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***
September 26, 2005
September 21, 2005
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.
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.
September 19, 2005
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.
...
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.
...
How were your days? Um...
I guess I should go to bed.
The start of another adventure...
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.
...
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.
...
How were your days? Um...
I guess I should go to bed.
The start of another adventure...
September 14, 2005
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?
...
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?
...
September 10, 2005
Big Apple Jaunt...and likely tangents.
Tomorrow, I leave for New York City. I'd like to say I'm spending a relaxing Saturday in the sun before jumping a leisurely non-stop that puts me into the city just in time for a late dinner. No. I'm working. Which means I'm ducking out from the busiest night ever to hit LAX in time for my 1:34 AM flight. I'm not exactly sure about the time, just that it's REALLY LATE. I come back on Tuesday night. Just in time for...you guessed it, work.
I have all day Sunday and all day Monday. Hopefully, I can implement the, "sleep when you're dead" motto and extend this trip late into both nights. You see, it's time to start a new script. The truth is: I know no happiness greater than the 8-12 weeks of torture it takes to come up with a polished beauty. This one, of course...is far and away the most ambitious I’ve done. Far and away. It's been festering like a disease. If I could somehow explain how difficult it was to push through 8-12 weeks of my last re-write, knowing this one was next in line...or if I could explain what it was like reading through Sophy Burnham, Matthew Bunson (yeah, I know...who?) Then Milton and Dante, knowing I had to have the patience to get through it all to shed my ignorance...then, knowing that I wouldn't let myself start until I went to New York, and now it's here...times are good.
What's it about? Sorry. I would have shared...but I don't like to talk about it anymore. Too close to starting. You understand. Of course, there are certainly clues above. I will say this...this is THE one. I don't know what will come of my ambitions tomorrow...2 weeks from now or ten years from now. I would like to say that I have things figured out for good. I don't. But I have them figured out now. People I meet often ask me why I came to LA. It's a fun question, especially in this city. In fact, you could be at a party and ask that very same question 31 times to 31 different people and never get bored. Trust Papa Bear on this one. But go past 31 and things get messy. To be honest...cause that's what I am sometimes, I have learned that it’s better to be all ears. Always. Because realization hits that if you sound like THAT...if that is actually what you sound like, then perhaps it's time to pick up a pawnshop shotty and take the one-way ticket, Hunter S. Thompson style.
I told you. Tangents. Shit. Listen, to succeed in what I am trying to do...being on the outside looking in, you yearn so much to be a name. To have something to back up this, "all my eggs into one basket wave goodbye, never look back mentality." You see...that common theme. Searching for validation. It becomes so important until...I guess right up until the moment when you ARE validated. When that happens, I'll let you know what it feels like. Right now, all I know is THAT'S what I want. I'm young and green and don't know anything about anything...but I know this script will mean the end of my night job. It will mean that I will be exactly what I came out here to be...and I will begin to start the climb. The long, long climb. That's what I think...it's what I know. Don't confuse confidence with arrogance. There may be a touch of both in my speech. Neither is founded. Seriously, why would I have reason for abundance of either? Hell, I'm a stranger in a strange land, right? It's just one of those things.
I should really get back to New York. I'm staying near Union Square...near mid-town. I have a digital Elph and a mini DV camcorder to get everything I need. I can't explain. It's more of a -- know what you need when you get it. More than anything, it's the breathe the air and wander...which by the way, I'm outstanding at. Being aimless. Damn good. During my two days, I have one thing to do for sure...see THE ex girlfriend. Be forewarned. This is going to be a long and telling blog. No one is free from the arbitrary mention. ESPECIALLY ex-girlfriends. By the way, hate CAPS? For this post -- tough shit, my dears.
So the ex-girlfriend. It's funny. We all have lots of exes...but when you think about it...there's really only one. Everyone else is just...well, they’re part of the game for a bit. Sometimes, if it’s a really good team, you might make the playoffs and stretch it into a nice little run...but in the end, every season has to end. Blame it on weather or injury, that's what I do. They're never too happy...but there's always re-hab. Believe me, I know.
Anyway, it's good to get out of LA. Get into a new city and miss this city I love to hate. Wait, I don't mean that. Other people say that…other assholes. One thing I know for sure is that I don’t want to be that…an asshole.
I can't believe it’s been 15 months and counting since I landed in this town. I wonder what this place has done to me. One of my rare moments of reflection. They don't come often, certainly falling low on my belief barometer…thermometer? Odometer? I don’t know. But maybe 15 years from now, I'll let another one slide and look back...it's amazing, what I've done to this town.
There it is again. Seriously, I belong on a leash.
