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





ISBN 9781848564978

Published by

Titan Books

A division of

Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark St



First expanded edition September 2009

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

My Boring-Ass Life: The Uncomfortably Candid Diary of Kevin Smith
copyright © 2007, 2009 Kevin Smith.

All rights reserved.

Front cover photo © Peter Sorel.

Visit our website:

Did you enjoy this book? We love to hear from our readers. Please e-mail us at:
[email protected]
or write to Reader Feedback at the above address.

To receive advance information, news, competitions, and exclusive Titan offers online, please
register as a member by clicking the “sign up” button on


No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Printed and bound in the USA.








Why the Diary(ah)?

Since what follows is a shit-load of text detailing the minutiae of my daily doings, I’ll forego the pages of pithy prose leading up to a retrospect and cut directly to the chase.

How the fuck did this happen?

Very simple: I’ve got a message board at one of our websites,
, that I’ve been actively back-and-forthing on since 1996. There, I’ve been engaged in a decade-long discussion with the folks who’ve paid for my house, my car, all my DVDs, and (quite probably) my wife: the audience for our pictures. For the last ten years, if you were adamant about tracking down the guy who cast the blight on contemporary American cinema known as “the Stink-Palm”, a quick web-search would lead you to what’s come to be known simply as “the board” — that magical system of ones and zeroes where you could ask the filmmaker in question what symbolism he intended with an ice hockey fight juxtaposed against a character’s interrogation of his paramour’s sexual history, and wind up with a half-answered query and a solicitation to purchase a t-shirt bearing said filmmaker’s face or an action figure molded in his likeness.

Then, one day in March of 2005, a poster (meaning someone who posts on the board) posited a question so stymieing, I had to step away from the computer and truly ponder what my response should be:

“What do you do all day?”
they inquired.

It was a staggering inquiry — because I honestly didn’t know.

I mean, I had a
idea of how my days were spent — and really, it was more of a vague idea of the
of my routines: still married, still a dad, still a filmmaker, still fat, still alive. But
did I reach these results, I wondered? What were all the exact steps that lead to the status quo, one more day above ground?

So rather than summon a sarcastic reply, I responded with a broad-stroked, moment-by-moment breakdown of that particular day. Question asked, question answered.

Sadly, the answer more than likely intrigued me more than it interested the inquisitor. I wasn’t so much taken aback by what had transpired during the fourteen hours or so I was awake, but instead by how... well,
it all seemed. It was rote. It was an every-life, chock-a-block full of inane elements that bore no significant impression of an existence well-embraced. If God was in the details, then surely God didn’t exist; because no Supreme Being could suffer a creation of infinite promise who so often opted simply to lay on his bed and watch far too much television.

If all my days resembled the one I’d chronicled for that poster, then it was so dull that it demanded documentation. That way, upon my sure-to-be-premature death, when others would attempt to fill my daughter’s head with tales of how much her father had done and how far he’d gone in his brief life, she could read for herself, in his own words, how little her old man had actually accomplished. Rather than buy into the legend of the convenience store clerk who risked money he didn’t have via multiple credit cards he wasn’t qualified for, culminating in an early 90s indie flick success story and career he didn’t deserve, my daughter could read the cold truth about the shlub who begat her. My parting gift to my only child would be a full confession about how underwhelmingly human I ultimately was.

And so began the chronicles of My Boring-Ass Life — first as a series of entries on the board, and later at its own web locale —
(and even later, at my MySpace page:
). I was able to stick to the plan of an itinerary-style diary for a few good months before the experiment ultimately morphed into what it is now: a fucking blog like every other fucking blog, offering up unasked for opinions on any number of subjects. I’d hate myself for succumbing to a trend, were it not for the cool shit that came out of it in the process (namely the “Me and My Shadow” multi-parter that chronicled Jason Mewes’s battle with addiction).

Still, for the most part, it’ll serve its intended purpose: giving my kid a glimpse at a year (or so) in the life of her pater familias. And if it interests you at all, dear reader, then that’s just gravy. That is, if you can get through it.

’Cause, y’know — it’s kinda boring.

For those unfamiliar with my world, I’d like to offer up a quick reference glossary, so you’ll know who I’m talking about when I drop names you’re not savvy to.


This is my wife — she who holds my heart and dick.


This is my daughter. She just holds my heart.


This is Jen’s mom who lives with us and also acts as my assistant. Having your mother-in-law as your assistant means you’ll never chase your secretary around her desk.


Gail’s husband, Jen’s step-dad, who also lives with us. Without him and Gail, our lives (or lack thereof) as we know them wouldn’t be possible.


Scott Mosier, longtime friend and producer. Essentially, my first wife.


Jason Mewes — the thinner half of Jay and Silent Bob and my unofficial firstborn.


Bryan Johnson, my oldest and dearest friend; also one of the funniest people I know. Born and raised in my hometown, Highlands, NJ.


Chay Carter, one of my wife’s dearest friends (as well as mine). Also Ben Affleck’s Gail.


