I am certain many of you have been waiting with bated breath (or ‘baited’ breath perhaps) for the next HILARIOUS post and I have let you down. For this I am truly sorry.

Okay, not so much.

But the good news is that I have been a busy, busy bee, making capital-A Art, working on two short stories, revising my novel, and continuing my quest to find the abs under my flabs. Progress has been made on all fronts, despite James’ discovery of a killer cashew brittle recipe. (Read about it if you dare…)

I submit for you, a new pen and India ink “Brain-Fever,” still under construction. The picture’s kind of crappy, but you get the idea. I hope to have this one finished soon so I can give it to my sister for her birthday, February 11th. Don’t tell.

Brain-Fever #8 (In Progress)

It’s one of my larger-sized pieces, meaning it’s 30″ wide X 20″ tall. It’s kind of whimsical in person. Especially since, from a distance the colors combine making it seem like grayish swirls, but as you draw closer, the colors separate from each other more and you can see the background dots are purple or green the swirls are blue and gray and the big sort of strip in the middle is all kinds of colorful. Here’s a closer shot:

Brain-Fever #8 (Them dots don't make theirselves!)

Keep in mind, each little circle is less than 1/16th of an inch. It’s still got a ways to go but I thought I’d show everyone what I’m working on.

As for my book, I’m feeling more energized than I have for months. NationChurch is the name of it, if you haven’t been scouring my site. You can learn more or even read a bit of it by clicking the links.

Over the last weekend, I went to a seminar with an amazing agent from the Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency named Elise Capron. My previous plan to get an agent basically consisted of praying someone would hack into my computer, love my book, get it sold to a publisher and make me a fortune. We did some exercises, Elise read ten pages of our projects and we got to sit down and talk to her about it for ten minutes or so. Very valuable information.

The Dr. Smith plan of submitting your novel: Oh, the Pain!

Bottom line: She was complimentary of my writing but she inspired me to go back in and possibly work on the first few chapters in order to better grab an agent’s interest. She also worked with me on my query letter, an odious piece of writing that novelists must submit to agents and publishers that distills my precious, precious book into a few paragraphs.

Anyway, Elise looked at mine and had some terrific ideas to spruce it up.

The whole seminar thing was done by the Writing Pad, a group I have worked with on and off for the last few years. They’re great. Definitely check them out for all your creative writing-type needs. Plus they serve gourmet food at each class.

I promise to write another (funnier) blog post in the next week or so, but wanted to update folks on what I’ve been up to.

I’d love to get some feedback on the new Brain-Fever, on my novel, on my website or anything else. Drop me a note here and I’ll write back.

Dream #1

Michael Landon

In the first one, I am backstage in the wings at some kind of telethon and talking to none other than Mr. Michael Landon. The audience is applauding whoever is talking on the other side of the curtain, and Michael and I are chatting, standing next to a little buffet of munchies and I let Michael know that he has sung “Sit Down You’re Rockin’ The Boat” 472 times, so many times in fact that he’s two away from a Guinness Book of World Records.

Obviously, the next thing Michael does is get all hyperactive and filled with showbiz pizzazz, like Mickey Rooney after about 15 Benzadrines. “Sit down, you’re rockin’, Sit down, Sit down, Sit down you’re rockin’ the boat!”

He’s doing hand gestures and everything. Ugh.

“No, no, Michael. It has to be on TV. It doesn’t count if it’s not on TV.”

Then I remember thinking, The producers of this telethon are going to kill me when Michael Landon goes on and starts to sing that stupid song.

So yeah. That’s it.

Some people get messages about the future, or flashes of creative genius in their dreams. I’ve got Michael Landon doing jazz hands at me.

Dream #2

In my second dream (I don’t remember where it was set), but I started to sing a song, one that I really like to sing. But when I opened my mouth, I coughed and a round little turd comes up out of my throat. Actual poop.

Okay? Now you don’t have to be Sigmund Freud to interpret this one, people.

My subconscious thinks I’m stupid, yet again, like the time James and I were getting ready to move to California and I dreamed that two tall, proud trees fell over because their roots weren’t deep enough. Swear to god.

Or the time I was worried about money and dreamed I was in the grocery store and couldn’t find any lettuce.