I have all day Sunday and all day Monday. Hopefully, I can implement the, "sleep when you're dead" motto and extend this trip late into both nights. You see, it's time to start a new script. The truth is: I know no happiness greater than the 8-12 weeks of torture it takes to come up with a polished beauty. This one, of course...is far and away the most ambitious I’ve done. Far and away. It's been festering like a disease. If I could somehow explain how difficult it was to push through 8-12 weeks of my last re-write, knowing this one was next in line...or if I could explain what it was like reading through Sophy Burnham, Matthew Bunson (yeah, I know...who?) Then Milton and Dante, knowing I had to have the patience to get through it all to shed my ignorance...then, knowing that I wouldn't let myself start until I went to New York, and now it's here...times are good.
What's it about? Sorry. I would have shared...but I don't like to talk about it anymore. Too close to starting. You understand. Of course, there are certainly clues above. I will say this...this is THE one. I don't know what will come of my ambitions tomorrow...2 weeks from now or ten years from now. I would like to say that I have things figured out for good. I don't. But I have them figured out now. People I meet often ask me why I came to LA. It's a fun question, especially in this city. In fact, you could be at a party and ask that very same question 31 times to 31 different people and never get bored. Trust Papa Bear on this one. But go past 31 and things get messy. To be honest...cause that's what I am sometimes, I have learned that it’s better to be all ears. Always. Because realization hits that if you sound like THAT...if that is actually what you sound like, then perhaps it's time to pick up a pawnshop shotty and take the one-way ticket, Hunter S. Thompson style.
I told you. Tangents. Shit. Listen, to succeed in what I am trying to do...being on the outside looking in, you yearn so much to be a name. To have something to back up this, "all my eggs into one basket wave goodbye, never look back mentality." You see...that common theme. Searching for validation. It becomes so important until...I guess right up until the moment when you ARE validated. When that happens, I'll let you know what it feels like. Right now, all I know is THAT'S what I want. I'm young and green and don't know anything about anything...but I know this script will mean the end of my night job. It will mean that I will be exactly what I came out here to be...and I will begin to start the climb. The long, long climb. That's what I think...it's what I know. Don't confuse confidence with arrogance. There may be a touch of both in my speech. Neither is founded. Seriously, why would I have reason for abundance of either? Hell, I'm a stranger in a strange land, right? It's just one of those things.
I should really get back to New York. I'm staying near Union Square...near mid-town. I have a digital Elph and a mini DV camcorder to get everything I need. I can't explain. It's more of a -- know what you need when you get it. More than anything, it's the breathe the air and wander...which by the way, I'm outstanding at. Being aimless. Damn good. During my two days, I have one thing to do for sure...see THE ex girlfriend. Be forewarned. This is going to be a long and telling blog. No one is free from the arbitrary mention. ESPECIALLY ex-girlfriends. By the way, hate CAPS? For this post -- tough shit, my dears.
So the ex-girlfriend. It's funny. We all have lots of exes...but when you think about it...there's really only one. Everyone else is just...well, they’re part of the game for a bit. Sometimes, if it’s a really good team, you might make the playoffs and stretch it into a nice little run...but in the end, every season has to end. Blame it on weather or injury, that's what I do. They're never too happy...but there's always re-hab. Believe me, I know.
Anyway, it's good to get out of LA. Get into a new city and miss this city I love to hate. Wait, I don't mean that. Other people say that…other assholes. One thing I know for sure is that I don’t want to be that…an asshole.
I can't believe it’s been 15 months and counting since I landed in this town. I wonder what this place has done to me. One of my rare moments of reflection. They don't come often, certainly falling low on my belief barometer…thermometer? Odometer? I don’t know. But maybe 15 years from now, I'll let another one slide and look back...it's amazing, what I've done to this town.
There it is again. Seriously, I belong on a leash.
September 07, 2005
The Grind...and Tunnel Lights.
I have it figured out. It being the formula...for now at least.
You see, if there is one thing I have learned since coming to Los Angeles, it's that everyone is full of shit. And the only remedy for this cynical perception is proof that they are, in fact...not full of shit.
But it's great because every asshole in this town has got "something" going for them. Some kind of a light at the end of their tunnel. I've got two starting in 2006. The first is an in house writing job for one of the major studios. When I say major, there are less than a handful, so it's a pretty big deal...all riding on the word of two of its executives who actually believe I have something to say...something worth giving a listen.
The other is as the head writer/floor director of a TV show set to go on the air 1st quarter next year. I'd send the link to watch the pilot online...but my heart isn't in it.
And there isn't just that. I have these flickers of light along the way. A recently finished screenplay has been clawing its way up the totem pole of scriptdom. Everyone that has read it has come back with, "this is really great, let me give it to my friend...he just wrapped directing (insert: some shitty but very A-list movie that I pretend to respect), or she just wrapped producing (insert some movie that was disgustingly re-made into a 25 million dollar opening weekend)." And man...let me tell you, having people go to bat for some kid (still me) is an amazing thing. It's the kind of thing that when you look back from higher places...you remember every drop. Ah, but that's the stuff for acceptance speeches. Another day...
Because until it hits, until that phone rings, I got nothing. Scratch. It's still and always a pipe dream until it isn't.