Alex Hilebronner Mosier, Scott’s one-time girlfriend and present wife. I call her Cookie because she’s a cook. I also once named a character Cock-Knocker because he punched people in the balls. I’m a simple man.


Malcolm Ingram, longtime (Canadian) friend, wing-man, and filmmaker. Director of the documentary
Small Town Gay Bar


Jim Jackman, another Canuck compadre. Used to be a producer on
Degrassi: The Next Generation


Bob Chapman, the guy who makes all the stuff that bears my graven image. Owns Graphitti Designs.


Gina Gozzi Chapman. Owns Bob. She and Chappy also used to run Jay and Silent Bob’s Secret Stash West.


Sometimes Phil Raskind (my über-agent), and sometimes another Phil I don’t have in my life anymore.

The other names that don’t pop up quite as frequently but might still require explanation of sorts:

(McElfresh), my
Tonight Show

, the fella who used to be the moderator at the board.

, his wife.

, their kids.

The House
is in the Hollywood Hills.

The Office
is either the home office (right off my bedroom), or the View Askew West office, a few blocks away.

The Store
is either of the two Jay and Silent Bob’s Secret Stash retail emporiums: one in Red Bank, NJ, the other in Los Angeles, CA.

The Life
is pretty boring-ass.


Sunday 20 March 2005 @ 12:00 a.m.

21 March 1998: a much thinner, less bald Kevin Smith stands outside the Indie Spirit Awards tent on the Santa Monica beach, across from the Shutters Hotel. He’s waiting for his ‘date’: Jennifer Schwalbach, a comely lass he’d met only a month earlier when, in her role as the youngest journalist at
USA Today
, she’d interviewed him for a piece about the début of his
comic book. The pair had hit it off well — so much so that when the interview proper ended, they’d talked for another two hours, completely off the record. Since that day, they’d spent a suspicious amount of hours emailing and logging phone time with one another while Smith conducted Pittsburgh-based rehearsals of his fourth film,
, and Jennifer continued to pen articles for the world’s biggest newspaper.

This Spirits was the only awards ceremony that season which Schwalbach wasn’t scheduled to attend or cover for the paper, so Smith had suggested they hit the awards together, strictly as friends. He sighted the dubious point that he didn’t really know anybody out in LA when, in truth, he was supposed to attend those same Spirit Awards, extremely platonically, with awards presenter and
co-star Salma Hayek. After pleading his case of cross-country puppy love to the Latina leading lady, Smith quickly dropped the on-screen muse like a hot rock the moment Schwalbach agreed to accompany him instead.

A miscommunication had the pair separated up ’til the start of the ceremony, with Smith waiting outside the tent, just off the red carpet, and Schwalbach — thanks to her press credentials — already inside. Figuring he’d been stood up by the prettiest girl he’d ever met, Smith was about to head inside to see if his previous flick,
Chasing Amy
, would fare as poorly as he seemingly had that afternoon. Then suddenly there at the entry to the tent, like an answer to a desperate man’s prayers, stood the angelic Schwalbach, smiling, waving Smith inside, beckoning him to the rest of his life.

As if the gods were conspiring to keep them apart, Smith didn’t get to spend much time with Schwalbach at the ceremony; he spent most of the day doing the press-room following his Best Screenplay win. At Spirits’ end, Schwalbach drove Smith to her apartment in her Cherry Red Jeep Grand Cherokee, only after Smith assured her it was solely to change out of his suit jacket and jeans into a more comfortable hoodie and shorts. He wasn’t, he promised her, making an attempt at any funny business; considering that he felt Schwalbach was altogether out of his league, why would he embarrass himself?

With half a day left before his flight back to Pittsburgh, Smith and Schwalbach spent hours chit-chatting over pizza bread sticks at Jerry’s on Beverly. As his
departure time drew near, the duo opted to head back to Schwalbach’s Pointsettia apartment to run out the clock. There, the flirting shifted into heavy gear with Smith somehow convincing Schwalbach to lay her head, face-up, in his lap, so that he might play with her ears.

The rest, as they say, can be heard on
An Evening With Kevin Smith

Today’s the seventh anniversary of the first time Jen and I ever kissed and fucked. And fucked. And fucked. And fucked. And fucked.

This day, more than any other, is proof positive that one excellent lay can change your whole life forever.

Happy Anniversary, Babe.

Now take those fucking pjs off and let’s relive a fond memory.

But, y’know — without the heavy chafing.

Monday 21 March 2005 @ 12:06 p.m.

I get up and drop Harley off at school.

I pick up some McDonald’s hash browns, two-dozen roses, and both hot and iced lattes for Jen to celebrate the seventh anniversary of the first time we’d ever fucked.

When I get home, I log a post on the board about said anniversary.

Other books

Rage of the Dragon by Margaret Weis
Imposter Bride by Patricia Simpson
Perfect Skin by Nick Earls
Bull Head by John Vigna
When I Wasn't Watching by Michelle Kelly
Bad Business by Anthony Bruno
Buddy by M.H. Herlong