That Ticking Clock...Two Thousand What?

I’m sick. The body hurts. My whore of a home state infected me. Sweet Illinois…or so I thought. She sent me back to Cali with illness. All is fair, I suppose.

I suppose. What can I say? Bitch was pissed. She can’t let go. I’ve been bedding my current sweetheart going on a year and a half. Somewhere along the way, I fell for her…and now I’ve fallen hard. What’s an inspired, love starved youth to do?

I have boats to say. But…I’ll save my ramble for a later date. Or, more appropriately…a later year.

I can’t believe I just said that shit.

I’d be up till 4. Fraid I don’t love you that much.

Okay, not true. This heart has plenty. And speaking of my heart…I think it’s enlarged. No, I’m not being metaphorically cute. I’m talking medical disorder. For some reason, it’s gotten so big, it oozes, pulses and pops its way through the gaps in my ribs. In turn, I get this stabbing, drop a fire cracker down my aorta and feel it explode…thing.

It’s awesome.

What’s wrong, you ask?

Likely nothing. I pander to drama. But, to be fair and kind, let’s role-play.

I’ll be me. You can be my last call conquest. I take my cue as the lights come up.

~~It’s not that I’ve had bad luck with love…it’s just that I love recklessly. I love deeply. At least I like to believe I do. (This sounds thick, but consider the stage…and performer). I guess you could say that I should’ve learned my lesson. Leave yourself open and you’re bound to get cut. (Take a “painful” slug from your J&D…give her sub-conscious 1.2 seconds to recall a movie or song she thinks she’s now living). Call me a fool, but it’s something I’ve come to expect. But as many times as my heart has been torn in this life, it heals. It grows bigger, stronger…it begs me to take the leap…again…to not be chained down by my past. In complete sincerity, I want to tell you something. I don’t know how much room I have left. That’s why lately, I’ve closed off. I made a promise to myself. A promise that I’ve had no problem upholding…until tonight…until I met you.~~

…

Oh, Hollywood…

I’m not a piece of shit. Sometimes, maybe…

In my life, I bide time…waiting to be overthrown. Otherwise, I’m a tease who adores the game. It’s just that…if you don’t know me, never trust me.

What? At least I’m honest…here. And that’s some that counts, right?

…

Anyway, I’ve 2 things for you. SNL again, but fucking wow. Dare you to watch it less than 10 times.

Make that the triple dog variety.

http://www.youtube.com/watch.php?v=zLElfJ9YCh0

…

And I found about 20 old, burned CD’s. Digs from my old, polluted computer. How I missed them. Precious orphans. I’ll give a few.

Aaron Lewis – Outside (Live - ’99 Family Values Tour)
Dire Straits – Romeo and Juliet
Joe Cocker – The Letter (Live)
Primitive Radio Gods – Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth With Money in My Hand
Aimee Mann – Save Me
Smashing Pumpkins – Tonight, Tonight
Our Lady Peace – Superman’s Dead (Live)

…

And since I am the Devil’s Advocate…allow me to lend a little New Year’s Eve advice…

Shoot warm Cuervo…find a hot tub. Have a drunken heart to heart with a stranger. Perhaps a second? Get naked. Welcome 2006 in the only reliably fitting manner…leaping off balconies singing cartwheels.

Inapropo Refs and Gratitude. Grease pan, bake a 375, 12 mins...

My site, the site you’re eyes are currently dancing…is a gang-bang. No need to waste time on a darling Monday. Analogies will drop early, often.

Have you ever been in a situation where someone stops you with a look? One that informs of a line in the sand. Watch out. They’ll usually follow the declaration with a second look…you just crossed it.

Por ejemplo…

I was in Baja last January, a gringo with a map and no compass…trying to make a movie. On the second night, 145 miles north of Bajia De Los Angeles, I stopped at an abandoned beach 2 miles off the broken and ripped main road. I can almost promise you’ve never seen anything like it. I meant the road…but the beach, too. The road was the sort where you cross fingers for hours on end, praying your car doesn’t shake to pieces and strand you in the middle of the fucking desert. How else should I describe it? It’s a fucking desert!

It was 11:45 Baja time…whatever that means. I locked my doors and clenched my hatchet…which would likely qualify me as a junior barbarian or barbarian in training. That night, one thing was for sure…the banditos were coming for me. I would fight them off, plunge my baby axe into one of their faces and spend the rest of my life in a sub-standard Mexican prison.

Not exactly the thoughts that breed sweet dreams. And that’s not even mentioning the faint, flickering light coming from the other side of the burm. Being an avid explorer, I had to know where the light was being made. I left my car and crossed a small sand dune. Then, another…

There was a beach fire in between my secluded spot and what I thought was an out of season hotel. Wouldn’t you know, that night…3 lovely San Diegans just happened to be tipping a handle of Bacardi by the fire. Looking back, it’s possible they were Sirens.

Why am I telling this story? I don’t remember where I was heading. Perhaps a reference…the last time a suggestion or action of mine inspired a, “line cross.”

I’m lost. An abandoned beach? Rum? Fire? Outnumbered bachelor? Starry, open sky, secret-is-safe Mexico?

Apologies. It just ain’t clicking. Maybe I’m tired. Or, maybe my imagination isn’t firing on all cylinders tonight. You should know which word to underline there. Come now, this is a heart too sweet for that.

At least I like to believe it is.

…

There’s a line you cross, a barrier when you stray past the semi-taboo and enter into something else. Like I said, this site is and has always aspired to be a gang bang.

And if you’re going to gang bang, fucking gang bang. Commit.

Now that I’ve come this far tonight, I fail to see the romance. Exactly. See how you back into it? How it works on so many…plateaus?

I often have a roundabout style. But for one night, let me translate this merry-go-round…

Thanks for reading. Thanks for writing that you’re reading. Thanks for writing to read. Since I’m not dying for another 90 years, we got a long way to go.

Yes. I could have saved time, if only I began where I ended…

Thank you, no.

Saturday Night Live...

Still and always the most untouchable show on TV.

http://img-nex.kongisking.net/kong/movies/121705-SNLJackBlack9.mov

And how tragically John Belushi is Jack Black?

Let Me Tell You Why I'm an Idiot...

Then again, when has the power of sight ever failed in painting the more resonant picture? Top of Rockefeller Center in New York City…the newly opened suicide dreamer’s Candyland.

http://homepage.mac.com/winburnsmith/PhotoAlbum10.html

Some things, I’ll never understand. Like heights, for example. Or Vertigo…and why the fuck I put myself through it.

My fingers need to touch foundation, no wandering.
Short, quick breaths…constant shivers.
Testicles retreat into my lower intestines.
People think I’m a 24-year-old crack baby.
I make unsettling, involuntary noises.
I close my eyes and dart through narrow passages with the bravado of John Bobbit moments before his second, “first” sexual encounter.
I laugh to myself…a calming of the nerves.
The alarm in my stomach calls for vomit…but nothing is locked or loaded.

Bitter, freezing wind. Every moment, I waited for it to blow hard enough to dust me off the landing, foster my date with destiny. That never happened.

There were three platforms...and stairs leading to those platforms. This means one could elect to see just one platform and head down…or elect to see all three.

In spite of the buckets of personal anguish I share…I elected to be an idiot. I elected to eliminate the potential regret of not making it to the top.

It’s that same trigger that likes to selectively fire. Tell me what to do? Go fuck yourself. Don’t eat arsenic, it’s bad for you? Yourself, go fuck. The same stubborn shit applies to my own instincts.

My heart beats 54 times every minute. For those 8 minutes I spent on top of the world… double that. And when I walked past an engineer speaking quietly with one of the security officers…

“Not super smooth. The main elevator just crapped out.”

Triple it.

My insides shook something fierce. When I finally made it back down, bet your cabinet of illegal prescription drugs that my hand ran across the marble on floor one. Trust me, it’s not cliché when you feel shit like that.

…

Of course the city was great. There was a distinct sweetness I was hoping to find. Spirits were high…crowds rampant. Everyone follows “The New Yorker’s Guide to Mastering the Holiday Dating Trifecta: The Scarf-Wrap, Arm Brace and Sidewalk Strut.” I passed dozens if not hundreds of couples with a smirk, freezing my naked face off…knowing they would have a place in my Blogville. Usually…the uniformity would tempt my desire to dish swift facial roundhouses. But in sincerity, I dug it. What else are the holidays about?

But wait…

Breed that, the reflection of another great and wandering trip to our country’s great city…confusion, wonder, exhaustion…and the ache of my desire to return home, to my city of angels…and I’ve earned allowance to drop something a little more profound…

What else is life about?

A Fresh Battle and Back to NYC...

I just finished a Mulholland Drive…drive.

As I returned and passed the Beverly Hills Hotel, my mix ran out. A mix that did its job…carrying me through the beautiful valley views.

But, I needed something to carry me home. Lucky for Winburn, Pat Benatar was kickin' it on XM. And I concur, love is most certainly a battlefield. What a fucking jam. Suddenly, dance is my craving.

I haven’t fully ruled out the possibility that I’m partially insane…or that I have serious, bubbling emotional problems. But we’ll get back to that. Perhaps another night. This one might run long.

I treated this week as if it were another one of my be all, end all’s. See, I had another pitch with a studio bigwig yesterday. I’ve been speaking a bit of rabble lately…flaked out on a handful of good souls. Now, you know why.

So I talked with my little chickadee late on Thursday. She had spots to fill. Spots with my name attached, perhaps?

Let me first tell you that landing this gig would be striking oil, gold…golden oil. Whatever. Orgasm. There’s little more I could ask for. I thought I was shooting for a 1-year contract with a salary that tips in around a grand a week. I thought wrong. Apparently, I’ve been shooting much higher. Or, at least…so I was informed. Like, 140% higher. So, they ain’t fuckin' around.

I like to think of myself as a creative individual…with a very active, dancing mind. When she called and asked me to pitch again, no sweat. I know my stuff, I trust my stuff. But, well…let me explain.

You see, the first time around, I went into the pitch with “my stuff” and bombed. Not because “my stuff” is bomb material. It’s that “my stuff” wasn’t going to become “their stuff” any time in the near future. Creatively, we were miles apart.

So she told me to study “their stuff” and fire away. “The sooner, the better.” I spent this past weekend watching movies I would have never otherwise taken the time to see. Very broad appeal, comedic, family-friendly fare. I thought I was in for a shit flavored treat, but when Vin Diesel starts referring to the infant as “Red Baby” in The Pacifier…I mean, come on. Good stuff. I watched a lot of movies this weekend. More than usual.

And I came up with about 30 ideas. From those, I cut it down to 2, set up my meeting and came out swinging. The others were a little too…not for them.

That means roughly 93% of my ideas aren’t even allowed to set foot on this studio’s playground. Trust me, this thing isn’t as easy as it sounds.

I prepare for a pitch about the same way I prepared to pitch back in my days of tossing baseballs. Funny, huh? It’s the same principle as going on stage, as giving a speech, as performing 30 Jacks deep while your friends are filming in the closet...