That brings me to my grind. See, you can't sit around and wait for the tunnel to end. I work as a runner at the Argyle Hotel's Tower Bar. 5 days a week, I am clocked in from 430-1130...later on weekends. I can't complain. It's blocks from my apartment and the crew is nothing short of stand-up. Not a single douche bag among us. And that's a damn difficult task to pull off. Especially in this city...trust me. I'll get into the specifics somewhere along the way, as well as introduce you to our cast of characters, but for now, let's keep this thing as a basic overview. After all, I am only trying to catch you up on my story.
But tonight was great. Great. It began with a toast of Roederer for a glowing review in the LA times (which is the Super Bowl and the World Series rolled into one for LA restaurants) and it ended when I had to drag someone out of our establishment. That's right, I said drag...as in across the marble floor...as in kicking and screaming. I'll get to that.
Copy. Paste. http://www.calendarlive.com/dining/cl-fo-review7sep07,1,4393138.story?coll=la-headlines-food. Two stars out of a possible four. The best way for me to describe it is that if you were to ask the critic (who is a renowned backbreaker if you deserve it) what a good to very good restaurant would deserve, she would say 2 stars. A 4 star review is nearly unattainable. It means we will be slammed starting tomorrow until who knows. And that means more coin for everyone.
Let me just say that we hold a very high standard for clientele. Very cream of the crop music and movie industry people. Some royalty...seriously. If you decide to come in wearing a backpack, do check it at the door. If you don't, it means you have elected to wander into what will soon turn out to be the R Smith Danger Zone. Yes. I give that caps.
Now...our bartender is a hell of a guy. He's got this really sweet layer if you peel 16 or 17 back. He's Scottish. Or Irish. Maybe Skirish...who cares? He used to play professional soccer and I guarantee that when his playing days were over, he was the guy throwing beer bottles at David Beckham from the stands.
So he's talking to this guy and it's obvious trouble's coming. Because some people just don't have, "it." How do I explain? Okay...if I'm ever in or around a hostage situation where the aim is to preserve life, our bartender is NOT the one going in for the talk down. He was pretty awful. Once I stepped in and failed, I knew it was going to get ugly. After all, I talk sweet like you wouldn't believe. Just ask...nevermind.
So this guy says that if we touch him, he's going to fight back...while demonstrating a sweet fist to chin fighting position. With one look, we each grabbed an arm and were off as if chasing Barney the white rabbit out of the gate at Greyhound Park. He slid marvelously across our buffed and glossy floors. He kicked over tables and chairs...spatting terrible obscenities while we dragged him down the stairs, going limp as a dead fish after the fourth punishing thud against his tailbone. Once out the front door, he had a nice police escort to take him on his merry way. I thought it was just an expression. "They had to drag me out of the bar." Goes to show that behind everything sits a small plate of truth.
And as I walked to my car, I laughed a little laugh. Sure, it's not completely fun to have to do that to a man. And, being fair…it’s not exactly like I am a “tough guy.” I’m not pretending to be. He may have had stability issues...or drunken issues. It was difficult to tell. I guess my point is that it's an adventure...and this is my grind. I have to say that when I go to bed at night and wake up in the morning, I'm quite content with where this life is going. What more can one ask? The tunnel will end when it's good and ready. But there's nothing like a rabid will to saw it down...
You see, if there is one thing I have learned since coming to Los Angeles, it's that everyone is full of shit. And the only remedy for this cynical perception is proof that they are, in fact...not full of shit.
But it's great because every asshole in this town has got "something" going for them. Some kind of a light at the end of their tunnel. I've got two starting in 2006. The first is an in house writing job for one of the major studios. When I say major, there are less than a handful, so it's a pretty big deal...all riding on the word of two of its executives who actually believe I have something to say...something worth giving a listen.
The other is as the head writer/floor director of a TV show set to go on the air 1st quarter next year. I'd send the link to watch the pilot online...but my heart isn't in it.
And there isn't just that. I have these flickers of light along the way. A recently finished screenplay has been clawing its way up the totem pole of scriptdom. Everyone that has read it has come back with, "this is really great, let me give it to my friend...he just wrapped directing (insert: some shitty but very A-list movie that I pretend to respect), or she just wrapped producing (insert some movie that was disgustingly re-made into a 25 million dollar opening weekend)." And man...let me tell you, having people go to bat for some kid (still me) is an amazing thing. It's the kind of thing that when you look back from higher places...you remember every drop. Ah, but that's the stuff for acceptance speeches. Another day...
Because until it hits, until that phone rings, I got nothing. Scratch. It's still and always a pipe dream until it isn't.
That brings me to my grind. See, you can't sit around and wait for the tunnel to end. I work as a runner at the Argyle Hotel's Tower Bar. 5 days a week, I am clocked in from 430-1130...later on weekends. I can't complain. It's blocks from my apartment and the crew is nothing short of stand-up. Not a single douche bag among us. And that's a damn difficult task to pull off. Especially in this city...trust me. I'll get into the specifics somewhere along the way, as well as introduce you to our cast of characters, but for now, let's keep this thing as a basic overview. After all, I am only trying to catch you up on my story.
