My Boring-Ass Life (Revised Edition): The Uncomfortably Candid Diary of Kevin Smith (22 page)

I arrive in front of Team Case’s temp housing with Harley all abuzz about seeing Gabrielle. The family hauls their cookies into Jen’s Range Rover (which I’m forced to drive, since my beloved Expedition — the Hate Tank — is up in Vancouver). While driving to Jerry’s, I ask how the cross-country drive was. That’s when it’s made clear that the Cases didn’t drive cross-country, they flew. So they’re car-less at the moment: hence the request for pickup. Ah — not such pampered fucks after all.

We opt for the closer Jerry’s, since going to the one on Beverly would mean a drive back to Westwood for me, and I’m all about the Daddy/Daughter Piercing Date immediately after brekkie.

The adults eat and chit-chat, while the kids throw stuffed animals around and order double helpings of their sides. When we’re done, we drop the Cases off and head for the Beverly Center — Quinnster all atwitter with excitement about the impending ears piercing.

We park and head into the mall. Upstairs, the Claire’s earrings emporium is situated right beside the Hello Kitty store — so that little girls can graduate to ‘tweens in ten easy steps, from one door to the other.

Having grown up a dude, I’ve never spent much time in the ‘tween stores. It’s weird: they’re peddling sex at such a young age. All the merchandise is cheap and kinda garish (like most sex), and it’s branded by pseudo-celebs like Ashlee Simpson. The one thing I saw that I identified with was a small basket of pins on the counter. There were only three available, and they sported acceptable rebellion mantras like “I may be different, but you’re ugly!” It took me right back to early high school, when I was a pin guy. Every weekend, I’d head to the mall to stock up on the latest pins at Spencer’s, so that I could load up with a bunch of images and catch-phrases that I felt helped me express my individuality: everything from Bullwinkle pins, to pins that sported that most clever of witticisms, ‘Who Farted?’ It’d be a while before I realized that individuality can’t be expressed by wearing something bought at a mall that thousands of other kids the world over were also brandishing to express their individuality, and that self-expression can’t be purchased at a piercing pagoda. Still, even knowing what I now know, I had to resist the temptation to buy the snarky pin. Old habits die hard.

I let Harley go nuts, picking out a bunch of the cheap earrings, as the sales lady assured me they were all buy one/get one free. After about twenty minutes of pure, unadulterated consumerism, with Quinnster picking out dolphin earrings, guitar earrings, Royal Flush earrings (because Mom and Dad play cards), monkey face earrings, puppy earrings and the like, we finally approach the dreaded piercing chair.

This is when I detect a slight shift in Harley’s once-joyous pre-piercing demeanor, and I get my first whiff that something might be amiss.

The sales chick comes to make with the piercing gun, and Harley’s suddenly all a million questions: “Does it hurt? What’s it feel like? What’s that thing you’re holding? Will I feel it?” Picking up on the apprehension, I decide that we should probably pay for the earrings we’ve picked out and the piercing charge in advance, before they actually make with the piercing, because I know my daughter’s insanely low threshold for pain means that she’s gonna be fit to be tied after they puncture her lobes on both sides. We pay, but I’m too fixated on Quinnster’s mood to notice the total. We head back to the chair, where two piercing technicians are standing by, loading up the disposable piercing guns with Harley’s chosen earrings: two purple-pinkish amethyst stones. They dot her ears with marker to make sure the whole affair’s gonna be symmetrical. Harley’s holding my hands tightly, getting more and more worried. Then, as the earrings are on approach, she starts in with the stalling. “Wait, wait — just a minute. Is it gonna hurt? What’s it feel like? What’re those things? Will I feel this?” This goes on for ten minutes, until I say, “You don’t have to do this, kid,” to which she replies “But I want to. I’m just scared.” We talk about it for five more minutes, and then I’m like “If we’re not gonna do it, that’s okay. But we can’t sit here all day. We’re holding up these ladies and anyone else who wants to get pierced.” Panicky, Harley elects to walk away.

Two steps out of Claire’s, the Mighty Quinnster’s all tears and agony. “I’m a failure....” she’s wailing. “I can’t do anything.” I keep telling her it’s cool, and that she almost did it, and that’s brave enough for now. Next time, she’ll totally do it.