Or the time I was getting ready to release my album and I dreamed I was climbing and climbing up a ladder, but I looked down from a dizzying height and got so scared I couldn’t climb any higher.

There you have it. My first dreams of 2012.

May all your dreams (and neither of mine) come true in this spanking new year.

Doug

Ross

My friend Ross Reay is a fantastic artist and you should stop looking at my page right now and go over to his new webpage.

http://www.wix.com/rossreay/myartpage#!

Really I mean it. He’s that good. Click now.

http://www.wix.com/rossreay/myartpage#!

Okay, you’re still reading. Cut it out.

http://www.wix.com/rossreay/myartpage#!

James

Having a birthday exactly one week before Christmas was tough for James growing up and so I try make his birthday a special event. No combined, double-size, ‘Christmobirthday’ presents here, my friends. (I know. That’s unlike me. Go figure.)

So, last Sunday, December 18th,  thanks to that bunch of deceitful, underhanded, two-faced frauds that we call friends, I threw a wonderfully successful, very special surprise party for James.

A little music might help put you in the mood…

Our plan was, on the day of the party everyone would come in at different times, adding people gradually in order to see how long it would take for James to figure out that he’s in the midst of a surprise party. It’s like the frog that hideously allows itself to boil to death if the temperature in the pot is raised gradually. How fun is that??

Here’s how mine worked: A few weeks before the big day, I asked James where he’d like to eat out for his birthday. He chose Cobras and Matadors (not because he loved it, by the way, but because he had a Groupon that was about to expire. I hate those freaking Groupons.) I said I made reservations for us and a few other couples and after dinner, we were all going out to some un-named show. I told him that I had secured our dear friend Sherrie to sit with Ben for the evening.

So that was the setup and I let that marinate for a few days. Meanwhile, I semi-organized what food people would bring. Food, I’m no good at (thankfully James’ friends are great cooks) so I let them kind of do their own thing and concentrated on what it would take to pull this caper off. Deception, deception, deception.

I did have a minor in Evil Genius Studies, which is exactly what I would need, owing to James’ notoriously suspicious nature. Swear to god, he looks around the kitchen and mutters, “I guess I won’t put a boiled egg in Ben’s lunch.”

“What? Huh?”

“There’s a fork out on the counter. You must have made Ben a scrambled egg for breakfast. Why didn’t you use the whisk? I don’t want to give him another egg for lunch, so boiled egg is out, but he’ll need another protein…” Elementary, dear boy.

He says he’s just observant. I beg to differ. So I knew I’d need my A-game if this was to work on him. Over the course of a week or so, he needed Complications, some of which I told him about, some of which I had the individuals call him and let him make the decisions that would draw him further and further into our labyrinth of lies.

Kali (Savria) Doug and Michael (one year ago)

Complication #1: One of the dinner couples, Kali and Michael have a baby and a 3-year-old son that Ben is close to, and they wanted to bring them over early for a few minutes before dinner, in order to exchange Christmas presents. Kali’s mom, who was in town, would take the little ones back home after. That would be okay wouldn’t it?

Complication #2: Amy had an adults-only dinner party to go to and needed someone to watch her daughter for a few hours. Could Sherrie watch both Ben and her as well?

Complication #3: Allison and Orin were supposed to go out to eat with us, but they couldn’t. Still, they wanted to drop off James’ birthday present before we went out. We won’t stay but a few minutes.

After many confirmations and surreptitious phone calls with the co-conspirators, I was starting to think that we might just be able to pull this heist off. James went to Costco a few days before and asked what we needed. “How about getting a couple of cases of soda and some paper plates?” I told him. He bought the drinks for his own party! Tee hee. Then the real complications came.

Look who's in hot water now

Orin and Allison

Snag #1: When I made the follow-up calls to everyone to make sure we had the times right and the lies straight, I found out that his sister Allison forgot that the party was Sunday. She thought it was Saturday. When I told her, that “…no, it’s Sunday, as you can tell by the email I sent titled: Top Secret Party–SUNDAY 12/18.” Unfortunately, she couldn’t come to the party Sunday night. And she was making the cake.