But tonight was great. Great. It began with a toast of Roederer for a glowing review in the LA times (which is the Super Bowl and the World Series rolled into one for LA restaurants) and it ended when I had to drag someone out of our establishment. That's right, I said drag...as in across the marble floor...as in kicking and screaming. I'll get to that.
Copy. Paste. http://www.calendarlive.com/dining/cl-fo-review7sep07,1,4393138.story?coll=la-headlines-food. Two stars out of a possible four. The best way for me to describe it is that if you were to ask the critic (who is a renowned backbreaker if you deserve it) what a good to very good restaurant would deserve, she would say 2 stars. A 4 star review is nearly unattainable. It means we will be slammed starting tomorrow until who knows. And that means more coin for everyone.
Let me just say that we hold a very high standard for clientele. Very cream of the crop music and movie industry people. Some royalty...seriously. If you decide to come in wearing a backpack, do check it at the door. If you don't, it means you have elected to wander into what will soon turn out to be the R Smith Danger Zone. Yes. I give that caps.
Now...our bartender is a hell of a guy. He's got this really sweet layer if you peel 16 or 17 back. He's Scottish. Or Irish. Maybe Skirish...who cares? He used to play professional soccer and I guarantee that when his playing days were over, he was the guy throwing beer bottles at David Beckham from the stands.
So he's talking to this guy and it's obvious trouble's coming. Because some people just don't have, "it." How do I explain? Okay...if I'm ever in or around a hostage situation where the aim is to preserve life, our bartender is NOT the one going in for the talk down. He was pretty awful. Once I stepped in and failed, I knew it was going to get ugly. After all, I talk sweet like you wouldn't believe. Just ask...nevermind.
So this guy says that if we touch him, he's going to fight back...while demonstrating a sweet fist to chin fighting position. With one look, we each grabbed an arm and were off as if chasing Barney the white rabbit out of the gate at Greyhound Park. He slid marvelously across our buffed and glossy floors. He kicked over tables and chairs...spatting terrible obscenities while we dragged him down the stairs, going limp as a dead fish after the fourth punishing thud against his tailbone. Once out the front door, he had a nice police escort to take him on his merry way. I thought it was just an expression. "They had to drag me out of the bar." Goes to show that behind everything sits a small plate of truth.
And as I walked to my car, I laughed a little laugh. Sure, it's not completely fun to have to do that to a man. And, being fair…it’s not exactly like I am a “tough guy.” I’m not pretending to be. He may have had stability issues...or drunken issues. It was difficult to tell. I guess my point is that it's an adventure...and this is my grind. I have to say that when I go to bed at night and wake up in the morning, I'm quite content with where this life is going. What more can one ask? The tunnel will end when it's good and ready. But there's nothing like a rabid will to saw it down...
September 05, 2005
Back to the grindstone...
Hello. I have returned from the Abyss. Initially, I set out to develop and design my own site. I bought my Macromedia Studio and, well...here we are. All I need is a word here and a word there. I am settling. You don't mind.
So this is the glorious return. A swift hello and a promise that I have "intentions" to keep the blood of this one flowing strong. You see, this little thing I am setting out on is nothing short of a quest, and to all those who would care to lend an ear, I would like to share the steps along the way. The process of taming this beast of Hollywood.
And since I am quite an impressionable youth, I deem nothing too far out of bounds where it is free from comment. What I can promise is that things may become slightly more...um...personal.
In the R Smith impersonal sort of way.
Uncomfortable studio meetings and blind, intimidating phone calls...pimping scripts...sleazy producers...rejections...false promises...chasing starlets and failed romances...and a night job where I have to sign a confidentiality agreement swearing not to disclose events that Star Magazine would likely stuff pockets for.
It must be in my nature to clear the way for the other side of the spectrum. I do believe it's coming.
The old posts have been posted. Cheers to a long future...and to coming along for a ride. It's sure to be a good one.
So this is the glorious return. A swift hello and a promise that I have "intentions" to keep the blood of this one flowing strong. You see, this little thing I am setting out on is nothing short of a quest, and to all those who would care to lend an ear, I would like to share the steps along the way. The process of taming this beast of Hollywood.
And since I am quite an impressionable youth, I deem nothing too far out of bounds where it is free from comment. What I can promise is that things may become slightly more...um...personal.
In the R Smith impersonal sort of way.
Uncomfortable studio meetings and blind, intimidating phone calls...pimping scripts...sleazy producers...rejections...false promises...chasing starlets and failed romances...and a night job where I have to sign a confidentiality agreement swearing not to disclose events that Star Magazine would likely stuff pockets for.
It must be in my nature to clear the way for the other side of the spectrum. I do believe it's coming.
The old posts have been posted. Cheers to a long future...and to coming along for a ride. It's sure to be a good one.