We walk through the puzzle store, and she’s still moaning about being afraid to go through with the piercing. We sit down outside the coffee joint and talk about it some more. I pull out one of the many earrings sets we bought and show her an admittedly tamer version of what she’s in for by pressing the peg against the back of her hand, ever so lightly. “That’s it. That’s all it feels like,” I lie. Based on that, she’s ready to give it another try. As I put the earrings back in the bag, I notice the total on the receipt: $160.00! I nearly pass out. $160.00 for crappy, cheap-ass, I-could’ve-made-better earrings?!? Whoever Claire is, with all the loot she’s pulling in from the legions of not-a-girl-not-yet-a-womans that people these joints, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was snorting thousand dollar bumps of blow through hundred dollar bills, off the tight stomach of a high-priced male escort in Monte Carlo.

We head back to Claire’s with a renewed vigor. Harley gets in the chair once again, the guns get loaded... and a familiar refrain fills the air: “Is it gonna hurt? What’s it feel like? Am I gonna feel it? What if it hurts?”

Five minutes later, we’re on our way back out of the store, the kid drenched in shameful tears. I keep telling her it’s cool — that there’s always tomorrow. The kid’s coming at me like Apollo Creed with “There is no tomorrow!” She’s apologizing to me, telling me she’s sorry she wasted my time. I’m like “You don’t have to be sorry. I don’t care if you get pierced or not. In fact, I don’t even want you to do it. Your Mom wanted to get your ears pierced when you were a baby, and I said we shouldn’t do it, and that we should let you decide for yourself one day if you wanted holes in your head. And it’s not a waste of my time, so long as we’re hanging out together.” But she’s not buying it. She also lays into me for cock-blocking the infant piercing Jen was in support of, as that means we wouldn’t be going through this shit now.

Looking for relief, I notice the
Sith
trailer playing on a flat screen in the Bose store, so I pull her toward it. We go inside and take seats in a pair of leather chairs they’ve set up in front of the flat screen display. As we watch it, again and again, Harley regains her composure. The sales guy keeps eyeballing us, and I feel bad that we’re just sitting there. To assuage this guilt, I buy another Bose Sound Dock for my iPod (my third), since the one I usually have at home is up in Vancouver.

On the way to the parking lot, we pass a custard stand that sells low-carb custard. I get one for me, and Harley gets a regular ol’ high-carb Strawberry custard. This seems to dull the kid’s piercing-inspired self-loathing to non-existence, and soon, all is right with the world again. Fuck what the experts say: food cures all.

We head home and I swap the kid for the wife and the dogs: Harley goes to play with Kevin and Hans while Jen and I take our motley muttley crew over to the puppy camp in the Valley. On the way, I recount the entire sad tale of earring-less woe for Jen, who’s like “been there, done that”.

We drop the dogs off and while driving toward the freeway, I reveal that I smoked the night before. This delights Schwalbach no end, as she’s a big fan of the taboo. She wants all the gossipy details, of which there are very few. Suddenly, there’s a scent of sex in the air.

Jen and I stop for smokes, and I call Mos to tell him we’re not gonna barbecue tonight, though I would still like to see him and Cookie before Jen and I head back to Vancouver. We decide to kill two birds with one stone by grabbing some early dinner at The Ivy.

The whole ride home, I’m smoking with Jen, and — mystifyingly, she’s getting more and more turned on, insisting that the smoking version of me takes her back to when we first met. She recalls her initial fascination with my hands from that era, and how they looked when they held cigarettes. She announces that she’s gotta fuck me when we get back to the house, so naturally, I lay on the gas pedal.

We get back to the house and let Chay in on the Ivy dinner plans, inviting her along. She heads home to get changed, telling us she’ll meet us there. No sooner is the door closed than Schwalbach starts drawing the curtains. Two minutes later, we’re engaged in some of the hottest, delicious afternoon sex we’ve had in a while (and, mind you, this is coming after a hot streak all week, too).

Post-coitus, I take a shower and get dressed. Mos and Cookie arrive just as we’re heading downstairs, and the four of us head over to Robertson. Chay shows up as well, and our quintet digs into another exquisite Ivy meal.

After dinner, the five of us head back to the house. We send Harley to the Cheesecake Factory with Reyna, Kevin and Hans to celebrate Hans’s sixteenth birthday, and then Jen ices some beers, pours some wine for the girls, and cranks the iPod in the Bose so we can settle into a nice game of poker.