Okay, that last one, I didn’t even give myself a chance.

But, there’s something really personal about giving a pitch. You’re so vulnerable. The only protection I had was the rationalization that these weren’t my babies, they were my whore children. Derived to impress a studio that has found extraordinary success by following a specific formula. They know what they’re doing, and do it well. I want in.

If the job were mine, you would have been informed in my opening sentence. Following that, my closing sentence would have informed you of my intentions to go on a 122-hour drunkard of celebration. I’m here. I’m sober. I didn’t get the job.

I started right into the first pitch. My greatest challenge in talking creative is staying focused and not diving into, “what the fuck did you just say?” territory. When you’re accomplished, dive all you want. When you’re a young pup, you’ve got to be short and sweet…cut and dry. It’s all part of the pecking order. Right now, executives own me. In 10 years, I’ll own them. But right now…the only time that matters…I have heaps to learn. It’s really fucking tough telling a 2-hour story in a succinct 3 minutes. There’s so much I want to say. So much brilliance I want to demonstrate. It’s the curse of being blessed as a gifted writer.

New readers, take that last bit with a sip of sarcasm.

But if you want to debate the “blessed” remark, you’d better hurry. It wont be much of a debate for long.

That was 100% sincere.

So my first idea…and let me state upfront that the lack of originality pains me. It was Freaky Friday meets The Breakfast Club. I divulge because I doubt it will ever make it to paper. “The Hot Chick” made 35 million in the box office. Come the fuck on. This would make a killing. Especially with my scorching words as its backbone. Yes, scorching.

“The elements are strong…and there’s no way for you to have known this, but the studio is moving away from “high school” movies.”

She’s like a queen who reins with an iron fist over my only insecurity. Plus, I think one fifth of me is in love with her. I don’t know if that hurts or helps the situation.

Next!

Okay, whatever. She passed on my gimmick idea. I wasn’t completely heartbroken. The first pitch was more of an icebreaker than anything. And I needed it. In all honesty, half way through, I hit this terrible snag where I crossed my fingers and prayed for coherence. Pitching is the scariest and most exciting thing in my life.

My second pitch…Elf meets Big Fish. Try spinning that web in a tight 3 minutes. I did…try, that is. Mine took 7. Still, it managed to stand. Why? Because it would be a Christmas classic…hilarious and heartfelt. But what can I say, you have to hire me and find out. I can’t speak my sweet subtlety to you. All I need is some paper, a pen and just a little bit of time. Roll the dice on me. See what it feels like to scream, “Yahtzee, motherfucker!”

She gave me some feedback. The kind of feedback where I try to be brief and not overstay my welcome. At the end of it all, I had to ask…where does this leave us?

I expected her to show appreciation for my time…upon which time, I would thank her for her valuable time. We would endure a clean break and part ways with cheerful holiday wishes. Then, I would run into her at a party 5 years from now with a, “Told you I had skillz. You should have hired me. You could have been the shout out in all my acceptance speeches.” Instead…

“We’ll just keep going back and fourth. Call me with a slam-dunk. January, we’ll go again.”

I had three crammed days and came up with a foul tip. Now, I have 30. Might as well go out and celebrate. Close a door and I’ll kick it open. Leave it open, and it’s over. Baby, come January…I’m taking that job.

Mind you, coming up with a slam-dunk in this town is like pissing into the bullseye of a water gun game at your hometown summer carnival…from 30 feet out.

Since my stream is strong, steady…I say no worries.

The funny thing about life is that you can choose to take every situation in one of two directions.

I’m choosing to take this as someone trying to lasso a wild talent. She hears my thousand mile per hour sputter and sees a project. Give him a month to sand himself out…to sand over those rough edges and that boy could be smooth.

…

So I’m heading back to New York this Saturday…staying till Tuesday. Need to fill in the last few blanks for the script. Okay, very large blanks. I used to have a deadline. Mid-January. No thanks. I’ll get there when I get there. Especially with the “new development.” I’d be a fool if I took it lightly.

My little scripting vacation is all but over. Come January, time to pimp the charm and land some sweet new means of an LA paycheck.

But things are going. If anything, I’ll always have that. And I’ve written about this quite a bit, but how fucking romantic can it get? These will be the times we all look back and smile. Having no real idea of who we are or where we’re going…fighting to keep that head above water.

We remember feelings. The times we fought, the times we fell, the times we laughed, loved, cried.

And when they’re swirling, which they are…

What a gift.

Blanket Blue Ball, you and me both...

I’m trying to think of the last time I shed a tear over something in REAL life. Either way you look at it…troubling.

I just watched a great movie. In America. Really good. Though, talk about botched marketing. It’s some asshole’s fault it took me this long to give it a good look. Anyway, take a guess at what inspired the initial link in my chain of thought?

I’ve been in all weekend. Flaked 2 parties cause I’m buried in headwork. Buried. Of course, this headwork is real work…that will hopefully lead to real work. Got me???

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not always super direct. Ask my ex’s.

They’ve been fixing my apartment complex for 3 months. No, not my ex’s. The Bandaras family of handy men. When they finally leave, I’ll take my stab at figuring out what the fuck they did.

They DO leave El Pollo Loco all over my courtyard. I will CERTAINLY give them that.

I’m fucking salty!

On Saturday, they re-paved the steps leading up to my apartment. Any NORMAL human being would have been confined.

Not this nimble minx…

Hold on…Fuck me, that little slide hits me every time. #6 on August and Everything After. For cliff noters, pick it up at 2:35. Every time and I don’t know why. That whole album is orgasm.

But anyway…

Upon lurching my way across railing in nimble feats of strength and grace, I tore a hole in the ass of my #1 pair of pants. The kind of hole that lures in a sweet whisper to viewing audiences…

Watch closely…magic waits behind but one curtain. That is…if I’m even wearing a buffer…which is rare these days.

I just killed my candle. The wax reservoir escaped. Fucking idiot.

My face is heavy. This is what it feels like to throw your head in a frying pan…on high for 3 days…with a splash of De Cecco.

Crossies. Juices will fly before this chap leaves for NYC. Daddy is about to throw me into the lake…see if I sink or swim.

Let’s get it over with, fuckbags. I’ve got one hell of a crawl stroke.

Bloodlust and a Fresh Mix...

I want to kill Subway Jared.

Allow me to say that one more time. I want to kill Subway Jared.

He seems nice. A dedicated, strapping young man who lost 325 pounds by eating nothing but Subway subs. Cool for you, Jared.

You’re still gonna die.

Let’s take it back to the roots. Get underneath this twisty little thing called murderous rage…

I want to stuff him in a parachute sack and tie him to the back of my car…take a trip to familiar Baja back roads. After bleeding and tenderizing his body for 32 miles, I would promptly feed him to the nearest pack of coyotes and sexed up wild dogs.

I want to road trip with Jared to Northern Cali, cherishing every one of the 360, “you’re a failure” minutes it would take to reach our destination. Upon arrival, I’d put rocks in his socks, smash him across the back of his head with my Louisville Slugger and toss him into Lake Tahoe.

And this may be getting out of line, but…

I watch Jared’s spasmatically reserved annunciation and get a hard on thinking about hacking his jaw off with a crowbar. Is that wrong? Disturbed? Upon completion of the initial task, I would pound HIS face in with HIS removed jaw. I assure you, no one has ever beaten the hell from someone with their own jaw. A leg, maybe…but come on. And that’s the kind of guy I am. Trailblazer. Pioneer.

Don’t get me wrong. Back in the day, it was an admirable feat. It was like, hey…that fat fuck Jared lost 325 pounds on the Subway diet. Sweet. Good for Jared. Those days are no longer. Go hide in a cave…somewhere in the Appalachians for the rest of your life.

It’s not too much to ask. And yes, I am asking.

I bet he lives in Los Angeles. I bet he has an agent. I bet he actually goes to auditions. I bet if I remove the Illinois plates from my car, I can hit and run that fucker with a passion that only the truly gifted poets could sing.

Look, I’m not here to fill you with the same murderous intent that flows through my veins. It’s just that…if you see him, could you please kill him?

Enough Jared.

…


Want to feel my early morning California on this November 30th?

Why, of course…

1. Interstate Love Song – Stone Temple Pilots
2. Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo’ole
3. It Beats 4 U - My Morning Jacket
4. Where is My Mind? – Pixies
5. Another Day - Rent (Movie Soundtrack)
6. Perfect Situation - Weezer
7. Forget Her – Jeff Buckley
8. Gideon - My Morning Jacket
9. Knock Yourself Out - Jon Brion
10. Glamorous Indie Rock and Roll - The Killers

Sweet Home Chicago...

I'm a complete sucker for the holidays...so what choice do I have but to head back to the icy tundra? None.

A little town tucked against Lake Michigan just North of Chicago. Lake Forest, Illinois.

I watched the first 30 minutes of Derailed on...actually it was yesterday. Come to find out, it's the new home of Jennifer Aniston's irrelevant shout out. "Living in Lake Forest...in the kind of house I've always dreamed of having." Is that what my sweet little home has become? Context?

Oh, who am I kidding? I was proud. That's my stomps.

I heard it's 19 degrees in Chicago right now. It'll be the coldest Thanksgiving in recent history. Rumors of flurries...how nice?

I tell this to friends in LA, and they think they're sifting through sarcasm before finishing with a laugh. No, I'm fucking serious. It's beautiful. More than I could ever ask for. Because in the heart, it's all I know...and all I ever want to know.

Travel safe...eat, drink and be merry. Watch holiday movies and sit by a fire. Laugh your way into an ulcer with siblings...give love to parents...pick fights with old friends. Sit on top of the one good hill in town and watch the moon echo itself against black as the waves rumble. Watch your breath.

Trudge your way through the heaps of nostalgic shit you know you'll encounter...and come out sparkling on the other side.

At least that's what I plan to do.

Cheers to yours being just as sweet.

Mulholland Drive and the Sweetness That Follows...

LA is congested as fuck.

When I was 16, I used to go out for no reason. I’d drive along the streets, the coastline of my hometown. It’s laughable compared to the coastlines out here, but it was home. Home. That word still holds so much.

I get bottled up in the head and heart…and learned early on that it helped to get out and drive through some black, alone.

Hold that thought, memory intermission…

Remember that kid from the neighborhood? You know, the one NOBODY liked. Since severing him from the group would cause an uprising in the neighborhood contingent of mothers, a revolutionary role was born into late 80’s hoods.

The Guinea Pig. Ours held Coke in his mouth while we dumped Pop Rocks.

You know, to see if his head exploded. What?

There was always a kid with glasses who swore to God it wasn’t a myth. Everyone knows…you swear to God, and it’s case closed. So when Guinea Pig lived, we all pretended he was the coolest. But who really meant it? Sure as fuck wasn’t me.

Kids are cruel…

…

In college, I’d take off and drive the back farm roads of Central Illinois until road ran out. Often, I’d snap out and realize I was 60 miles off campus. It was great.