So instead she came over Saturday, to give James his gifties and (secretly drop off the cakes in the garage refrigerator). Unluckily we also ordered in Chinese food and James got ribs. What are we cooking for his surprise party? Ribs of course. When I opened the bag of food, my face must have fallen, because he said, “What’s wrong with the ribs? Are you hiding ribs out in the garage or something? Ha-ha.” He’s that good, people.

Snag #2: I also found out that Amy and Lolita both TOLD THEIR KIDS about the surprise party!

Lolita and her best friend, Wine

Never tell the kids. Lie to the kids. They love you, they will believe you. They believed you about Santa Claus. They believed you about the Tooth Fairy. They will believe you that you are dropping them off at Ben’s house for a play date, and when it turns into a party, they won’t care that you lied. But if you tell them, even if they don’t tell James, they will for sure tell Benjamin. And Benjamin is the worst liar of all. His idea of keeping the secret would be to say something like: “Baba! I know something about your surprise party on Sunday, but I’m not going to tell you!” James could break Ben in fifteen seconds.

Snag #3 (from James himself): Sunday morning, the day of the party, James began to insist on cooking dinner for Sherrie, Ben and Penelope. I protested but he stopped me. “Doug. I like to cook.” He gave me the shark-eye stare that dared me to start the argument. I did not.

I could use this. James has got a huge blind spot when it comes to feeding people.

I put one of my best agents, Amy on the case, having her call James and insist on bringing over hotdogs and buns (what she was bringing anyway) for Penelope, Ben and Sherrie to eat. I told her when she talked to James she could be a little pushy (which, if you know Amy Hill… I’m just sayin’…).

After the call, James took me aside and said, “You put Amy up to that didn’t you?”

“It’s your birthday. You shouldn’t have to cook.” He gave me the sweetest hug. And the net just got a little tighter around him.

There were others, both snags and dextrous saves, too many to count. I never realized what a good liar I am. That may end up being my super power. Without blinking, without hesitation I can deflect and dodge, bob and weave. I would be a great spy (or Republican) except for the fact that I can keep nothing in my head and have to write everything down. I had to keep a running list in my pants pocket, the guest list, the times, the lies, all the pretty, pretty lies… I knew if I threw it away without shredding, or god forbid, left it out on the night stand it would be all over.

The full cast of characters

It’s 4:30. Sherrie, is supposed to be here! Where is she?! She’s running late.

Tragically, Lolita is running a little early. She gives James her present (some amaaaaaaaaazing peanut brittle) in about fifteen seconds. Since her kids weren’t with her, (her ex-husband was dropping them off) there didn’t seem to be any logical reason for her to be loitering around. “James, do you know what show we’re going to tonight?” I asked.

“Is it the new Cirque du Soleil show?”

“God, you’re good, James! Lolita scored us the tickets and she wants to see Kali and Michael. It shouldn’t take but a few minutes to get to the restaurant.”

“The one on Beverly?”

My Groupon! My Groupon! What a world, what a world...

“No. I did the one on Los Feliz… Don’t tell me your the Cobras and Matadors Groupon is only good at the restaurant on Beverly, James! Bummer!” Even lying through my teeth, I could get my dig in about the damned Groupon.

Riiiiiiiiiing. It’s Sherrie, come to babysit.

Then right on cue, Michael, Kali, Barlow, Savria and Grandma Angel came in for the present exchange. All the while, I was pulling James aside, reminding him we needed to leave to make our reservations at Cobras and Matadors.

The rest of the guests arrived, more or less on schedule. Maiya came by to drop something off for her mom. Dave and Hillary were just up the street and thought they’d stop by. Even though James was in the other part of the house, I heard Lolita saying, “You kids have three more minutes then we need to GO!” She stayed in character, even though her confused kids were ready to cry! A++.

The house filled up and James was oblivious. For my part, I acted more and more frantic/put out that we weren’t going to make our reservation when James looked around and said, “Wow. We should just have the party here.”

“Okay,” I said. “Everyone! Go out and get your food!”

Cheers rose up!

Dave and Hillary looking fine!

In came the individual macaroni and cheeses from Hillary and Dave (not just tasty, but OMG-tasty).

In came Meryl and Steve with their quiches. A kale and mango salad from Lolita.

And what about Michael’s spare ribs?

We didn’t use forks! We didn’t use bibs!

From the top of Mount Loofah to the deep of Lake Dibs,

We piled our plates high with the ribs, ribs, ribs, ribs!

