Productination

I plopped myself down into my chair at my computer desk. Cupping my mug with both hands, I took a big sip of the fragrant chamomile. Steam immediately fogged my glasses; I took them off and rubbed my strained eyes.

It was another typical Friday night in LA. There were a million and one things I could do, but I only wanted to do one of them: collapse.

Having just completed my first week of working full-time since the summer, and with the considerable amount of caffeine I required each day to stay productive, I was exhausted.

And so began the almost nightly debate I had with myself. Would I go out or stay in? Having been through this decision process countless times, I knew the pros and cons pretty well. Most of the time, I forced myself to go out, falling back on my catch-all advice to live life storyworthily.

And yes, “storyworthily” is too a word. I’ve used it enough times that it should be, at any rate.

Recently though, my motivation to go out has been in a waning phase. There were so many interesting things for me to do at home. And going out every night was slowly killing my health and productivity.

“Fuck, should I go out tonight?” I asked my friend, not really wanting her answer, but just seeking validation for what I already decided.

“When you’re 80, what are you going to regret more, staying in or going out?” she said.

Damn, she had a point. That was the exact opposite of what I wanted to hear. In fact, her input only complicated my decision. Now I had another person who also thought that going out was the more storyworthy choice, even going so far as to say I might regret the alternative.

But, hey, the story would be boring if it was the same every night, right?

Despite the possibility of getting drunk, dancing with some girls, maybe even throwing up on myself in a truly hilarious Tucker Max’ian fashion, I had no regrets about watching my man Ash get medieval and then sleeping for 10 hours.

When I heard that Jonathan Coulton was performing tonight at The Echoplex, I didn’t think much of it. Jonathan Coulton is the Ben Folds of geek rock. It is my opinion that he tries a little too hard to be clever. Certainly, I am in the minority of my friends when I voice this opinion.

When I realized Wil Wheaton would be in the audience, my interest in the event suddenly skyrocketed. Apparently, this was a combination JoCo concert and John Hodgeman book tour type hybrid event?

After much internal debate, I fell back on my guiding principle of living a storyworthy life. If nothing else, I’d get a blog post out of this.

Plus, you know, nerd chicks.

Upon my arrival, I noticed that there was no one sitting at the ticket desk to take my money. I pushed open the door and just walked in. Amazing! I immediately took the $15 I would have spent on my ticket and bought $18 worth of beer.

Dang beer, why you gotta be so expensive in venue?

The first time I was at the Echoplex, an experimental “noise rock” band was playing, and everyone was numbly lumbering around the dance floor. The sight of everyone seated, while a chubby man in a suit and an unusually sharply dressed JoCo bantered on stage, was quite a strange scene to behold.

Beers in hand, I settled by a spot near stage left. I was feeling pretty good, and found myself actually enjoying both Coulton and Hodgeman. It was when Wil Wheaton took the mic that I lost it, though. Of course, he was just another audience member, asking Hodgeman a question during the Q&A, but even so, I got giddy knowing he was sitting a few, scant feet in front of me.

Being an alcoholic lightweight, I was afraid that I’d say something really stupid to him. Perhaps against better judgment, I wrote him a fan letter on a page from my moleskine. In it, I gushed, fanboy like, but I also wrote sincerely about how he played a big part in my desire to pursue a writing career, and how I really appreciated his positive outlook on life.

“We are all the products of our choices,” and “Don’t be afraid to suck,” are two gems that, while I’ve heard them elsewhere, stuck with me when Wil uttered them because of their simple elegance.

After singing along with “Re: Your Brains,” I caught Wil checking his Blackberry. Already, another fan had lined up next to me. I gently put my hand on Wil’s shoulder. Completely solid in himself, he would not be interrupted (presumably tweeting), and he turned around when he was good and ready.

Slightly tipsy, I said, “Wil, I’m a huge fan.” “Thank you!” he said. “I wrote this for you,” I said, handing him the letter and running away.

“Ok? Thanks!” he said, slightly surprised and laughing.

I was so happy and nervous I completely forgot about the nerd chicks.