Then I moved to Los Angeles. The roads here are different. Shocker.

Despite all the shit I talk, this really is a gorgeous city. I don’t know how to explain it. Insert a profoundly resonant description that works for you. Then, I wont have to worry about whether or not you follow.

Fine, I’ll do it. Fucking brats.

Something along the lines of…romantic mysticism. That’s it! LA has got this romantic mysticism that’s difficult to convey, easy to talk shit about and impossible to turn your back on.

Let me tell you about my new route. I drive west on Sunset into Beverly Hills. This is always around midnight on weekdays. Usually once a week. Cars are sparse, thoughts rampant.

I head North on Coldwater Canyon and begin the slow climb. About 10 minutes later, there’s a famous little 2 way known as Mulholland Drive. Yes, it was also a movie. If you drive it, you could understand why it could be anything it ever wanted to be. It’s the top of the world. The peak between the two true valleys of Los Angeles. San Fernando and, well…whatever the one I live in is called. The Bev Hills, West Hollywood, Hollywood side. I should know.

But the lights of the two sides, from this high up...should I say mesmerizing? Hypnotic? Some day…come see.

When I first got here, I panicked. I wondered where I’d get lost. Sure as hell wasn’t gonna be at Blow parties and during blackouts. Ain’t my style. Anytime someone gets worked up when they get drunk or drugged, I feel like their asshole rubs off on me. Honestly.

I’m not in the mood to afford shit like that in this short life.

So…I can’t tell you which route goes down as the best in history. After all, many others will come. They all served different purposes...pulled me through different battles. I’m just glad I’ve got one I can trust…one I can rely on. You have no idea the importance.

…

I took a drive Monday night. It’s my good stuff. My really, really good stuff. It’s been a while since I’ve had it.

The head swing I go through in this process is at times, damaging. I know this. I knew it coming in. I’ll know it going out.

In case this is your first visit, I’ll bring you up to speed. I moved out here to write movies. Without dishing cliché-ridden splurge, it’s what I love…period. So it doesn’t bug me that 97% of this city is currently “working on a screenplay.” Though, that figure may be a bit ballooned. I’m aiming to conquer one of the most daunting industries in the world.

What’s your fucking point?

I’ll be fine. You know those people who show up in commercials telling the youth of America to follow their dreams? That if they work hard and dedicate themselves…anything can and will come true?

Gotcha! What about Nelson…the color-blind, lisp-stuttering Puerto Colombian growing up in Flint, Michigan?

Last time I heard, he wanted to be an astronaut.

Last time I checked, his book report was on Curious George…in the 11th Grade.

For Nelson, it’s not gonna happen. The difference between Nelson and me is that I am one of those people. What can I say? I grew into a stone browed, relentless, restless, fuck everybody in a whisper and woo them with a smile son of a bitch.

Plus, I know I spit shit that’s aching to get out…now.

Let me let you in on a little secret…This was my mindset for the past 6 weeks writing this hope to one day be a movie. It went a little something like this…

Refuse distributing, pussy, worthless, clever-limp, thoughtless, heartless piece of nothing. You put all your eggs into this basket? Where are you going with anything? I need to drink more. What are you doing with your life? 24 and you’re wasting it away. Save Bangled Tigers. Eat Bangled tigers. Engage in battle with Bangled Tigers. You just spent a month on 90 pages that would barely qualify to serve as a beat rag…90 times over. And then sixty more that…you’re a talent hack, cocksucker. Bullshitter. Move to Lebanon. Did she just pull the earring trick on me? Move to Swahili. Fuck her, I’m throwing these out. Open a snack shop outside the San Diego Zoo.

Needless to say, something else prevailed. Something along the lines of a cooler mind. It’s beginning to click. If you read one of my posts from the vicinity of 6 weeks ago, it’s likely that I was preparing myself for this exact thing. This week, it finally hit me. It’s going to be good.

And I know exactly what the fuck I’m doing. And that’s how it works. The struggle, sweethearts. Of course, in reality…I can only really give you my PG-13…else I’m worried you would worry about me. Soft, soft readers.

And it got me thinking…the things that were running through my mind before I started this project. Before I started reading the anvil on my face research. Before I went to New York. Before I started writing.

I got a phone call one day from a little production company. Actually, really big. Not only really big, but they’ve done some amazing stuff. You know what, fuck anonymity. It was Drew Barrymore’s company. And what got me going is that they produced a little flick called Donnie Darko. One thing led to another…to another. Yada, yada, yada…my phone rings, it’s their head of development.

Looking back, I have no idea why she called. I would never, ever call someone like me. But, I can tell you exactly WHY I got that call. The shit that comes out of my mouth…the shit I give these people in letters and on the phone has to spin their heads. And at the end of the day, they might brand me a fool…but they know I throw my stones on the table. That or they put me on the Hollywood blacklist.

I think back…and this line STILL makes me laugh. I told her that when the script was all said and done, actors will fight for these roles…and there will be 6 of them. Mind you, at the time, I was unproduced, unrepresented and uncredited. I told her I didn’t want to take it anywhere else because I only wanted to work with their company. Oh, and I was 23 years old. Wait. I almost forgot the kicker. Since I was still finishing my last script, I was asking her if I could PITCH the idea. As in…she would buy it from me BEFORE I WROTE A FUCKING WORD. I hadn’t even thought of actually starting to write it.

Wait, what was I saying? I take it back. I would most certainly call a fucker like me. If only to check sincerity…and sanity. I was VERY sincere. Maybe even partially sane.

I love myself.

…

But here’s the thing. As crazy as that sounds looking back, I can’t really say that I was a fool. Now, I have a long, long way to go before this script is done…before I send it out. Since that conversation, I’ve learned so much shit…you could fill the Nina, Pinta and half the Santa Maria with it. I know the do’s. I know the don’t…’s

And as green as I was then, what can I say? I have the same feeling that when it’s all said and done, maybe…just maybe…look the fuck out.

Initially, I gave myself till around January 15th to finish. That sounds about right. Though, the last thing I’ll ever do is rush. From here, it’s all downhill. Though, it never really is. I have two months. Two months that will also take me to Chicago to LA to New York to LA to Chicago to LA.

And after January 15th?

Might as well be another foolish adventure…chasing the little things born of closed eyes.

Still in Need of KY...

My apartment is under construction…

They’re pulling down the walls, re plastering the stairs, stripping and re-painting. Even when I worked, I still worked at home during the day, so the half dozen or so trabajadores and I have become quite close. They’re usually my alarm in the morning and during the day. Our relationships consist of my running through the courtyard, hands over my head, trying to shield myself from falling debris. They laugh. Of course, in Spanish, they laugh Ja, Ja, Ja, Ja. Everyone knows this.

But it’s still a pretty big mess. When they leave, they do their best to clean up, but there’s always something waiting behind. Like, for instance…rusted nails…all over the place.

And it got me wondering…why I do the things I do. Because there’s no fun in stepping on a rusted nail…or staple…or piece of plaster…or glass…or aluminum barbed wiring. No fun at all. And yet, when I do my laundry…or run to get the mail, I certainly pause to look back at my pile of shoes at the front door. Pumas, Nikes, Diesels, New Balance, Rainbows, Jonnie V’s, Kenny C’s. There’s usually a pair of socks nearby and a set of slippers that date back at least 4 December twenty-fives. So, let’s just say I have my options. Nevertheless, I walk outside my front door, daily…in bare feet. I wish I could tell you I step soft…that I watch carefully where I am going. But then, well…then I’d just be lying. And Santa ain’t making stops at little boys’ houses that tell lies this close to Christmas.

Yes, I still believe in Santa Claus. I’m 24.

I’m not a poorly educated man. I am well aware the dangers of Tetanus. I’ve heard fables of the drooling romanticism in a good case of Lockjaw. I know of the swirling atrocities to my well being that wait outside my courtyard. They see bare feet and get aroused in a way that only rusted nails can. If you’re a rusted nail, there is no greater reward in life than giving someone Tetanus. Everyone knows this as well.

Last night was something. Really, really something. I’m beginning to worry, slightly…about the social choices I tend to make. Last night, I opted to stay in, pen some magic. That’s always the aim going into a session, but it doesn’t always happen. Actually, it rarely happens. But it fucking happened last night. The kind of night where if I trusted you and told you everything, I would blush. I would feel vulnerable.

But anyway…back to my worries.

This town has a wild nightlife, and I had somewhat grown to miss it after spending my last 5 months at The Argyle. The last crazy night I spent out, my friend was “dating Lindsay Lohan.” To anyone who reads tabloid magazines, understand that I put heavy quotes around that for a reason. If you’re ever in a major city, struggling to get into a club…struggling to get a drink…struggling to get a table, try dropping that line. I’m dating Lindsay Lohan. Of course, it helps to have photos and headlines to back you up.
In La La land, drop a line like that and you get magically whisked away. But that’s what makes Los Angeles what it is. And let’s make one thing very clear…that’s not something you stake your pride on. It is what it is.

But I stayed in, opting not to re-live round two of such an adventure. That’s another thing about LA. You get over things real quick. At least this Thundercat seems to.

Motherfuck! I’m not feelin' it.

The problem is…I’m completely content. I’m not pissed off, not wound up, not want to serve roundhouse dick kicks to the unsuspecting public. Do I use that a lot…dick kicks? It just rolls off the tongue.

Hold on I have to run out. Cocktails…

Alright. Three hours later and 10 Jacks deeper, I’m feeling a little bit different. And don’t expect me to rant now. I don’t do that. I’m inspired enough without needing assistance from an outside source.

But I set out to write to something tonight…and have somewhat lost my way. Well, not really. It’s just that I wasn’t planning on a bar hopping-cocktail Sunday.

But do you ever get the feeling…at some point when life feels as if it has hit this stalemate…that something is going to happen. And it’s either going to be great or terrible. I’ve got that right now…and I’ve gotten that before. And what scares me is that it always comes true.

I’m not trying to spice up a post…that’s just what I’m feeling.

When one happens, don’t say I didn’t tell you so…

L.A. Rain and Anonomous Members of the Heavenly Host...

I don’t remember ever writing one of these while there was still daylight, so we’ll just have to wait and see how it goes.

Sorry I’ve neglected you…my readership of eight and a half. I’ve been away for a while. Been through a lot. Like a slave finally crossing into Yankee soil after an endless stretch on the Underground Railroad. Free at last, free at last…oh God almighty…free at last.

If you think that’s a terribly insensitive analogy…what a waste of energy.

It’s raining in LA. I just came back from spin class. Our teacher said she could feel the heaviness in the room. The depression. Live in So-Cal long enough, and you get used to such banter. Everything turns into a meditation.

Heaviness? Is that even a word? I know it is, but it certainly shouldn’t be. Especially because the words uttered from her mouth…the negative connotation that blew in with the rain was anything but. I wake up and hear the pattering on my air conditioner and smile. I feel the drops break against my face and soak them up. I sit here, speaking to you…surrounded by this bleak day and own nothing but my own content.