5-2-05
There is nothing quite like Hollywood Boulevard on a Saturday night. Every instance where I have somehow ended up there, I have sworn to never go back. Yet, I always seem to forget.
I was early for a movie…which was my motive behind going. To get a taste of the last monument theatre I have yet to experience, El Capitan. And, it was Hollywood…in a sense.
They weren’t going to let me in for at least 35 minutes, so I decided to sit out on the boulevard, perched between the giant white pillars of what I could only imagine were the business offices of the theatre.
And I watched…
Fights. Breakdancers. Men of God. The Hot Dog Lady. Foreigners. Locals. Friends. Elvis. Spider Man. Marilyn Monroe. Gays. Straights. Transvestites. Brothers. Sisters. Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Traffic…and two guys with a 30-inch pizza on their way back to the Star Wars line.
A man posted up on the column next to me. His dingy clothes, discolored beard, and slight case of the shakes told me he had nowhere to go. He was stuck on Hollywood Boulevard. I began to wonder if this was the place he called home. If for some reason he ventured out of this state or country, would this be the place he longed for?
I knew something about Ben (as I would quickly come to refer to him in my mind) was going to be so tragic…so disappointing.
He jumped up next to me and offered a cigarette, which I gladly accepted…even though I don’t smoke. His body, skin and soul had been pleasantly weathered by life. I craved to know what his eyes had seen…to know what his heart had felt…
So I asked.
He didn’t respond with words. Instead, he simply nodded his head, referring to the crowd passing in front of us. He turned with a glare that I will never forget. Those shining eyes. He smiled with this assurance, as if knowing the secrets to all things. At that moment, he took my hand, pouring half a handful of what looked to be black sand…shining under the marquee like a thousand small diamonds. Though, it was weightless. Honestly and certainly the most beautiful thing I had ever seen…
Until he reached his hand in front of his lips, blowing ever so slightly. I did the same. The sand flew off into the air. The particles…bombarded by the adrenaline of endless lights, shone like a flurry of prisms…dancing in between the buildings on this small block of Hollywood Boulevard. It was such a sight, I had to stand. Ben watched me and followed…as if he had been keeping a secret all his life, and finally had the opportunity to tell someone.
But something funny happened…
No one noticed. No one looked to the street. They didn’t bother looking to the sky. Or, maybe they did…but just couldn’t see. I wanted to scream, to tell them they were missing the moment of their lives…but I knew it would be no use. Instead, I looked to Ben…and all I could do was smile. He patted me on the shoulder and jumped off the pillar, floating down the street with his head lowered…hands in pockets. And, he was gone.
Sirens from a fire engine rolled through. Screaming. An intermission to the show that is Hollywood Boulevard. When I looked to my left, Ben was now talking to himself. The cigarette he was smoking was no longer lit. His shakes had reached their pinnacle.
I took his name away. There was no longer any chance that he could be the person I hoped he would be. It’s not exactly heartbreaking, but if you add up a thousand small tragedies, well…it eventually adds up. And that’s what it was…slightly tragic.
And that worries me. What if I never meet Ben? Or find the 612 other variables I hope to encounter in this lifetime? What if I am continually creating something in my mind that has no chance to be anything other than tragic? Because, after all…what in the world can ever match up…
With the strangers I yearn to meet?
The lovers I look to fall for?
The life I hope to live?
But…I try not to dwell on stuff like that. The theatre doors had finally opened. I had no choice but to go in.
At the end of the night, I swore to never return to Hollywood Boulevard. And, I knew right then…that would be one of those promises I fail to keep for the rest of my life.
And something tells me I’ll be better because of it.
I was early for a movie…which was my motive behind going. To get a taste of the last monument theatre I have yet to experience, El Capitan. And, it was Hollywood…in a sense.
They weren’t going to let me in for at least 35 minutes, so I decided to sit out on the boulevard, perched between the giant white pillars of what I could only imagine were the business offices of the theatre.
And I watched…
Fights. Breakdancers. Men of God. The Hot Dog Lady. Foreigners. Locals. Friends. Elvis. Spider Man. Marilyn Monroe. Gays. Straights. Transvestites. Brothers. Sisters. Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Traffic…and two guys with a 30-inch pizza on their way back to the Star Wars line.
A man posted up on the column next to me. His dingy clothes, discolored beard, and slight case of the shakes told me he had nowhere to go. He was stuck on Hollywood Boulevard. I began to wonder if this was the place he called home. If for some reason he ventured out of this state or country, would this be the place he longed for?
I knew something about Ben (as I would quickly come to refer to him in my mind) was going to be so tragic…so disappointing.
He jumped up next to me and offered a cigarette, which I gladly accepted…even though I don’t smoke. His body, skin and soul had been pleasantly weathered by life. I craved to know what his eyes had seen…to know what his heart had felt…
So I asked.
