Choose Life over the other stuff.

I’m friends with John Patrick Shanley on Facebook. His Facebook status updates are something I look forward to daily. They are never, “brushed my teeth, going to the park” updates. They are classic Shanley. Poetic, inspirational, sometimes difficult and raw. He describes his dreams sometimes. He does not pontificate, and his Status updates do not come off as lecturing. I love him for using Facebook in this way. His plays are so dear to me, and he has written some things (this in particular) which have actually taught me how to live. Not that I was totally stumbling in the dark, but that those words came along and – like Zooey’s monologue to Franny in Franny and Zooey – pierced through a fog of uncertainty and insecurity, and said: “Wait. You KNOW all this already, and so you KNOW what to do.”

On Wednesday, he posted this as his Facebook status:

Choose Life over the other stuff. Get out of your head. Live. Dress up. Eat. Touch people. Help out. Give up. Love people. Give your best away. There’s more. What’s the problem? Relax. You’re going to die. Throw a party. Eat off my plate. Sing to me. Meet me in the bedroom. Get a massage. Give one. Let your amazement out into the room. Pry open the box you hide your joy in. Be a poem.

In a world full of pettiness and stinginess, his words flow through me like a healthy tonic.

It has been a good and very busy week, interspersed with Elvis Presley obsession which has now reached the manic phase. It’s one of the ways, besides a good wank, that I let off steam. Yesterday I trekked to Boston, witnessed the explosion of an oil tanker on Route 84 (horrifying, with my memories clear of seeing the second plane hit the WTC – burned in my brain – how many people outside of a war zone see raging fireballs in real life? Twice?), which then caused the entire highway to stop – completely. People got out of their cars, wandered around, talked to each other. I met a lovely couple from East Hartford and we expressed sadness at what had obviously been loss of life up there ahead of us. Fire engines and EMTs and ambulances tore by, and it was obvious the devastation had to be almost unimaginable. Although I felt that I would probably end up missing the screening, it was difficult to care, because of the explosion and the fact that people obviously had lost their lives. It was a terrible feeling. The cops then came and closed down all of Route 84. I got out of my car and looked behind me at the highway filled with stopped cars followed by a vast expanse of totally empty road. It was very surreal-looking. They then directed us, and the entire highway backed up, and – as one (I know it’s hard to believe) – turned around, and drove back where we came, on the wrong side of the highway. Hundreds and hundreds of cars. We all got off at the next exit (which was actually the on-ramp of the exit), and then found ourselves in a huge confusing procession through country roads and mill towns. My iPhone GPS found a way to get to the Mass Pike, which involved me driving on a country lane for 56 miles – along with hundreds of other cars who also had similar ideas – and these little villages with a gas station and a post office must have been like, “Did a celebrity die down the street and this is the funeral cortege? WTF?” I reached the Mass Pike an hour after I was supposed to, and by that point I had reached a Zen state of acceptance that I was going to miss Mike’s big night. Oh, well. At least I have my life, breath in my lungs, and 500 Elvis songs on the iPod shuffle. I am blessed. I also have a big, great family – many of whom were, as we speak, convening in Boston to celebrate Mike’s triumph. I would meet up with them afterwards. I saw the movie in rough cut last year. I’ll see it again. Once I hit the Mass Pike, there was no traffic jam – and I drove at a horrifying speed (for me anyway, who drives like a Grandma), along with everyone else on that damn anaconda of a road. I was going 80 the whole way. I wasn’t sure how much further I had to go, but once I hit Sturbridge, and Newton, I knew Boston was close. It was 6 p.m. The movie started at 6:45. Huge backups at both toll booths. Again, after a couple of moments of shrieking disappointment (I had left so much spare time to get there, and now look what happens) in general I was fine with it. The fireball from the oil tanker had scared me. Boston was close. I crossed the Charles River. It was 6:12. That was the first time, in an hour and a half, that I thought, “Holy shitballs, I am going to make it.” And I did. I pulled off on the Copley Square exit at 6:27. Got my ass onto Stuart Street, careened into a parking garage right across the street from the theatre, drove up to the top floor where I found the first spot available, and RACED downstairs. No makeup, nothing, I hadn’t had time to do it, and had been in the car since noon. Emerged onto Stuart Street at 6:35, and saw the red carpet set up, and saw Mike’s familiar head standing there, saw the crush of cameras and crowd, and felt a long withheld burst of excitement. I’M HERE?? In my alternate universe, I went directly to the Hotel Commonwealth, because I missed the show, unpacked, took a shower, and hightailed it over to the theatre to meet everyone after. But there I was: THERE. From across the street, I saw Mike’s parents, Tony and Marianne, I saw my mother, I saw my cousin Rachel, and I waved like a maniac. A couple walking by glanced at the mayhem and said, “Who is that over there?” I said, “It’s my cousin MIKE O’MALLEY!” They laughed. Boston is a friendly town. When my mother saw me running towards her, she looked amazed. I had talked to her at about mile 30 on ye olde country lane after the Route 84 debacle and she had also given me up as a no-show. So it was like I got to experience the excitement all over again. I haven’t seen my cousin Rachel in a long time, and she was there with a good friend, and we all had a great time, talking about the movie and also the Twilight books. My cousin Marianne and her husband Jimmy were there and it was so terrific to catch up with them too. I grew up with these people. Family is everything. This morning, after crashing in my room with my mother at the palatial Hotel Commonwealth, I woke up at 6:30 (we had been out at the party until 1 in the morning) and got in my car, bought a huge Dunkin Donuts coffee, and hit the road again. This time, I had zero complications on the way home. A beautiful drive, with Elvis blasting the whole way. I drove through one toll booth, and a 60-something year-old man took my money. He heard the Elvis spiritual blasting, and his entire demeanor changed, and he looked at me and said, “What a guy, huh?” I made it home by 11:30 a.m. Tomorrow is Siobhan and Ben’s engagement party that I, my sister Jean, and Siobhan’s good friend Carmen have planned. Another gathering of beloved family and friends to celebrate the upcoming union of two people we love. The planning is done, we have food, we have guests, decorations, and now all that needs to happen is everyone shows up.

And Monday morning I dive right into my daunting New York Film Festival schedule. Three movies a day for what feels like weeks on end. Tons of writing. A couple of parties. Meeting old friends and new.

October is the wedding. November is the reading of my script in Chicago.

My family is the most important thing in the world to me and I have never felt so so lucky.

Because my upcoming week is so busy, and because last week was so busy, and because I have the party on Sunday, I considered not going to Boston. But I didn’t really seriously consider it. Not just because Mike has been one of my greatest champions, although that is the case. But because it was an opportunity to come together and celebrate and revel in how awesome it is that we are all together for him. To echo the toll booth guy, “What a guy, huh.”

I couldn’t miss out on that. It was a matter of “choosing life over the other stuff”.

Give your best away. There’s more. What’s the problem? Relax. You’re going to die. Throw a party.

It is hard to realize sometimes, when you are tired or stressed, that “there’s more”. But it’s so true, John Patrick Shanley, you are so right. There’s more.

What’s the problem?