It’s a combination of a number of things. Floating things. The prospect of success…love…life unbound. The need to be overthrown by all. Only freedom liberates such feeling. So what’s next? I don’t know. Any number of good or terrible things.

But for you, I’m dry. And no abbreviation for the state of Kentucky is going to change that. Dry because I’m spending my currency elsewhere. That little project I talked shit about for so long. The one I claimed would launch me out of anonymity. Let’s break down my post Tower Bar life schedule…Monday thru Friday…on average…per 24 hours.

7 hours – Bizarre Dreams
2 hours – Internet tangents
1.5 hours – Shaping my girlish figure at the neighborhood Equinox
2 hours – Grove or Netflix
1.5 hours – 3 semi square, shower, ducking phone calls, masturbation, the occasional returned call
10 hours – Me and my computer. Me and my thoughts. Me and the same music playing over and over in the background. Snapping out of a trance every 54 minutes or after a scene, wondering who the hell I am…where the hell I was.

Where does that leave you, me…us? I’m just really focused on my career right now, and I don’t think it would be fair to try this. You don’t deserve anything less than an honest shot. I mean, come on…look at you. You’re amazing. In every way a guy could ever hope. And I hate to use this because it’s such a cliché…but it’s not you…it’s me. There are just parts of me that…haven’t healed. Parts of me that may never heal…and that’s not fair. So for now…I think it would be best if we just…you know.

Sucker.

I’m not breaking up. Isn’t it funny though…how we all use the same lines. Like there’s some instinctual rule governing the exact procedure in hurting someone. I guess funny depends on which side you’re on.

I’ve just got to get back into the swing of you and me. It’s been too long. Hopefully, you’ve noticed.

I’ll leave you with something…not because it’s exemplary…but because where else do you start but page 1???

**********

INT. NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
An old and LONELY MAN, 64, sits at an empty booth, finishing Moby Dick. He’s wearing an old white suit over a yellow shirt. There’s a faint coffee stain on his lapel. It’s possible he’s senile.

He closes the book and walks out.

EXT. NEW YORK CITY - BROADWAY & 34TH - DAY
Late Summer, the Lonely Man walks down Broadway.

Blaring engines roar. A wave of police cars speed North. Just as they pass, a wave of ambulances head South. The Lonely Man stops in the middle, watching as they both cut waves through the traffic.

EXT. WEST 4TH STREET COURTS - DAY
An intense pick up basketball game. A large crowd is gathered. The Lonely Man stands to watch, his face pressed against the chain link fence.

Top of the key, the star of the court surveys the lane. An amazing talent, talking it up as fast as his first step. Your mom, your wife, my kids.

He beats his man with a blinding step. Just as he goes into the air, the defender catches up, slamming him to the ground with a hard, cheap foul.

The teams, the stands...all erupt into a terrible brawl at half-court. The Lonely Man departs.

EXT. WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK - DAY
The Lonely Man paces through the park, slowing beside an outlandish PREACHER who stumbles gallantly through a speech.

Few listen. Most pass through without notice.

PREACHER
Steer clear the darkness of temptation. For I have seen the dawning of a poison horizon. We are strong and must now and forever remain unwavering against the destruction of eev-ill.

The Lonely Man continues on.

EXT. NEW YORK CITY - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY
The Lonely Man walks past the stock exchange.

He comes to a watching stop at a newspaper vendor, where a WOMAN with a Stroller waits in line. A twenty dollar bill falls from her purse and to the ground. A MAN waiting behind her tactfully slides his shoe over the bill. When she leaves, he picks up the bill and puts it into his pocket.

The Lonely Man looks on with a heartbreaking disappointment before his glare fixes to the cover of the New York Post: Is Our City Lost?

We draw close on his face as he’s carried into a trance.

FLASHBACK - SATURATED GRAY - SERIES OF RANDOM SCENES
Conveinance store robbery and gunfire...

A crooked landlord burning down a low income highrise...

Crowds of people. No one speaks. No one Smiles. No one stops to help. This is New York City. This is our world. This is Now...

**********

It needs a bit of smoothing, which will come in time. And speaking of been done before…eventually, that Preacher has got to go. It’s tough to be sexy the second time through. I want to put the open up now to show you what it will look like in 50 days…when it’s finished.

And it’s not quite as sincere as I let on.

Guess the Lonely Man and win a prize…really. I’ll think of something.

Wound...

The majority of the time, I come in here with direction. I grab a theme and mow my way through the traffic.

Not tonight. I have no fucking clue. But I’m wound up like you wouldn’t believe.

It’s been a while. A long, long time. Too fucking long. I could make up an excuse. Coming back from a drug bender with a life altering epiphany? No. That would be stretching the truth. I love you all too much to mislead. Fuck!

And let me preface with a confession. If I drop an arsenal of F Bombs, it’s only because I lack the necessary blend of talent and dedication that would otherwise masquerade my state of mood…through ingenious wordsmithing…in an intelligent fashion. My somewhat sincere apologies.

And we’ll both pretend you didn’t just sludge your way through a marsh of brilliance.

Where should I begin? If you read these often, I wonder if I have repetitive themes…if I seem to come back to the same place over and over. I don’t re-read once I’m through. Okay, that’s a small stretch. I rarely recall what I put here from one day to the next. That much is true.

I did something bizarre tonight…looking back. Something I did a while ago. This little thing called 20th Mile. I put the trailer…meaning not the short in its entirety…up for sake of reference…

http://homepage.mac.com/winburnsmith/iMovieTheater9.html

It was my second short film. I haven’t seen it in…I don’t know, closing in on 2 years now. If you’ve seen me, read me…you might think what I’m about to spout is a hack. I have a very, very hard time watching myself. I made another short, Harmony Battle in January. And that trailer…

http://homepage.mac.com/winburnsmith/harmonybattle/iMovieTheater4.html

I sent it out to friends, family…whatever. The day I finished editing in January was the last time I saw it. Strange…someone with as much self love as I do having a tough time taking a peek. It’s true. I watched them both tonight. I was stirred up before…but like crazy now.

20th Mile did it.

And I’ll be very forward. I understand that in life, everything is sweeter looking back. Adventures painted immortal. Star-crossed, overthrowing love. Laughter that sheds tears…

Actually, fuck understanding. The grass isn’t always greener. It WAS greener. I had all that and more. And I still have that…it just needs to be found, not sought. Don’t spit because you feel like you have to.

Where was I? Right. 20th Mile. It was a snapshot of times where heart absolutely ruled. And watching it brought me back. I’ll never admit a “golden time” in my life. I don’t believe in it. Actually, it’s fucking wrong…maybe even sinful. Every day, every year…take it for what it’s worth.

But my guts were out that last semester…hit by shots on so many sides. I can’t even begin to explain. So many great…and equally horrible. It’s all inside this 30-minute quickie. And not just that last semester, but all four years. And by all four years, I mean my life.

That’s not saying I let all of this go, but right now, I wonder…where the fuck is it hiding out here? In Los Angeles?

Champaign, Illinois. This safe little thing in the middle of nowhere…cold, flat, dead. I can only recollect my life through feeling…and it was good.

…

I used to go to bed and lie there…two hours after I turned off the lights. My stomach running too hard to go to sleep. This heart pumping something more than blood. Thicker, stronger.

Awfully heart on the sleeve, is it? Do I sound like a flake spouting like that…to you?

Then get fucked. I mean that, sincerely. I’m off…beat…or something. I don’t ache for that need to be cute…or secretive…or subtle. You know, the kind of thing you can only speak when you’re drunk or high. Or like the moment before you are about to lose something that you were too fucking blind to see coming. Something you can’t live without?

You relate? How sad. And what a terrible trick…to lead you on a sinking ship, right before it hits that iceberg.

Shit like that doesn’t occur here. Waiting to speak? Not here, not ever.

Fuck Los Angeles…

Fuck the 405, the 10 and the 101.
Fuck the cancer in the air, the cancer waiting in my lungs.
Fuck the fake starlet whores.
Fuck LA smiles.
Fuck LA “souls.”
Fuck headshots.
Fuck meetings.
Fuck lunches.
Fuck promises.
Fuck fake tits.
Fuck those above me who forget they WERE me.
Fuck you. You never were.
Fuck the coke blowers.
Fuck the cross dressers.
Fuck the Hills.
Fuck the Valleys.
Fuck LAX.
Fuck 360 days of sun.
Fuck the 5 of rain.
Fuck this heartless city and the people in it.
Fuck self-absorbed.
Fuck everyone that has turned me down.
Fuck everyone that will hand me the reigns.

No. Fuck me. A 24 year old who thinks he knows everything…who thinks he has a key to it all and that anyone cares. A stranger, lost. Fucked, fucked, fucked.

Fuck me. This last year…for smiling, laughing, humoring when I didn’t mean it. For tiptoeing…playing it safe. For leaning towards the safety of apologetic. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

No sleeping tonight. This…shit. This good, fucking shit. Where have I been? Too sweet, too kind...too safe? Where the fuck has it been? Where the fuck have I been?

What do you do when all of a sudden, something hits you and you want to throw a fist through a brick wall. Who do you tell? Who do you talk to? This shit…this shit you’re reading. It’s foolish, it’s irresponsible. It’s sometimes telling too much. Giving too much.

So where are we going today boys and girls? I think it’s coming, no need to write an opus tonight.

I watched that little fucking short. You know what I did when I finished…originally? I sent it out. I showed it around with a stamp. This is me. This is my love. This is everything I can wrap my heart around at this moment in my life. No apologies. Never an apology.

I’m not sure at what point it surfaced out here, but I’ve been afraid. Afraid that every meeting will be my last. That every pitch will be mocked. That my words will be picked apart and chewed up. In short, that everything I aim to do will be a complete misfire. I suppose it’s natural. It’s a dangerous business, putting yourself out there. Some of the offices I was in, and that quick were…intimidating. Or, could be considered as such. I guess I can justify how even a strong state of mind could waver. How even my mind…the mind I tote and strut about these pages can at moments become weak.

And again, fuck me for that. No excuses. I don’t mean to be angry. I don’t mean to be anything other than what I am…and all of a sudden, guilt. Fucking guilt like I did something wrong.

And maybe I am guilty. Guilty of doubting my invincibility. It doesn’t happen often, but still…

Still.

Here we come, full circle. Why the ill-temper? I can’t stand growing up…to learn something every day that I pray I could have known the day before. The world’s greatest tragedy occurs the moment you’re content with yourself, your knowledge, your trip…tragic because it only occurs the moment you die. We hit our stride as our last breath escapes. The last drop of understanding. I want it all…I want it now and forever. Fuck me, but it hurts.

And I think for a little while there, I was in danger of growing out of “this phase.” I was in danger of going into a trance that lasts forever…with no one to snap me out of it.

One of these days, I’ll never say another word. But not today...and no time soon. There’s just too much.

Lend Me Your Ears and I'll Sing You A Song...

Fred Savage came into the restaurant tonight. Ah, Wonder Years. Remember? I do. Want to know what else I remember…exactly?