He didn’t respond with words. Instead, he simply nodded his head, referring to the crowd passing in front of us. He turned with a glare that I will never forget. Those shining eyes. He smiled with this assurance, as if knowing the secrets to all things. At that moment, he took my hand, pouring half a handful of what looked to be black sand…shining under the marquee like a thousand small diamonds. Though, it was weightless. Honestly and certainly the most beautiful thing I had ever seen…
Until he reached his hand in front of his lips, blowing ever so slightly. I did the same. The sand flew off into the air. The particles…bombarded by the adrenaline of endless lights, shone like a flurry of prisms…dancing in between the buildings on this small block of Hollywood Boulevard. It was such a sight, I had to stand. Ben watched me and followed…as if he had been keeping a secret all his life, and finally had the opportunity to tell someone.
But something funny happened…
No one noticed. No one looked to the street. They didn’t bother looking to the sky. Or, maybe they did…but just couldn’t see. I wanted to scream, to tell them they were missing the moment of their lives…but I knew it would be no use. Instead, I looked to Ben…and all I could do was smile. He patted me on the shoulder and jumped off the pillar, floating down the street with his head lowered…hands in pockets. And, he was gone.
Sirens from a fire engine rolled through. Screaming. An intermission to the show that is Hollywood Boulevard. When I looked to my left, Ben was now talking to himself. The cigarette he was smoking was no longer lit. His shakes had reached their pinnacle.
I took his name away. There was no longer any chance that he could be the person I hoped he would be. It’s not exactly heartbreaking, but if you add up a thousand small tragedies, well…it eventually adds up. And that’s what it was…slightly tragic.
And that worries me. What if I never meet Ben? Or find the 612 other variables I hope to encounter in this lifetime? What if I am continually creating something in my mind that has no chance to be anything other than tragic? Because, after all…what in the world can ever match up…
With the strangers I yearn to meet?
The lovers I look to fall for?
The life I hope to live?
But…I try not to dwell on stuff like that. The theatre doors had finally opened. I had no choice but to go in.
At the end of the night, I swore to never return to Hollywood Boulevard. And, I knew right then…that would be one of those promises I fail to keep for the rest of my life.
And something tells me I’ll be better because of it.
4-24-05
I had a great weekend. That’s not to say I have many not so great weekends…or that I complain very much, or very little. Or…that I am any closer to, “figuring it out” as the day I was born.
But Sunday was good. Sunday is always good. The feeling of being trapped in this lull of comfort. The back end of a weekend. Everything feels…free. And that’s a good thing. Because let’s face it, there is far too much binding going on every other day of the week.
My freedom led me to the 24 hour Pavilion’s just a few minutes ago…high on spirits. Why? Because I had to pick up some Lucky Charms, a Clif Bar and a bottle of Vanilla Chai Naked Juice for tomorrow. Which, might I add…was reportedly sent straight from heaven. Seriously, try it…
When I got home, I had to prematurely crack into something so magically delicious…it called out from inside the box. This, however, was no regular box of Lucky Charms…
Somewhere inside…I would find a Shark Tale hand held video game. I knew this because several weeks ago, I pulled the blue version, #2, from a different box. With only four more to go, I was on my way.
Collect them all! That’s what they say. It’s what they encourage. And, I am not ashamed to say that mere seconds after the plastic seal on that bag was broken, my hand rifled through the cornucopia of marshmallows, plundering through those communist fucking oat type things to find…the exact same blue handheld video game which I pulled from a box weeks ago.
Needless to say, my weekend was ruined. Possibly the entire month of April…with hangover affects stretching into May.
Seriously though…in complete sincerity, I want to ask a question. With all of the problems facing this world right now. Poverty, war, bigotry, pollution, apathy…what hope do we have?
After all, we don’t even stand a chance in collecting all 5 Shark Tale video games from select boxes of General Mills’ cereal. Who is going to apologize to our children after they pull two consecutive blue handheld games while desperately trying to complete their collection? Better yet, who is going to apologize to me?
I was planning on writing about an invading feeling…cause I get those, often. One that rolled in with the sweet tease of a summer wind.
Because, I have just been dealt a couple good hands…strong hands. The type of hands where you can’t help but throw the dealer a wink…cause the house is about to be in a world of trouble. And lately, it’s been good times around my head. I wanted to write about that…because the fire is lit.
But what can I say? They are just so magically delicious…
But Sunday was good. Sunday is always good. The feeling of being trapped in this lull of comfort. The back end of a weekend. Everything feels…free. And that’s a good thing. Because let’s face it, there is far too much binding going on every other day of the week.
My freedom led me to the 24 hour Pavilion’s just a few minutes ago…high on spirits. Why? Because I had to pick up some Lucky Charms, a Clif Bar and a bottle of Vanilla Chai Naked Juice for tomorrow. Which, might I add…was reportedly sent straight from heaven. Seriously, try it…
When I got home, I had to prematurely crack into something so magically delicious…it called out from inside the box. This, however, was no regular box of Lucky Charms…
Somewhere inside…I would find a Shark Tale hand held video game. I knew this because several weeks ago, I pulled the blue version, #2, from a different box. With only four more to go, I was on my way.