While up most of the evening, by night’s end, I’ve lost my initial twenty-buck buy-in. Mosier breaks even. Chay’s in the hole, and Cookie and Jen are the big winners. Harley comes home in tears because the Cheesecake Factory was a bust (Saturday night, too crowded, no tables). We make with the goodbye hugs for Mos and Cookie, and by eleven thirty, everyone but Chay’s gone. Chay’s gonna stay downstairs in Jay’s room, because Jay’s driving her to the airport in the a.m. Harley sacks out on our couch, and Jen and I cuddle up to some
Simpsons
, to which we fall asleep.

Sunday 15 May 2005 @ 2:56 p.m.

We all sleep in ‘til about nine. When I get up, Chay’s already gone. Jay comes back from dropping her off, and the four of us (me, Jen, Jay and Quinnster) head over to the Griddle for some goodbye breakfast. Afterwards, Jen and Harley grab some Coffee Bean while Mewes and I chill in the car, chit-chatting.

We get back to the house and Mewes puts Jen’s Range Rover into the garage while the three of us start packing. For me, this means loading up on a few more DVDs to bring back with my washed laundry. Fully packed, I take a shower, get dressed, and then sack out in front of the TV, while the anxious Schwalbach barks at me about leaving two hours before our flight. I pull Chay’s Escalada around the front of the house and Mewes helps me throw the bags in the back. While I’m driving, the two kids (Mewes and Harley) fall asleep on the traffic-y trip to LAX.

We check in, head to our gate, and kick back while we wait for our delayed flight to board. Jen heads to the outside smoking area and Quinnster and I situate the various Harley games and DVDs for the flight. We board and soon after, we’re airborne, with Jen and Harley sitting in the two seats in front of me. I read a bunch of old issues of
Variety
and
USA Today
that had gathered at the house in my absence, and Harley either rocks the Nintendo DS or plays
SpongeBob
Uno with Jen during the two-and-a-half-hour flight.

We land in Vancouver and clear Customs. I have to get my working visa, which takes another twenty minutes. Then, I pick up the keys to my car at the valet desk, and we’re off into the rainy Vancouver night.

We get to the hotel and up to the room. Harley rushes around, checking everything out. Jen immediately starts unpacking, so as to make the hotel a home, and I start adjusting my schedule, based on the new one-line and latest draft of the script. Each of us is buried deeply in our activities until we decide to do some room service. We sit down and eat as a family, and then it’s time for Quinnster to go to bed. Jen lets Harley fall asleep to
Robots
, and we retire to our room to watch
Constantine
. Jen checks out of the flick early, leaving me to grumble to myself about the volume governor on the TV. I’m only half-engaged in the flick as I go through email on the laptop. I call down to the concierge about getting some DVD players brought up, but they tell me the tech department’s closed, and the guy will have to take care of it in the a.m. Jen comes back to the room five minutes before the flick ends, looking to go to sleep. When the credits roll, we search for something... anything... to fall asleep to. Ultimately, we find a
Cheers
on one of the stations, to which we both konk out.

Monday 16 May 2005 @ 9:43 p.m.

I wake up around nine-ish, quietly vacate the room so Jen doesn’t wake up, then take a dump while checking email.

The call sheet slipped under my door alerts me that I’m not due to set ‘til 2 p.m. Harley gets up and I continue checking email while she watches some tube. In the kitchen, I answer a call from the tech guy who informs me that the price for DVD-player rental in the hotel is fifty bucks a day. Over the course of two months, this would be ridiculous. I ask him if I can bring my own TVs in, and he says sure.

Jen shuffles into the kitchen looking for non-existent coffee, and I tell her about the DVD sitch. We agree that we’ll pick up some TV/DVD player combos and shit-can the hotel TVs (with their volume governors) altogether. I say let’s get a move on, because before we know it, it’ll be two o’clock and time for me to get to set.

I shower while Jen and Harley get dressed. We call down for the car and head over to Robson, on a mission to find some tumblers, plates, a shower caddy, and various other housewares. But before that, we stop at Starbucks for Jen.

It’s drizzling, so I don’t want to leave the car at Starbucks and walk the one block to London Drugs. We park in the underground parking lot and head upstairs, where we load up on sundry things, none of which are tumblers or plates (though Jen does score a shower caddy).

We swing back by the hotel and have the doormen unload our bags of booty while I get directions to the nearest Safeway. We drive the three minutes to Safeway, park, and head inside.