Third grade. I don’t know why all of my childhood references seem to trace back to that same year, but they do. Must have been one of the criticals. When Freddie walked in, I could think only of square dancing.

Yes, SD. The forecast is doubtful that SD infused curriculums span elementary schools across the country, but for two weeks, every third grader that passes the realm of Sheridan School in Lake Forest, Illinois learns the ins and outs. And wouldn’t you know…a memorable episode of Wonder Years aired the night before we were going to start. Allow me to lend precious insight to that fateful day.

Getting your partner is everything. Everything. How do I put this…delicately? In third grade, square dancing is sex. Sex is square dancing. Hot, relentless, glorious. The rare, knock me back sort that comes along once every…let’s not delve.

The touch, the spin, the dose-e-doe. Oh, blow me spell check. Nobody knows dose-e-doe.

I landed my girl. As far as I was concerned in my “Wonder Years,” she was THE GIRL. Allison Martinet. No fictitious names here boys and girls. Possibly mis-spelled, but not fictitious. I was sweet on her. I think she was sweet on me. Cheers Miss Norman. That day, you made my life. Anyone else and I’d likely be mining indistinctive ore in southern Wyoming.

I think we were good. Who remembers anyway? Or more important…who the fuck cares?

But I do remember the doors that opened after our fateful pairing. I remember when second base was kissing with a bit more than lips. Bizarre…but I do remember…the back hallway at Hawthorn theater. I wonder what Allison is up to.

And I wonder if my readers are connected enough where Allison lends a response. Was it Hawthorn Theater? 4th Grade? Or am I way off? I’m pretty sure we haven’t spoken in years.

We’ll see….

All because Fred Savage came in tonight.

Sometimes…I wander.

Guess what’s gone to holy hell? Or am I getting redundant? I don’t remember how long ago it was that you could quote me as saying I had a good job. Nothing like working 28 nights in October to bleed the soul.

We caught our managers cooking the books. Last Monday, 450 dollars disappeared from the tip pool. Someone’s been taking our money. And by taking, I mean stealing. And by stealing…that ain’t cool.

So anyway, it’s time to go. I’m miserable, only working to build a cushion. And yes, I realize how badly that screams hypocrite. How does that not go against everything that I am…that I preach? Exactly.

We all could have walked tonight…and the notion was circulating. For whatever reason, it didn’t happen. It’s that guilt…that hesitation where no matter the certainty of deception, you give someone the benefit of the doubt. The terrible weakness of being kind. That little bitch of a pestering voice…

What if I’m wrong?

We called a meeting. My opening argument went along the lines of, “We have a serious problem with the tip pool. I’m an instinctual man and I trust my instincts. They tell me that we’re being deceived…that you’re backpedaling, making up stories…and we’re being lied to.”

If you’re the manager…or better yet, a world renowned Matre’D and one of your minions accuses you of lying…and stealing, what’s your response? Yes, I’m asking.

Here’s how it went…and how it goes if you are lying through your teeth:

- Where’s (insert our GM’s name)? Could you please find him? He handles tips.
- He said you handle tips. (Insert uncomfortable silence).

Enter our GM…who’s been hiding his head in the sand the last two days.

- So here’s the problem I think you’re talking about. Monday’s party. You see. There was a service charge of 20% because of the size of the party. You see. And they tipped on top of that. Okay. So…wait, what was I saying? Sorry. I had to just like climb up like three flights of stairs. Hold on. Let me catch my breath.

Shit you not…on with the show.

- So, you guys get the tip and the service charge (which is a...tip) goes to the house.

They knew we were coming and that’s all the sparkle we got. At least dance a dance. Coat that shit sugary sweet.

If these accusations were completely unfounded, and everyone could look down at clean hands, here’s how it should have gone:

-What did you just say? Are you serious? You’re questioning me? My dignity, my character? Who are you? Who the fuck are you? Get out of my restaurant. Your last check will be mailed with a, “Go fistfuck yourself and don’t ever come back.” I never, ever want to see you again.

Or maybe that was exactly what I was crossing fingers for…to stage some dramatic, have fun running it without us walk out. It didn’t happen. If they were to oust me, I could at least collect severance. The only problem is that my job security is limitless. I can call my bosses liars and cheats, go in the next day, and they’ll kiss my ass and cross their fingers that I don’t walk out…that none of us walk out. If you ever find yourself in a managerial situation such as previously mentioned…you don’t exactly own the high ground…in case that’s not blatantly obvious.

I’m pretty sure I mentioned the same cliché characteristics in my initial interview.
- Hard worker, dedicated, reliable, personable…

And didn’t mention that when the luster wears off, I become the most rabid fucking revolutionist against authority in all its forms. And more dangerous yet…my words inspire…and will lead to an overthrow in the ballpark of 98%.

Fuck with me and I will fuck you. That’s a terrible thing to say, is it not? I completely agree. But I can say such things. I have the right. Why? Because I can also say show me love and you will be my Queen. You will be my King. You will be whatever you ever wanted to be. Sometimes, I find it troubling how this pendulum of mine swings. More often than not, though…I end up giving thanks.

There’s tragedy behind this…and on so many levels. I can’t even get into it. For the past 5 months, I’ve lived my life with these people. And in some fucked up way, it’s going to be sad to leave. It’s just the way I am…like waving goodbye to a vacation spot you see once a year even though you’re dying to get back home. Obscure references, I know…but if you get it, you get it.

It’s just that…this isn’t how I want to go out. It’s not my style.

This place suffocates, robs away the foolish. The foolish that gets me by in a manner that…how do I explain? I’m just…such a dreamer. And I want more of it back.

I’m just…there are bits and pieces of life out there…things that make me so heavy I have to fill up, blow out and smile just to breathe. And I don’t recall ever finding one at the Argyle Hotel.

Bits and pieces like the one riding #15 in spin. Bits and pieces like what’s starting to flow on my sheets the second time through. Bits and pieces that will rain from the sky as I wonder through the years that come.

What a cheat, to tie it back with a line like that.

Believe me…I know.

Fall Mix...

For me, it’s like this. You hear a great song…one you crave to hear over and over, and it turns into your soundtrack. It becomes part of your life, always riding shotgun until another takes its place. Sound like a Time-Life infomercial???

Go fuck yourself.

Anyway…years down the road, when an old song comes out of nowhere…it hits you with something. Some kind of happiness. Some kind of hurt. It reminds you of someone that was in your life. Something you were battling…whatever. But it’s one hell of a connection.

So…for both you and me, I am going to bookmark NOW with the songs of my life. Slap a label on top. Late Fall, 2006. Five, ten, twenty years down the road…when I hear these songs, I will remember THIS exact time in my life. All that I am…all that I was…all that I wanted to be.

No explanation necessary, but the order was carefully selected. I Tunes has got em all…I believe. Not too few, not too many. Just right.

May every song I ever list remind me of how foolish I was…for always and ever.

1. All These Things I’ve Done – The Killers
2. Fix You – Coldplay
3. Come Pick Me Up – Ryan Adams
4. Heysatan – Sigur Ros
5. My Father’s Gun – Elton John
6. Jesus Walks – Kanye West
7. Io (This Time Around) – Helen Stellar
8. Hide and Seek – Imogen Heap
9. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over – Jeff Buckley


How bout you? The silent congregation. What am I, your lit whore? You come for a quickie that ALWAYS ends up all over my face…then you throw a 20 on the tussled sheets before slamming the door on your way out. Where’s the respect? Give me a song. I don’t even care if you say Mariah Carey. Yes, I hate that bitch…but that first single…guilty.

Elizabethtown and my next thing...

It was great. Cameron Crowe never misses his mark. Vanilla Sky still sits on top of my list. He’s got heart and slaps it out there. It’s the one fault I keep hearing…reading over and over in the reviews. Why? There’s vulnerability when you go for the emotional throat. It’s a roll of the dice. If you hit it right, you create something memorable, something that doesn’t come and go on its “numbers.”

People wonder what’s wrong with the movie “industry.” I’ll tell you. Fantastic Four opened to 60 million. Liz Town pulled 11 million. I understand my bias…that I would likely stand up for anything Crowe did…but Fantastic Four was shit in a plastic bag with a yellow ribbon. And that’s being generous.

Wanna know the result? Fantastic Four becomes a franchise. The sequel comes summer 2007. The third installment one year later. The next time Cameron Crowe wants to make a film, his climbing hill gets steeper. Troubling indeed.

But every now and again, a film comes along that shifts perspective. For instance, Crash. Here’s a small film…an original voice. Initially, it opens on a few screens, slowly picks up steam and becomes this huge hit. Critically and commercially. Great! Right? I should be happy. Movies like Crash broaden the perspective, right? It proves there may yet be hope for the masses…

But I hated that fucking movie.

So that solves zero. Fuck. Okay. The blanket problem is Orlando Bloom. It’s not that I dislike him…he’s just not the guy I’d want at the plate in the bottom of the 9th with the winning run on second base. Maybe in a few years, maybe. He’s good at slapping doubles down the line. I’ll give that much. But when it comes to taking it out of the park, it’s always a fly ball to the warning track. He’s not yet the star this town makes him out to be.

Kirsten Dunst is. And it has nothing to do with my sexual orientation.

Tonight, at Whole Foods, I fell in love for 7 seconds. I didn’t see her face or figure, just that she was wearing a red hat. That’s all it took. Why? Go see the movie and you’ll quickly wonder or understand…but at least you’ll have a point of reference.

She was sparkling. Ms. Dunst, that is.

Anyway, that’s enough about Liz Town. Onward to the so-called “sweet life.” I was at the gym right around the time I decided a change of direction was necessary. New job, new apt…all that good stuff. I’ll tell you about my gym.

Equinox, West Hollywood. It’s nice. Beautiful, successful people. Upper/middle echelon LA. I sneak in through the back door, but only in terms of success…of course. Some of the people are even quite decent. Not that I’m judgmental…

It’s also pretty gay. A straight man may even fall into the minority. If you’re from another part of the country, particularly outside of a major city, that may be hard to believe…but it’s true.

One day, I was doing curls. I don’t know if it’s my baby face, or some kind of friendly pheromone I give off, but I’m approached quite often. And yes…by men who want to be more than friends.

“You know, when you’re doing curls, let your hand fall and your wrist drag. My trainer told me years ago and it makes all the difference.”

He went on about my blessed genetics. Sometimes, I forget my height. At least I think that’s what he was talking about. We spoke small before I dropped one of my trademark exit lines. I thought it might have been a little presuming of me to come out and say I appreciate the interest, but that I’m really not interested in…dick. At least not anyone else’s.

So a week and a half passes. Something like that. My time frame is a little foggy, but I do know that I met him before I decided to shake my life up. I’m giving my month’s notice from the Tower Bar this week and have been looking for apartments. Rent in LA is very expensive. I wanted to find a place in the hills, a guest apartment. Something of an escape from the mainland down below. But realistically, that’s not realistic.