Then we laughed, we sang Happy Birthday and somehow managed to find a bit of room for a piece (or two) of Allison’s fantastic Chocolate Cayenne cakes.

When all was done, once the guests left and the kitchen was in some shape of normalcy, James pulled me close and said, “It was a perfect party. We have such great friends. And the best part is that they know me so well. Look at the time. It’s 8:30.”

Allison's cake

To all my friends who celebrate Christmas, Hannukah, Kwanzaa or something else, have a great one.

Peace,

Doug

Well, last Thursday, I had a real, live, hot poker shoved up my real, live nose. But I’ll get back to that. First, a bit of self reflection:

See? I used to sing!

So who am I? I’ve been wondering that quite a bit of late. It happened again: someone who knows me passably well (one of the parents at Ben’s school) was talking with me and I mentioned something about music and she said: “I didn’t know you sang!”

I was a little shocked. Of course I sing. I’m a singer, aren’t I? But then… It’s been a long time since I sang. I mean really SANG, like with a band and microphone and people sitting there listening to me. I’ve performed at the odd wedding, and I teach voice at Musicians Institute where I knock out the occasional song. But SING sing? It’s been maybe five years. Wow, it’s been since 2004. (See picture at right. My last gig.) Why should I be shocked that an acquaintance wouldn’t know I sang?

Some people know me only as a musical director. Or composer, or a voice teacher. Some people know me primarily as a writer, or a dad, or an artist or some Frankenstein combination of those parts. I’m an octuple threat.

click on this and look at my art

Click on this and listen to the shows I wrote music for.

Click on this and listen to my album

Click on this and read part of my novel.

Back in the day, I used to dance, too. I could do the splits and everything. I was okay, not the best dancer, but okay. And once in a great while, I still get the urge to see if I can do the splits. To my great surprise, I can’t. How is that possible?

ME: “Not even on the right leg? That’s my good one.”

MY BODY: “Not even on the right… And you don’t have a ‘good leg’ any more.” (My Body, by the way, has the comic timing of Bea Arthur. Re-read this last bit, imagining her saying that.)

Incidentally? My body does lots of things like Bea Arthur.

This is one of the major themes of my life, that I am pretty good at a lot of things: Kind of a good singer. A passable songwriter. A plausible novelist. Maybe I’m a hard grader, but I’d give myself about a B+ on those.

I’m kind of smart. Kind of funny. Not bad looking. B+, B+, B+.

Not long ago, my friend Kali asked what “my superpower” was. And I’m still stumped. I’m 48 and the chance of discovering I’m a child prodigy at something (ANYTHING!) is beginning to look a bit, shall we say, remote.

But I want a superpower so badly. The only thing I’d give myself an A on is Choosing Friends and Choosing a Husband. I don’t think that counts as a superpower.

Beyond that I’d get A’s in: Depression, Self-pity, Procrastination…let’s not even go to the bad place. I think superpowers can’t be used for evil. Still: Vanity? A+. Self-Delusion? A++.

Which brings me to my nose and the hot poker thrust therein. As I said, I haven’t sung much recently and I’ve noticed that even when I demonstrate things in class, my voice has been sounding worse and worse. I’ve lost a lot of range. Lost a lot of power.

“I’m just not warmed up.” I tried warming up. Ugh.

“I’ve got a little bit of a cold.” For six months?

I haven’t taken voice lessons in a loooooong time and so I decided to bite the bullet and get my voice back in shape. I should have tried to do the splits while I was at it. For a year now I’ve been studying and I got some of that old Doug sound back. But not consistently and all the while I was clearing my throat.

I went to an Ear Nose Throat doctor and he said I had a sinus infection that had gone chronic. Okayyy… Antibiotics, sprays and drugs. The voice improved but still, it was rough. I went to a different doctor, Dr. L. (mainly because he was closer). We tried different antibiotics, sprays and drugs. Nothing. We did allergy testing. And I am not allergic to anything. What the hell? Nothing?

What I have is non-allergic rhinitis, which basically means my sinuses are drama queens. With no real provocation, they produce all this mucus. I tried drugs and I tried sprays. I tried neti pots. Nothing worked.

So last Thursday, I had sinus surgery.

