Venice Beach: Breaking it down 1

Another job had ended. Sitting motionless on my bed staring at something on the television, I tried to ignore the gnawing feeling in my stomach.

"This wasn't the plan at all. I'm living the wrong life. This isn't where I should be."

Immobilized by fear I faced the prospect of looking for more work, and I feared the best I could do was to smash walls, and cut out old pipes for twenty-five dollars an hour. Maybe go back to bartending, or another office job in the entertainment industry. No, maybe go back to school and finish a degree in something; after all isn't that what we're told is the key to success? There are even statistics to prove it.

I needed to end this now, or I would never be able to live with myself. So I walked into the den and sat next to Mom. It was May of 2006 and I was thirty-four years old. This current stay at the folk’s house in Monterey had been one of several in my adult life. So often, I had come home with my tail between my legs needing to recoup. I vowed this would be the last. (Not so!) All I wanted to do was get my buddy Mat, hop in my Toyota Corolla, buy some art supplies--and hit the road.

Many times I'd had high expectations of myself and not been able to deliver. Like when you were 10 and absolutely knew you could make a pair of wings out of an old bed sheet and six feet of half-inch wooden doweling. Splayed akimbo twelve feet below, sucking wind and the dog frantically licking your face, you realize the error of your thinking. "The dowels were too short!"

Time and time again I would embark on a new life, with a new fantasy only to meet failure. What was getting in the way?

Me.

I had been told my whole life that I could do anything I wanted to, but they were all out of instruction books. I believed this myth. I had met a few people who were able to manifest whatever they wanted. I so desperately wanted that. I had always felt like I had a purpose, that I was to do great things and everyone else but me knew about it and was keeping the ingredients a secret. Excuse after excuse, constantly reaching what could very well have been the ninety-nine yard line and throwing up my arms with a self defeatist attitude, I had driven myself to the brink.

This time was different, because I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Not in terms of material wealth or possessions (I was usually broke, and lived out of a duffle bag full of stuff.) but in terms of sanity. For some folks, towing the line is their thing. They're good at it. It's their place. Not me. No fucking way. To ME that was facing a prison sentence without any guarantees of ever seeing the light of day again. I loved life too much. I loved hanging out too much. I loved late mornings, and no alarm clock.

You see: I have been a baker, a repo-man, a bicycle sales person, a cashier, a beach boy, a chef's assistant, a painter, a tank mechanic, an Alaskan fisherman, a water damage restoration technician, a business owner, and a slew of other things. The results always were the same: Every time I procured new employment I was grateful to have work in the beginning. Kneading the dough, using a reciprocating saw with precision, shaking the martini only slightly, talking with William Shatner's agent about rates for voice-over work, talking with Jill from Alabama about how her Christmas package from Harry & David was three days late, hauling gear onto the deck of a Salmon fishing vessel off the coast of Baranof Island in Alaska, or driving the tow truck back to the yard with the night's delivery--I always found pleasure in the moments. But, when I looked at the big picture, doing this same thing every day for the next rest of my young life, my heart would palpitate, my palms would sweat, and I would find a way to flee the job, or in some way sabotage the whole works.

I've always told myself, "There has to be a better way!" and dammit all to hell if I don't find it!

So that day I spoke to my parents about what I was feeling, and explained to them how much I loved them. I expressed my never ending gratitude for having them in my life, and that I needed to be living life on my own terms. I told them that it was better to live under no roof rather than someone else's and in no way did this have anything to do with them, or the way they lived there lives, and ran the household. Mom, of course was a bit worried, but remained supportive as always. Pops, the ever loving profit gave a poignant, "Do what you gotta do Jase."

And so . . . several days later I had the Vox-mobile packed; a little cash in the bank account and headed south for Los Angeles to find Mat. We were gonna have a great summer!