So anyway, I had been looking on Craigslist. Something I vowed against since my early Hollywood days of freelance gigging. There was a posting -- live-in assistant -- Sunset Plaza.

I live behind Sunset Plaza. It’s the area that has grown into my LA nest. I have no interest in leaving any time soon. So, I replied. Photo, quick bio…figured I’d wait and see. If you have ever been on Craigslist, you know it’s a zoo.

I’ve also made posts from my days with the Lingerie Bowl. You have no idea how many people reply. To a post like this, I’d stab in the ballpark of 500.

An e-mail came the next morning. It went something like. “Holy shit, you’re that kid from the gym. I was telling you about the wrist trick.” This was Wednesday.

Yesterday, I was up at his house…pitching. I told him about my new project, the one I’m writing. Personally, I feel like it’s a curse to give out anything more than not much while you’re in the process...so I didn’t. More than anything, it was a meet and greet. Feel each other out. In this town, when you pitch…you’re pitching 40% what you’re working on. The other 60% is about you. Behavior, mannerisms, vibe. Since I’m comfortable with who I am and the impressions I leave behind, it’s comforting to think I already have 60% in the bag. But then again, what do I know?

Plenty.

Oh, and I forgot. He’s married, has 2 kids and 2 gorgeous Huskies. I didn’t know real dogs existed in this town. It’s all these little fucking rodents. Dogs I would just as soon punt as pat.

We shot ideas, talked about the state of movies. He had some well-connected ideas that I thought were solid…exciting projects that are about to get off the ground. But right away, I could tell he had been broken. One of his initial confessions was that after all his time in this town, he has learned to focus on what sells. He gets his hard-on talking about the ultimate example in high concept/cash out pitches. Liar, Liar. A lawyer can’t tell a lie. My hard-on comes from writing stories that I think would stand out from the heap of high concept cash ins. The kind that I want to see. The kind that I want to write about. It sounds like we would be miles apart and would have a hard time working together. I don’t think so.

He’s seasoned, I’m green. I think the key to my success will fall somewhere in the middle. Closer to my side than his, but still in the middle. He’s already found success. Quite a bit from the looks of things. Still, that doesn’t mean you jump ship and head East when in your heart…you know paradise lies west.

Anyway…

Private apartment, private entrance. And the place is…yeah, kind of nice. Like spiral staircase into a tower room, nice. Jacuzzi, grill, patio. I’m not sure what else I could ask for. I wanted new job…a new place. Here it is. I’m moving out December 1st. The position opens right after Thanksgiving.

I’m not saying it’s mine. But things seem to be progressing rather fast. It’s time for a change. What more could I ask for…and this quick?

You know me…plenty.

And you’ll be the first to hear.

Mutiny at The Tower Bar...

Our ironman Scottish barkeep walked tonight. He collected his tips with a peace out. No notice. Nothing. It's so terribly inconsiderate and unprofessional. And yet, we all had his back. The minions at least. He worked eleven hour shifts 6 days a week. Good luck filling that.

Our pastry chef, my Sugarmama, bolted. And Sugarmama…give a shout if you’re still reading this. The minions miss you.

Our GM is on his way out.

I wanted to leave to handshakes, hugs, winks and sweet cheeks. I wanted to come back in a few months to have a drink...to see that the child I partially fathered had grown into a strapping young adult. Now, I'm starting to worry about the welfare of "One of LA's 5 hot restaurants."

Everyone has their breaking point. You have no idea. That’s all I can say. The employees of the Tower Bar are black eyed wives who come crawling back. He struck me with a hand of love, we say. And then we ask HIM to forgive US.

It's as if a domestic abuse consultant paid a visit to 8358 Sunset and began bludgeoning us with positive re-enforcement. You can do better than this...respect yourself, your body...you have the power to change your life...

Okay...It's not quite that serious. Yes, I’m a little concerned about the future of the Tower Bar, but they'll manage. They'll be fine. My child may have a few brush ins with the law...some petty things like underage possession, transportation and mob action...but he'll come out clean on the other end. After all, it's our trials that make us stronger. Trust my words. Write what you know, that's what they say.

What a dustfucking time of year. October...no man's land. The season is about to change. Well, never here...but if you're lucky, you know what I mean. I miss it. It's about that time when the months hold value. The grab hold of the heart variety. But still, they’re quite a ways away.

I'm trying to figure out this standstill. Maybe it's just me. One of my greatest gifflaws is knowing deep down...that I'm an incredibly self-absorbed person. I have to be. Think about it. In this life...in my life, the one and only thing I want to do is tell stories. Touch the masses, reach millions...all that good stuff. If I believe in my path, which I absolutely do, I have to believe that my view of the world is the view for which the masses blindly yearn…

Everyone’s waiting for someone to take their hand. Always.

I sit here, spout my life and know there’s temptation to define. Tell me who I am, go ahead. The thing is...I know my words inside and out. I know every implication behind every word. The little dance every phrase chooses or chooses not to make. If a word takes you by the hand and steps on your toe...it meant to. If it dips you carefully only to lose strength and drop you...it meant to. If it spins you round, makes you fall in love just before kissing you so perfectly sweet...well then you're just giving too much credit. I'm not that good…

In a blog.

The problem is that I'm living to save dimes. It’s expensive to be a free man in LA for December and January. And that’s what I need to be. I wake up every day and slug it out with my first draft. I'm looking at it right now. 87 pages. It's coming. Been a little over three weeks and tomorrow morning, round 18.

But in the back of my mind, I'm guilty of looking forward...slightly. And that's my greatest personal sin. Because dying tomorrow isn’t some bull shit motto to live life by. I absolutely mean it. I’m rarely guilty, but right now, it’s hard not to be. Can you blame? In these months coming, I'll let a heart do what it must...and thinking about it makes me smile.

But that's enough...for now. Cause these next 5 weeks will likely be a slugfest. And when they're gone...I'll miss them. And when they come back…somehow, I’ll be happy to see them again. Ain’t it funny?

You see what I'm saying?

Then don’t just read, listen. I wouldn’t be here if I thought I were wasting your time.

Sigur Ros

http://www.emichrysalis.co.uk/quicktime/sigur_ros/glosoli/index.php?version=7.020&bandwidth=150000

Winter Winds...Blowin' In.

Change is coming. Hard…

Last night, something shook the hell out of me.

I work 6 nights a week. That’s every night but Sunday. It’s tough, stressful work. The kind of job where you EARN every dollar. I’ve been there four months and have witnessed Tower Bar’s birth. It’s starting to boom. We get a great clientele and I’ve suddenly bounded into a rather silly income bracket. I have a college degree and drop food in front of people’s faces. Did I mention that?

But I found out last night (Tuesday) that Tower Bar absolutely needs me. I feel like I could garnish the asparagus puree with my vitamin-rich urine and not get fired.

I was invited to a very important dinner with a friend on Wednesday and had to leave early. I told our director (who is a service legend around the world and could quite possibly have been a loveable Hitler in a previous life--whatever that means) that I would have to leave early…and he had a Russian panic attack. Really. I’ve come to the realization that in this business…a good runner is difficult to find. And I’m solid. Not great, but solid. That’s as far as I’ll go. Others may speak different tones.

But after everything…the planning, the guilt (which you wouldn’t think would exist after someone works 13 straight days--it did), and the pleading…the dinner fell through. So, the fuss was completely unnecessary.

But my friends, the damage has been done.

I’m leaving Tower Bar. It’s a secret, but November 19th is my last day.

My rationale? Well, I was talking it through with our darling pastry chef tonight at work (who by the way, is also busting out of Dodge). I started to explain how I like my job. I’ve always liked my job. In a lot of ways, I like everything about it…and it’s going to be really sad when I leave when...

“Dude, commitment-phobe…popping up again. It’s kind of obvious.”

“What? I’m talking about work? What are you talking about?”

But she leaves. Crazy girl. Like she knows. And the wheels start spinning. Work-girlfriends…girlfriends-work. Suddenly, I’m adding a little extra punctuation on my mental notes. Something along the lines of, Crazy Girl???

We meet in May. I like the looks of the place. It’s gorgeous. Stunning. So I climb on board. I learn as I go, having NO previous experience in any restaurant…not to mention the highest of ends. But I learn, I adapt. I give it a shot…and things seem to click. I’m good to the restaurant, and the restaurant is good to me. Everyone says that once we get reviewed, the biz will double…triple. There is going to be this great prize waiting. Uh oh. You see that? You see where this is going?

Stay with me…

So time passes, we have our ups and downs. We drive each other crazy on the busy nights…mentally and physically exhausting nights…now coming six days a week. And it’s rough, but at the end of every night, I leave with a smile on my face.

Last week was our biggest ever. Things have supposedly finally clicked. I get my big prize…a promise fulfilled. I walk with a pocket of Bens. Everything is great, right? Um…

Suddenly, I’m feeling a lean. It starts slight…and just keeps growing. Oh wait. Here come the phone calls. Wait? Didn’t I just screen your call 20 minutes ago? Why are you calling back? Oh wait…no room. Uh oh. Why are you making me cynical? I’m not a cynical person. You NEED me to be here? You want to RELY on me?

Sorry. You’re really sweet, but no can do.

Maybe there are a few parallel lines running through there. Fine, many.

So I start to think. Not that I ever stop, but you know what I mean. I miss seeing the sun go down. The freedom of being untied for those magic 35 minutes…my greatest indulgence in life. I’ve been giving it up for the past 4 months.

And it’s no one’s fault. Like I said, it’s going to be a sad day when I walk from the Tower Bar…

But it’s not love…and that almost says it all.

Almost…

Every day that passes, I feel one day closer to dying. If you want to know EXACTLY what I’m feeling, that’s it.

And not everyone is born with that. Without it, where would I be? Not here. Not chasing this. I’d be someone else, somewhere else, something else…and I’ll pass on all three. Nothing trumps this. Five years from now, ten years from now…what can trump this? Every new minute of this life, that’s the question we should all be asking.

So I’m moving on…moving out. December 1st, I’m moving into a new apartment. One that slopes against the side of LA’s in-between canyons. Something tucked behind the trees. Smaller, tighter. Something that’s more…me. There are places in LA that feel thousands of miles away. I’ll find one.

Great is coming.

Can you feel it?

Rent Due...

1078.84. No. Thank you, West Hollywood.

It’s always such a difficult thing…catching up after being away. Though it’s been but a week, it always feels longer. Is that good or bad?

Naturally, the longer I venture away from the nest, the shittier it becomes. Twigs and berries all ruffled about. I want to say so much that instead…I opt to say very little or nothing at all. It’s the same reason I don’t believe much in catch up friends. Why put in so much work to always end where you began? But that’s for another day.

It’s Sunday…so me not speaking would toe the line of personal blasphemy. Let’s not touch that.

I was driving to work on Saturday…early evening. For any of those of you who know, XM radio is road trip road head in a convenient plastic receiver. Especially in the infinite radio abyss that is Los Angeles. There MIGHT be 1 station in town that doesn’t make me want to eat out of dog curbing refuse bags.