It's like a party in my nose! Right...there next to the arrow.

DR. L.: We numb the inside of your nose up real good and then I insert an electric needle in your sinus tissues and we burn away part of the turbinates.

ME: Okayyyyy…

DR. L: It’s outpatient surgery, with local anesthetic. It takes about ten minutes. We cook ‘em and then you can even go back to work.

ME: Okay…. So recovery time?

DR. L: You’ll be stuffy for a couple of weeks, but that’s pretty much it.

I was so sick of clearing my throat, and I’d been working on my stupid voice for a year and it was still sucky. And who am I if I’m not a singer anymore? So I did it last Thursday.

I dare you to watch this. Lawsy!

I had a local anesthetic, but I didn’t want to feel ANYTHING. And I felt LOTS of things. I admit I am sort of a baby about pain, and maybe I sort of lost perspective because of the freaking electric needle shocking the living hell out of the inside of my nose. I kept thinking Dr. L would ask me, “Is it safe? Is it safe?”

And as for going back to work? You’ve got to be kidding. Even in Los Angeles, where a getting a nose job is as common as getting a Grande Latte, even here in LA you wouldn’t go back to work. (Sadly my nose does not look any different, other than its being sad.)

As it so happened I didn’t have to work that day, but I had Parent/Teacher conferences at Ben’s school where I made it sound like I was a true Christian martyr for the pain I was in. I mean, the doctor said he was going to put an electric needle in my nose, and I said ‘yes.’ I can’t really act surprised that it hurt, you know?

Allow me to bring this full circle. Here I sit in my bed. It’s almost a week later and my nose feels just like someone punched it, instead of like they kicked it. I can hardly sleep nights because I can’t breathe. I use my neti pot and you don’t want to know what mess comes out.

And I did this all this why? Because I want to be able to sing again. Like when I was a singer. Who knows when Lady Gaga will want a 50-year-old gay guy with a sinus condition to open for her? Whether I did it for my sense of self or my sense of vanity, I can’t yet tell. Is there a difference? Maybe I just want to keep my options open.

Once upon a time, I wanted singing to be my super power, but it turns out it just wasn’t. I was a fine singer. Better than fine. As a professional? B+. And now that I’m middle aged—I have to own up to that now, don’t I?—I should have already figured out what I want to be when I grow up.

I can be a kind person, a funny person, a pretty good friend occasionally, a good father, an improving husband, and that has rewards. That is fulfilling and all, but it’s not really a career.

Hidden Superpower: Doug Rocks a Mean Recorder!

What mark am I going to leave? Doesn’t everyone want to leave his or her mark? To be appreciated for something you’ve done? To have others in your field admire your work? I wish I were completely overwhelming in one thing, but it’s B+, B+, B+. “Not bad!” “You’re pretty good at this stuff!” “Wow, you should maybe do this for a living!” I’m a dilettante but I dream of being a specialist. I want to be the go-to guy… “You know if you’re looking for __________, Doug Wood is your man.”

I’m a Renaissance Man, which would be fantastic if this were 1511, instead of 2011.

So my New Year’s resolution for 2012 is to find out who I am, in terms of my career. To work hard for that, get an A- and not doubt myself so much along the way.

My second resolution is to breathe through my nose again. And if I sing a little song after, I wouldn’t mind. But the first thing I need to do is just breathe…

Many of you know my husband James. He is one of the nicest guys on the planet. And yet I call him EVIL!! Why, you ask?  Perhaps a stroll down memory lane would be instructive.

But before that, keep in mind each item of food you see required at least half an hour of discussion: To make the gravy before hand or not? Does your family like sesame seeds on their rolls? What about nuts in their brownies? What about…?

“I have no idea, James. It sounds fine.”

Thank god our friend Stel was here and actually LIKES to talk about these things, relieving my great burden considerably.

Also, I was going to make this into a photo montage thingy, but life is too short for me to figure that one out. You’ll have to do that yourself. Choose the kind of Thanksgiving you’d like and find the appropriate clicky below.

Now imagine the following images swirling, twirling and dissolving, to hilarious effect.

Exhibit A:

Like a tiny miracle from the supply room in heaven, I found this note stuck to an electrical box as I was walking the dog late at night. I didn't need it, this year, which is something I am truly be thankful for..,

Exhibit B

James flips me the Bird.