Collect them all! That’s what they say. It’s what they encourage. And, I am not ashamed to say that mere seconds after the plastic seal on that bag was broken, my hand rifled through the cornucopia of marshmallows, plundering through those communist fucking oat type things to find…the exact same blue handheld video game which I pulled from a box weeks ago.
Needless to say, my weekend was ruined. Possibly the entire month of April…with hangover affects stretching into May.
Seriously though…in complete sincerity, I want to ask a question. With all of the problems facing this world right now. Poverty, war, bigotry, pollution, apathy…what hope do we have?
After all, we don’t even stand a chance in collecting all 5 Shark Tale video games from select boxes of General Mills’ cereal. Who is going to apologize to our children after they pull two consecutive blue handheld games while desperately trying to complete their collection? Better yet, who is going to apologize to me?
I was planning on writing about an invading feeling…cause I get those, often. One that rolled in with the sweet tease of a summer wind.
Because, I have just been dealt a couple good hands…strong hands. The type of hands where you can’t help but throw the dealer a wink…cause the house is about to be in a world of trouble. And lately, it’s been good times around my head. I wanted to write about that…because the fire is lit.
But what can I say? They are just so magically delicious…
4-7-05
Ready your sighs…ready your eye roll. If you have talent, ready them to occur simultaneously.
I have officially gone California.
Do you know what that means? Well, this is but the second line. Of course I am going to tell you.
Given that I had a peaceful Midwestern upbringing, a fistful of geographic certainties were embedded into my mind at an early age. I was taught to avoid southerners…to never become a Californian…and to never, even under circumstance of life and death, trust a Canadian. These three commandments, along with learning to write cursive, is the staple of a 3rd Grade curriculum in Illinois.
But we age…we mature. It’s part the process of growing up…the search for self-truth in a world full of lies…
Okay. You’re right…overboard dramatic.
Now that I have dabbled in the witchcraft of this world for 23 years, I must confess a certain fondness for my brothers and sisters of the South. The first commandment hath been broken.
It has been ten months since my pilgrimage to Los Angeles…which happens to be in California. Some might consider me a Californian. A newbie, but still a Californian.
I direct those missionaries to the license plate of my automobile…prairie state love. Sweet home, Illinois. And I do it with pride…
Up until Saturday, I would have been able to go home and hold my head high. To stand on the top of the mountain, singing out…”Shed not your tears for me…the sinners have yet to take hold. I have yet to taste the sweet seductress’ poison.” I would have…but I can tell you’re picking up on my blatant usage of the past tense. Surely, something must be coming…
You see, on Sunday night…I began what Californians like to call, “The Master Cleanse.” It’s a 10-day thing where every meal is a bountiful feast of maple syrup, lemon juice and cayenne pepper mixed with eight ounces of water.
I am currently putting a wrap on day 3.
What does it do? Well, I’ll tell you that as well. When you stop eating for extended periods of time…which is exactly what is happening here…you trick the body into thinking that you are dying of starvation. In this phase, your body begins to flush itself of all things bad. That means toxins in vital organs…undesirable fat…and even little shards of scar tissue and bone from joints where you have previously had…say…experimental surgery.
There’s that…and this strange, powerful feeling of manipulating your body’s natural desires.
Just so you know, I do recognize the screaming contradiction of faking death…and labeling it, “healthy.”
You may think I have finally gone overboard. But you see…I am merely one spoke in the wheel of five. There’s a comfort in it. Knowing the likelihood that all of us have been clinically dipped in chocolate is much less than say…myself alone. That’s what happens when you live in California. Everyone’s a Californian.
When I go home…back to Illinois, or anywhere else in the world for that matter…people will know. It’s a look in the eye…a tone that you speak. People will know…Californian.
Conversations will be tainted. Relationships distrusted. And, it will certainly be uncomfortable.
Then, it will rip into me like a pack of rabid dogs…
I still…romantically embrace a wildly irresponsible distrust of Canadians. So I still have that going for me…which is nice.
Don’t we all???
I have officially gone California.
Do you know what that means? Well, this is but the second line. Of course I am going to tell you.
Given that I had a peaceful Midwestern upbringing, a fistful of geographic certainties were embedded into my mind at an early age. I was taught to avoid southerners…to never become a Californian…and to never, even under circumstance of life and death, trust a Canadian. These three commandments, along with learning to write cursive, is the staple of a 3rd Grade curriculum in Illinois.
But we age…we mature. It’s part the process of growing up…the search for self-truth in a world full of lies…
Okay. You’re right…overboard dramatic.
Now that I have dabbled in the witchcraft of this world for 23 years, I must confess a certain fondness for my brothers and sisters of the South. The first commandment hath been broken.
It has been ten months since my pilgrimage to Los Angeles…which happens to be in California. Some might consider me a Californian. A newbie, but still a Californian.