Do you ever hear a song and wonder how they got away with it? And right after, wonder what’s happened to the unapologetic, melodramatic rabble that used to glide through our airwaves? Well, that was my exact thought pattern as the early beats hit on Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is.” Wow. Pick that one up on I Tunes and re-discover a side of yourself that went extinct sometime over the past 6-14 years. The part that becomes re-born when that chorus drops. Where you actually reach out in gesture to the lovely lady waiting on red in the range next to you and seductively mouth, “I want you to show me,” and not care. That’s what I’m talking about.

Soon after, I crashed. No, not my car. Nothing like going to work for 13 straight days to kill a buzz. Then, nothing like trading a few words with…and let me preface by admitting these namedrops will be both shameless and unprofessional…Bill Murray and Joaquin Phoenix to help get you through running 100 covers.

Okay. Maybe that was a little misleading. By trading words, I mean…”Well, Mr. Murray, it’s a Japanese Cucumber with a white bean puree and heirloom tomato. Chives, EVO, Balsamic.” Usually, he talks shit about everything I bring to the table. This time, all I got were his eyes…which are the most hilariously tragic things you have ever seen. I am well aware of my habitual choices to use polarizing comparisons, but that’s it…dead on.

He was sitting with a gentleman that was partially to blame for the post I was supposed to write in between this and the last. A cat that was part of the heyday SNL crew. He wrote. That’s where the two of them originally hooked up. He was also the screenwriter for the second greatest Christmas/holiday film ever made. #1 - A Christmas Story. Any guesses on #2???

When I get really inspired, I tend to think irrationally. Or…not irrationally, but something else. I’m making that sound like it’s a bad thing. Irrationality. In truth, I don’t believe there should be any other driving force behind our thoughts or behaviors. We should all be foolish fools, all the time…all the way.

But I have a problem. My greatest “thing” is my fear of being “that guy.” My, oh my…how the quotes are flying this post. If you don’t know what “being that guy” means, then it is very likely that you have either recently, or quite frequently “been that guy” at some point in your life. It’s not something to shoot for.

It would mean asking him to talk shop on turf where it’s completely inappropriate to talk shop. It means that I would have to ask him the most clichéd question there is to ask. How do I write for SNL? Do I do it, or let it lie? Although he may have been asked by one thousand wannabes, he has never been asked by Reilly Smith. In the end…that’s the conclusion I keep coming back to…

So I may write a short letter…or nothing at all. Don’t know yet. I wrote a sample sketch this week to show some quick chops. You know, something fresh and not from the pile. It’s like flipping a coin at this point. I’ll let you know if I ever decide to be that guy. Sometimes, you just have to plug your nose and swallow, you know?

Regardless, I’ll post the sketch up here sometime soon. I think it could be pretty good. And, it’s SNL season again. In case any of your haven’t noticed, it’s still fucking great. It’s ALWAYS been fucking great.

Well, that’s odd. A HUGE tangent. Let’s call it stylistic. Back to the music…

I got home Saturday night and went after Foreigner. How could someone get away with singing a song like that today? It certainly didn’t stop there. When Lou Gramm left, he came out with a chart topper that raised the level of my query to exponential proportions. Ever heard the song, “Juke Box Hero?” Of course you have. Come up with a song like that today and you better be ready for constant, relentless, unstoppable sessions of shitkicking. Taking your dog for a walk? Shitkicking. Grocery shopping? Shitkicking. Donating food and clothes to your local Salvation Army? Gratitude for your generous contribution…then shitkicking. I mean…of course everyone dreams of being a jukebox hero…even today. I understand…and even sympathize with this notion. But you don’t come out and say it. Come on, dude. Lou got his, I know this.

So It’s Sunday night. With this one, I don’t know where I am or where I’m going, so maybe it’s best to cut loose.

I saw 4 movies today. That’s right, 4. This is my life, what can I say? Here’s a quick wrap…

Best Movie: A History of Violence – Solid…notably strong individual performances. One after the other.

Best Movie Moment: Serenity – Must see if you like sci-fi. Surprisingly very good. Fresh tone. Surprisingly…very good. I said it twice.

Most Overdue: Hotel Rwanda – Overdue. Nothing off-guard here. This may sound dick, but to me, there’s no sexy in truth. Cheers to a journalism major.

Ordinarily Pretty Good: Corpse Bride - Safe, entertaining…eh.

At least now I feel caught up. Maybe this week, we can get down in it…that is, if you don’t mind. It’s been two weeks and I’m 50 pages through the be-all, end-all script (at this point in my career). Last week was a tough one…but I have a feeling this one will fly…

And all of it will soon.

Nope. Sorry. Not in the mood to try and close on a pathetic clincher…not tonight.

Dumpy tucker mast, bounce bounce.

My little ups

It was a good first week. 30 pages. A finished script is anywhere from 95-120 pages. Though, to get there, you should go through the equivalent of 400 pages before it's all said, done...and ready to send out. At least that’s how this guy works. Not that I have any clue what I am talking about…but I do.

December. Three months from now. It's a tough pill to swallow, especially for someone who has absolutely NO PATIENCE. That’s why I’m ALWAYS trying to pull rabbits from a hat. See, I absolutely live and die by flow. And by flow, I mean the feeling that chills, breaks you down and pulls you up. Without it, I’d be wandering. For the most part, flow is non-existent until the last month of writing. So what do I do till late November? I go fix hunting like a crack whore who steals and pawns babies.

Trust me, I’ve seen it.

My days are strange. I write in bursts. Usually up early to go at it for a couple hours and back to bed for any period of time between 18 and 76 minutes. I’m not trying to be clever through specificity, that’s just how it works. First drafts are so bad. Thinking you’re a Casanova and taking care of business like leaving virginity. Again and again. It's tough…all over.

It’s story time…my first pitch meeting.

I think it was a Tuesday. Of course, on my way to the lot, I drew up at least 83 reasons why Tuesday was a great day to pitch. So…good spirits abound until I pulled up to the gate and came up with a quick 117 reasons why it was a huge mistake…

And you know what…that’s the exact point break. Live it and you understand why 99% of Hollywood hopefuls get swallowed whole. Of course, 95% of that 99% fall into, “Club No Talent Ass Clown.” Sorry, that’s so unoriginal.

You balked, right? Wondering where I get off. Where are my credits? My films? What the hell have I done? Well, I’m going to let you in on a little secret, the reason that I will stand the test of time in this little town…

I am the most self confident, self-assured…okay, arrogant person you will ever meet. You’ll just never know it. Or, maybe I’m just an idiot…completely project this to everyone and when I turn my back people point and wonder – what’s his deal?

So I came to the meeting armed with 4 pitches. I knew, going in…exactly what I had. Two of the ideas were shit. Well, not necessarily shit, but each catered to the “family-friendly” type movies that this studio (think black mouse) tends to lean towards. I wasn’t into them, and something I know now and didn’t then is that aiming for quantity…even when you are trying to demonstrate relentless, idea pumping prodigy potential…is a stupid fucking thing to do.

The next pitch was a little small and a lot dark-ly funny. The kind of thing that will take me on my first spin as director on some distant day. I loved it. I still love it. Some day…on the big screen, I hope you’ll love it too.

The last pitch was for the script I’m writing now. I think her words went a little something like, “I’ll tell you up front that it’s something we could never touch. But you have something. There’s a chance it might be brilliant.” Maybe she was trying to be kind. Maybe she was ready for me to get the hell out of her office. I believe life is about bottling up the things that are worth a damn…and those words were worth a damn. Come New Years, I’ll prove her right.

But I’m still three months away…and I was talking about my fix…so let’s get back to it. There was something else I bottled up that afternoon. No, not the crush I had on the 31-year-old exec (yeah…the same one as before if you have been reading my posts.) And by the way, I don’t develop unsubstantiated crushes. I think in my life, I’ve done it thrice, and one was in third grade. That stuff is too dangerous to toss around. So I must say…unless it’s a rare circumstance...these days, I rarely serve.

But there were these brilliant...I mean absolutely fucking brilliant set models for a project that was inches from being green lit. They were waiting on a re-write, had the director and were trying to attach their key star. I think at the time, it was Alison Lohman. If you knew the material, you’d understand how perfect she is. Such a sweetheart. Ever seen Matchstick Men? But these set models were so brilliant that there is no way they could do it without a budget that would push 100 million. Some Oscar winning production designer in China must have spent months before sending them to Los Angeles. Honestly, I’m too tired to put it into words.

I was reading Premiere magazine a few nights ago. The shoot is going up in December…in China. My abusive inner dialogue: “China…3 months…Fuck bag, you have to get in on that.” Of course it’s impractical. But a letter went out to the dear exec who “put my name at the front of an endlessly long list” for a very coveted studio writing job. And with my most loving, skeptical, ass-bag grin…we shall see about that.

Wanna read me? Okay. You are, after all…part of the ride…

"When I read in Premiere that **** and the ***** is getting off the ground, I got a rush. From the moment you mentioned the story and ******* ******, to the ridiculously beautiful models in your office, it sounded like an amazing project. With ***-**** **** attached, it looks like you’re almost there. Congratulations.
I know that most film crews come pre-assembled…and that you are likely going over seas to shoot. But if for any reason, you’re looking for a PA, I’m loaded with heart and hustle…and now have the experience to back it up.
I’m really excited for you and **** films. It seems to be such a rare and wonderful project. You were the first person who opened their ears to me, and I don’t forget that."

Signed, Fun Loving Dip Shit. If they are shooting in China, she’s probably there for pre-production. Maybe not. But I know that letters like this rarely…and I mean rarely get a reply. Lloyd Christmas ending up with Mary Swanson, rare. But for some reason, the simple act of dropping it in the mail…these shots in the dark somehow exercise things in me that need it bad.

Shots in the dark. What else is life about?

Did I mention this post is two parts…you’ll have to wait for the dramatic conclusion sometime later in the week. Of course, this second scheme is a multi-part adventure. You can follow along. Should be something…something for me to throw darts at while I grind…away…slowly.

I’ll leave you with a quote that I heard one half of before the phone rang today…and finished it off. No need to italicize or quote. It’s mine…kind of. Anyone know the source??? I’ll give you lots of points.

***May the wind always be at your back and the sun on your face and the moons of destiny carry your distress to a far away place***

Shout Back...

Here we are...a couple weeks deep into this thing and I feel so lonely. So lonely. Me going on and on and you....well, you haven't said shit. One of the reasons I started a new blog and scrapped the old one was because it felt so, kind of...lonely. Now, you can talk back. So many posts and so much lack of opinion from any and everyone reading. You don't have to have anything to say. Hell, most of the time, I agree...there ain't much room. For that, I quarter heartedly apologize.

But I now I want you to shout back. Partailly because I have nothing to say. These first weeks are usually quite draining. The, "I have no talent why am I wasting my life away" type. Usually into the third week, that wears off...and you begin to let yourself remember what got you here in the first place. And it gets good. Hopefully real good.