Exhibit C

In making the dough for the rolls, he drew a circle on the saran wrap so he'd know when it had doubled in size. I drew a circle on my abs. They doubled in size.

Exhibit D

James and his henchman (henchperson?) Stel pose quite spontaneously by their bird.

Exhibit E

The Chef Triumphant, carries his masterpiece to the table. (By the way, moist, moist, moist and flavorful. Of course.)

Exhibit F

Mashed Potato Casserole made with sour cream and with a little bit of crunchy goodness top. Oh, yeah.

Exhibit J

Sweet potatoes served just like I like 'em, with toasted marshmallows. Behind is some sort of vegetable or other.

Exhibit K

James made these rolls from scratch. Note: some have sesame seeds, some don't just so we could choose.

Exhibit J (At what point does this become Carbohydrate Porn?)

Clockwise from top left: Peach/Berry Pie, Pumpkin/Pecan Pie, Katharine Hepburn's brownies (with and without nuts), Moose Munch, Pumpkin Seed Crunch, Apple Cake

Exhibit K

Look at the little leaves he put in the crust of the Peach/Berry Pie. It tasted even better than it looked, if that's possible.

Exhibit L

Desserts served with a crisp, sparkling (non-alcoholic) cider.

Which inevitably leads us to…

Exhibit M, N and O

Doug--Before Thanksgiving

Doug--After Thanksgiving (the dotted lines show the area of concern, aka gut.)

Oh, the humanity...

Yes, this final picture is where I’m headed. (Where I am?) And yet, I’ve got on the purple swimsuit, don’t I? It’s kind of horrible, but kind of expected.

So, yes. It was a most successful, hardly stressful Thanksgiving. For me anyway. Check out James’ blog for his side of the story along with recipes, tips, and endless discussion of whether to brine or not brine, to buy the cranberry sauce or make it (as if it’s a question worth asking) What about…?

One meal, two pounds. I can’t stand it. Now before anyone starts in on the “What do YOU have to worry about gaining weight for?” (How embarrassing would it be if everyone was like, “Uh… No. We totally get why you’d be worried. We were ready to get you a sponge on a stick so you could take baths.”) It’s not two pounds of muscle I gained from that meal. It’s fat and it’s sitting right in front like I’ve got a joey in my pouch.

Doug bends over, Thanksgiving 2011.

Betting on Intrade is that I go from that 6 up to something that ends with a 2 or 3 before the holiday is over. UP to 2 or 3, mind you.

And whom do I have to blame? There must be someone I can blame besides me. Let’s see:

Here’s a clue, he made a lasagna from scratch for my brother, sister-in-law, and our two nieces. Not a frozen Stouffer’s Lasagna, mind you. It’s lasagna like the one his mother who was born in Airola, Italy used to make.That means four hours of stewing the chuck roast until it’s falling off the bone, plus homemade pasta, and THEN he starts to assemble the lasagna. And when it’s done, holy mother of God is it good. Does that ring any bells?

Why yes, it’s James. James is responsible for my joey. Go over to his blog and marvel.

What’s more, besides the lasagna, did I mention the brownies? He tried out a new recipe from our friend Frank DeCaro’s book, The Dead Celebrity Cookbook. The brownie recipe is from Katharine Hepburn. Apparently when she unclenched her jaw enough to shove a brownie in, Kate had to make sure it was worth the effort. One word. Spectacular. These are some spectacular freaking brownies. I’m not sure if there’s Booze or Crack in them or what but I can’t stop eating them.

Does this hat make my stomach look smaller? I thought not.

And tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I haven’t even had James’ turkey and gravy and the mashed potato-sour cream casserole, or the pecan pie or the apple bundt cake or the pumpkin pie or… or… or…

I may not be a foodie, but I’m powerless. I’m at his mercy. Soon he’ll have me on one of those goose funnels they use when they’re making pate. Somebody make me quit.

So for those of you keeping score on the blog wars, James is not just a better cook. Look at my past blogs, he’s also:

In better shape.

A better father.

A better blogger.

Better to his mother.

And you can trust me, he’s way nicer and smarter. I mean, I’m not Charles Manson, but it’s true. So what do I got that he ain’t got?

A freaking joey.