a parent and I was feeling the weight of the years of distrust and anger being lifted from my shoulders.  It was a magical time.

I looked at the clock and it was 5:45 a.m. we had talked the entire night. I finally said, "Mom, we've got to stop. I need to get some rest."  And she said, "I agree." We stood and she came over and put her arms around me. She gave me a real "mother" hug.  "I'm so glad we had this talk, Stevie. It was important to get this all out in the open so you could see how wrong you've been."  And she glided into the bedroom like the Enola Gay after dropping the atomic bomb on Japan.

I stood there with my mouth open and my heart breaking. She had done it to me again. She let me in only to shut me out.  It was at that moment I realized how much I hated her and loved her in the same emotion. I think they call that inner turmoil. And that turmoil remains with me to this day. She is the most frustrating woman on the face of the earth. She's not a bad person; she's a wonderful person, just a horrific mother. It's taken me thousands of dollars in therapy to realize it's not me.  I could have saved that money if I had just listened to a woman I met in a doctor's office.  She said,  "When a mother says there's something wrong with the child,  there's something wrong with the mother."  That sentence hit me like a ton of bricks. She went on, "Because my son could murder someone and I would say. "He must have had a good reason".”  I just looked at her in amazement.  How lucky her son was! How unlucky I was.  It would be so much easier if you could just pick your parents, don't cha think?

                             
DECEMBER 2, 2006 -
THE ANXIETY ATTACK

Oh boy, it's one of those days. The anxiety is bad today. I'm thinking of seeing a doctor and not for hemorrhoids. I know some of you can relate.

The feeling of complete uselessness, of worthlessness, of failure is so strong today I can't sit in my own skin. I sit here wondering what I can do with my life and all I hear is an audible hum in my head. It's like the switch turns off when it comes to me. I can help my friends; I can help strangers and lost dogs. I can't help myself and no matter how much soul searching I do, I wonder if I'll ever rid myself of these feelings.

I'm told over and over again that I have to move on and forget the past. I have to forgive my parents and love them. I simply can't. I have such resentment towards both of them. They screwed up my life and then went on their merry way. They both remarried and told me how happy THEY were. They never asked if I was. They checked in with me when it was convenient for them. And yet, if you asked them, they felt they were the best parents they could be. If they were so wonderful why am I such a mess?

I think the thing that upsets me the most; my plan didn't work. I had my life all planned out. I was going to be a star, that's what they told me. I remember in the early days hanging out at the Comedy Store, Craig T. Nelson's wife (although back then he was just Craig Nelson) came up to me and introduced herself. She said, "Everyone says you're the one to watch. You're the star." I never forgot that moment; I thought it was so strange, I didn't feel like a star at all. I felt "lucky" to be there, lucky that those people would accept me. Life is filled with irony, isn't it? Craig turned out to be the star. She was living with the star and she didn't know it. Craig, who was a writer at the time, has become a well-respected actor... and that is the insanity of this business and my life. There is no rhyme or reason.

(Here's a little known fact, Barry Levinson, Craig Nelson and Rudy DeLuca were a comedy writing team. They wrote for Carol Burnett and The Tim Conway Show for the longest time.  Barry always wanted to do films and he left the group to direct his first film. "Diner"... but it was Barry's film "And Justice For All" that gave Craig his big acting break. Rudy went on to write with Mel Brooks. Rudy is the hit man in HIGH ANXIETY, the one with the steel teeth. See how incestuous the business is. )

I can remember the day I shut down. I had just come out of the hospital after my divorce and I went back to The Comedy Store to start working again.  Mitzi Shore, who was my biggest supporter, had posted a sign in the hallway where the comedians hang out. "Steve Bluestein is in the hospital. Visiting hours are .......... If you have the time please go see him."  And beneath that notice, comedians had hand written jokes. "I'd go visit him but I'm busy sleeping with his wife." "I would go but who's going to baby sit OUR baby?" And on and on and on until all I could do is rip it down.  I remember seeing those hand written jokes, supposedly written by my friends and feeling something die inside me. I had just been through the worst episode of my life, I found out the child I thought was mine, was not… it was an episode that made my childhood look like a piece of cake and all these heatless assholes could do was make jokes about my situation. I walked out of the Comedy Store and did not return for 15 years.

Ugh! I hate feeling this way but I think it's important to put it out there.  There is no "art" unless you are naked. And folks, this is about as naked as I can get; all I ever wanted was someone to hold me and tell me it's going to be alright. Isn't that insane? A grown man wanting to be held and feel protected. I think maybe that's why I take care of so many people; I don't want them to feel the way I do.  I think if I take care of others, then maybe I'll protect them from feeling pain.

I know as my good friend Monica Johnson is reading this book; she's shaking her head. "Stop doing the "self pity", Steve."  I wish I could, Monica. I wish I could just release it and be free of the anxiety. But I can't, it's embedded in my soul. It's what made Van Gogh cut off his ear; it's what made Levant chain smoke and Joplin overdose. It's the pain of an artist and I find that very ironic since I don't feel like an artist. I feel like an unloved child.  I suppose there are medications I could take to alter these feelings but the friends I have seen on this medication are worse after they take them than before. I have to do this on my own, drug free.  And so I type my life away, pouring out my soul for the world to see. I'm either the bravest man on the face of the earth or the biggest fool who ever walked it. I guess time will tell.

Thanks for listening.

                              DECEMBER 6, 2006 -
ONLY I CAN CHANGE ME

I had an eye opening experience today. A couple of days ago I sent out 702 emails from my computer address book telling everyone that I had changed my email address. I asked them to return the email so I would know they got it. Twenty-seven people responded. Talk about feeling insignificant.

It got me thinking.  I need to be validated even for a change of address. I need to have the book readers email me what they think of my writing. I need to know my friends like their Christmas gifts. Or... let me put it in other words... I need YOU to make ME feel better. Seriously, does it matter if 675 people didn't respond? Will my life be any better or worse knowing they got my change of address?

I was talking to a dear friend about this and she said to me, "It's like you're a child."  And it hit me like a ton of bricks. She's absolutely correct. How you are and what you do has nothing to do with my well being. My well being should come from within me. But it doesn't or it hasn't. Why?

I am forcing my friends to have a surprise birthday party for me. One of them said to me, "I just don't understand your need for a party. I don't need that, I got it all when I was a child."  And like a bolt out of the blue it hit me... I did not. Just like I have saved those scrapbooks because no one would, I plan my own party because no one will. It all comes back to that hole that was left in my soul. And as I type the words, "I will be 60." I think how can the old man , that I've grown into, still feel like a child?  The answer is the child never grew up. The child was never allowed to be a child. The child never had a childhood and so the adult keeps trying to capture something that is long gone.