So...who's reading? You don't have to say for real...make up a name, I don't care...but tell me where you are reading from. Because after all...my lone goal in doing all of this. West Hollywood, grinding, writing, reaching...is to touch one person in Uzbeckistan. That's all.

Shout a little love...even if it's just a little bit. It'll keep the blood of this thing flowing.

Where you at? Who the hell are you?

Click that little comment thing right below here and tell me.

A Nice Little Sunday-ish Week...

Scrubbing bubbles. That's all. I want to end this post right there. It's short, sweet. And those that know the delicacy and power of these modern marvels would need no further explanation.

It was a nice week. Since New York, it’s been a bit like Sunday every day. The kind of feeling you get before going on vacation to some far away, tropical land. It's this great, do what you may with this life. A nice little thing. Darling.

Because in about six hours, for the next three months, everything changes. That's just the way it is. A sweet bi-polar vacation from life and responsibility. In that three-month period, I could justify anything you threw at me. Off to Malaysia to adopt a puppet monkey named Nampoo? Fine. Whatever. When you know something like that is approaching, it shifts you. For instance...

On Thursday morning, I HAD to go to Bed Bath and Beyond. No choice in the matter. Siren song. Screaming. Get up fuck bag. No workout today. Come play...in my fields of home and bath decor. Get lost in our translucent shower curtains and window draperies. Meet, for the first time in your inexperienced life, the magical power of Scrubbing Bubbles. So I did...and I certainly did.

I dropped two Ben's and walked home with three fine and ranging black Ann Taylor window curtains...for the middle of my living room? Add to that the two sets of metal rods that are now installed into my ceiling...all by hand. And let me pause to reflect on the realization that I am, in fact...quite the crafty craftsman. The kick the shit out of MacGyver and then drive over his limp body in a vintage Ford Fairlane type. That good. Hey, credit where credit is due.

So anyway, that's exciting. I've got this hanging perimeter around my computer in the middle of my living room. But that's nowhere near the best of it. Did I mention Scrubbing Bubbles? Of course. On the label of the bottle, there is an illustration depicting white bubbles with brush teeth, content to relentlessly pursue and destroy any and all unsightly bathroom stains. Like thousands of these small, living creatures just waiting for me to unleash their fury. Up until I shook that can, I can say with confidence that the line governing fiction from fact in my mind stood unwavering. These creatures could not be real in any realm beyond our generation’s greatest imaginations. Surely, this was a marketing ploy aimed to con hopeful consumers such as myself. As I would soon discover, surely...it was not.

The very instant my finger depressed the nozzle, my friends-the missionaries of cleanliness, the Scrubbing Bubbles lived up to their promise and more. They cleaned with a passion, in marvelous synchronicity. They danced around my bathtub until it became a tapestry of pearl. Then, in the blink of an eye, with their promise fulfilled…they were gone, scurrying down the drain to live out the rest of their bubbling lives with pride. In their existence, their book of lore…no Scrubbing Bubble has ever failed to get the job done. Thursday was no exception. Trust my words.

After that, I installed a new toilet seat, mopped the floor with my new...well, mop...and dropped my first ever little blue disc into the toilet water reservoir. You laugh, but that little blue disc is the greatest invention since the polio vaccine.

I’ve lived at 8736 Holloway Apt. B for 15 months. Never once have I had such an inspiration to clean or alter my apartment like this. Never have I ever thought to get down and clean my bathroom like this. I always rationalize that the opposite of cleanliness is one of my more charming characteristics. Maybe once, I heard someone say that Einstein was a slob. Hello lifetime excuse.

Anyway, my point is that I don't know what the fuck I was doing in Bed Bath and Beyond on Thursday. I don't know why I bought a new toilet seat. I take that back. The one I had was sinister...just awful. Wasn't my fault, but still…

It's almost 1. I have to get up in 6 hours and completely change my life. I'm sure that you have about as much desire to hear about Scrubbing Bubbles as I have desire to strangle myself with a leather belt and get a hand job from Martha Stewart. But you still gave it a read. Maybe not intently, but you're here...

I am such a creature of habit, you have no idea. I get into comfortable patterns that last for weeks...sometimes months. It's not that I'm afraid of ever breaking them...I just don't. I go to bed tonight and tomorrow morning, everything changes. And that's f'n great. See that? Change. I'm cleaning up my mouth...my act. Ever since the M Stew HJ ref, I’ve felt a little dirty.

So...I'm off to bed. Can't wait until tomorrow. Can't wait for a change. Like Christmas Eve with Santa Claus coming to town. My next 3 months are on their way. And holy hell have I got a story to tell. So, I'm off to bed. Can't wait. Can't wait.

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I loved Everything is Illuminated. Have you seen it? I saw it today. Wanna talk about it? Oh wait, I can't. I have to get to bed. The beginning of the rest of my life starts tomorrow. A new script. The one that breaks me. The bliss and adrenaline...the excitement and the...the brick walls...and the invincibility and the doubt and the piss and shit and ups and downs and...my goodness, this is a self-serving blog…from a self serving man(boy). Enough. Let’s not crack that one open tonight. Save your raisins for Sunday.

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How were your days? Um...

I guess I should go to bed.

The start of another adventure...

Home...

I'm back. I don't know where I have just been...or what I did the past two days, but I'm back.

I left town after work on Saturday night. I slept on the plane, sure. But how much can you count sleeping on the plane as actual "sleeping?" So anyway, I flew through the night and got to New York by 10AM on Sunday the 11th. As in Sunday, September 11th. New York City. So, that was a little difficult...but what can you do.

I checked into my hotel and hit the streets by 11. Nothing was set in stone other than the idea that I had to see everything. Every corner, every neighborhood, every person. Two days later, back in LA, with feet that honestly border on Gangrenous...I got it done. And I'll have scars to prove it.

See, my process is such that I have the emotions and scenes in my head. Floating. Going to New York was my anchor. It means that I know the where...and well. Suddenly, I own every word I write. And that's everything.

The trip was insane. I didn't sleep Saturday or Monday night...at all. Right now, I'm either dreaming or delirious. Or...maybe I'm just being dramatic. No matter where I fall, the only thing for certain is that I should be in bed. Instead, I opt to rant.

New York is fucking crazy, seriously. It's just so different. A New Yorker may say the same about my City of Angels, but I don't see why. Los Angeles is just...softer. I don't remember seeing people smile in New York. I don't remember seeing people laughing. In LA, cars obnoxiously stop for pedestrians in crosswalks. In New York, it's hit and run derby. I was in New York and I missed LA. Now that I'm back in LA, I miss New York...even though I was only there for what felt like hours. You could say it's a grass is greener thing, but I don't think it's that simple.

My last night...last night was great. Just so you know, I don't believe in drinking and dreaming. It's cheap...and so false. I've seen one too many three beer Napoleon's to ever allow myself a fraction of the same freedom. But I had seen it all. Shoot me a neighborhood, any neighborhood...hell, shoot me a cross street and I could shoot back a 300 word impression, dead on. And that was one of my priorities. The rest was to be improv.

For instance, I saw the saddest woman I have seen in my life coming off the subway at Broadway and 14th. She stood in the middle of the crowd, parting them like the sea as she stood there, unmoving. Her eyes were glossed...and the bags underneath said a gloss was the driest they had been in some time. It was so moving. She was a white woman, mid 40's...and there was something so devastating living inside her. And you could feel it in her presence. Or maybe my pity stole some of her grief, if only in passing. Maybe that's how it works. I wanted so badly to know what it was. And it may sound strange, but I wanted to feel it...

I headed out alone with adrenaline on my side at about 10:30 last night. I've never had a problem flying solo, but for reasons only known to the author, last night I knew I was alone. A take a deep breath and blow it out, feeling. It was worth it though. It always is. I hadn't seen Alphabet City and told one of our chefs I would stop in at a late night Soho stop for a bite. So, I had somewhat of a plan. I started hopping. Bottle and shot became the name of the game. Jack/Guinness, Patron/Stella, Jaeger/Red Stripe...

And I'm not an alkie, I was just in good...spirits, happy to be doing what I love to do. Dreamrunning.

A few stops later, I wandered into Soho. One stop before my last destination, Blue Ribbon, old school G&R pulled me into a nice little side street bar. I was understandably weathered...but always hide it well. There was this sweet bartender who was named after that children's book publishing house...or something from my years in the third grade. I think it was...Scholastica? How one introduces oneself with a straight face when touting such a gem is beyond me, but she managed. I don't know when it happened, but it was just the two of us. She was buying my drinks and putting that best foot forward smile on the table. What could have happened next…well, use your imagination. Hot. But then she did it...she pulled out a book of astrology from behind the bar. Strike one, two and three. Scholastica didn't know it, but she was done. You see, I have issues. Issues that look to put a face through a brick wall when listening to my sign’s tendencies as defined by a book. How eat my own vomit, sweet. I left, promising (fingers crossed) to return after a quick bite next door. Maybe she waited, maybe not. I never made it back. Some blunders go beyond recovery.

I went to Blue Ribbon, had a couple glasses of red to go with my steamed Calamari, which was amazing. Pretty impressive bite to pick up at 3:45 in the morning. I can still taste it…all the satisfaction I would need that night.

I remember heading back to the hotel. Mid-town, right at Madison Square Park. The streets were naked and empty, which looking back was as good a sign as any that I should have probably been inside a cab. Instead, I Magellaned my way through the streets of New York in search of golden arches...where I unearthed a great conspiracy that NO McDonalds have working ice cream machines to facilitate the manufacturing of an Oreo McFlurry at 4:45 in the morning. Seriously...like 0-3. Maybe it was just a sign...no man should be ordering Oreo McFlurry's at 4:45 in the morning. That's like pre-breakfast. Just ain't right.

Exhausted from my explorations, I stumbled into my hotel room at a quarter past 5. With a flight to catch at 9, I jumped a cab and caught a plane. I don't remember navigating my way through the airport, mostly from exhaustion. I wasn't THAT under the bottle. I don't remember my two flights, or my stop over in Detroit. I don't remember getting back to LA, or rushing home to get changed, or the 3-minute shower. But I do remember getting back to work, where I finally had a moment to breathe. I didn't have an infinite agenda, or pumping energy. I didn't have a thousand things I wanted to do at once. It was like going through a time warp, and the last two days of my life had finally caught up after chasing me down all this time. If I were the crying type, they would have fallen right then. I don't know where this feeling came from, but it came...hard and fast. And it was crushing. I would have given anything to go home and be alone. Maybe I was getting my wish, to feel what the woman on the subway was feeling. That pain in her eyes. I wish it were that simple, to say it's not me...just some intervening force waltzing into my life, but it was obvious.

New York is a city of gravity. It can pull you down if you let it, and I can honestly say that I let it strangle me for those two days. I got everything that I went for, and almost got everything I needed...but for an hour when I got back, I paid the price. I'm exhausted...yeah. I was hung-over and hate traveling...yeah. I now have to deliver a script that has no excuse to be something other than remarkable...yeah. There's all that. But I know none are the culprit. What else can I say?

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