I direct those missionaries to the license plate of my automobile…prairie state love. Sweet home, Illinois. And I do it with pride…
Up until Saturday, I would have been able to go home and hold my head high. To stand on the top of the mountain, singing out…”Shed not your tears for me…the sinners have yet to take hold. I have yet to taste the sweet seductress’ poison.” I would have…but I can tell you’re picking up on my blatant usage of the past tense. Surely, something must be coming…
You see, on Sunday night…I began what Californians like to call, “The Master Cleanse.” It’s a 10-day thing where every meal is a bountiful feast of maple syrup, lemon juice and cayenne pepper mixed with eight ounces of water.
I am currently putting a wrap on day 3.
What does it do? Well, I’ll tell you that as well. When you stop eating for extended periods of time…which is exactly what is happening here…you trick the body into thinking that you are dying of starvation. In this phase, your body begins to flush itself of all things bad. That means toxins in vital organs…undesirable fat…and even little shards of scar tissue and bone from joints where you have previously had…say…experimental surgery.
There’s that…and this strange, powerful feeling of manipulating your body’s natural desires.
Just so you know, I do recognize the screaming contradiction of faking death…and labeling it, “healthy.”
You may think I have finally gone overboard. But you see…I am merely one spoke in the wheel of five. There’s a comfort in it. Knowing the likelihood that all of us have been clinically dipped in chocolate is much less than say…myself alone. That’s what happens when you live in California. Everyone’s a Californian.
When I go home…back to Illinois, or anywhere else in the world for that matter…people will know. It’s a look in the eye…a tone that you speak. People will know…Californian.
Conversations will be tainted. Relationships distrusted. And, it will certainly be uncomfortable.
Then, it will rip into me like a pack of rabid dogs…
I still…romantically embrace a wildly irresponsible distrust of Canadians. So I still have that going for me…which is nice.
Don’t we all???
4-4-05
I saw some things this weekend. Two of them mattered…and stuck.
I don’t know how or why they became connected in my mind…and I don’t recall the particular order with which they occurred. Nevertheless, they hitched a ride on the special bus…and are now attending my school of thought.
The Pope died. In Rome, they held marathon vigils. The looks on these people’s faces were…I don’t know. Words? Yeah, they are certainly going to fail…
It struck me…a belief so strong. Layered tears. I envy that…even in sadness.
But there was something else…
Yahoo had a live web cam. I couldn’t stop watching. It looked down, high above St. Peter’s Square. So many people waiting for this man to die. Something about it was so familiar.
You know what it was?
Ants. Those rare glimpses where a vast, dark and stained segment of concrete is moving. An entire civilization of these...things. So perfectly beautiful that it’s too much to handle. So we either look for a stick to drag through the assembly…or ready the spit bombardier to fuck it up. What? Don’t tell me I’m the only one guilty of destruction lust. Please.
But now I want to talk about Canada.
If you haven’t already heard about the seal killings, then I have to be honest…ignorance may very well be bliss. You might want to consider this the last line of today’s post and move on. Really. You wont like this.
I mean it.
Alright then…
Protectseals.org -- Scroll down and watch the video…all of it.
Feel that? Hurts bad and wont go away, huh?
There was one thing that echoed in my mind. Over and over again. Who the fuck are we? Say it with emphasis on the “Fuck” and the “We.” It really makes all the difference.
What’s your mind saying?
Why isn’t there someone out there to spit on us? Or to drag a stick through our beloved congregation? In a way, I find that I am praying for my common man as well as myself. That there is something up there, looking down. Praying their spit is our tsunami…and their sticks are our tornados and earthquakes. Maybe they too have a lust for destruction. Let’s cross our fingers that they are out there…remorseless destructionists. At least then, we will be in the sad company of sad company when answering for the things we have done.
There’s a swirling disappointment at this moment in my life. It’s a realization that if I were laying face down and helpless on the sidewalk outside my apartment, there wouldn’t be anyone to come along and club the back of my head until I die. Remember the emphasis? Now say it again…who the fuck are we?
In closing, there’s this word that I have always had a great appreciation for…a word that brings me a little comfort when I think of our tragic capabilities…
Relativity…and if that doesn’t dance your fancy, try closing with a cliché.
What goes around…comes around.
I don’t know how or why they became connected in my mind…and I don’t recall the particular order with which they occurred. Nevertheless, they hitched a ride on the special bus…and are now attending my school of thought.
The Pope died. In Rome, they held marathon vigils. The looks on these people’s faces were…I don’t know. Words? Yeah, they are certainly going to fail…
It struck me…a belief so strong. Layered tears. I envy that…even in sadness.
But there was something else…
Yahoo had a live web cam. I couldn’t stop watching. It looked down, high above St. Peter’s Square. So many people waiting for this man to die. Something about it was so familiar.
You know what it was?
Ants. Those rare glimpses where a vast, dark and stained segment of concrete is moving. An entire civilization of these...things. So perfectly beautiful that it’s too much to handle. So we either look for a stick to drag through the assembly…or ready the spit bombardier to fuck it up. What? Don’t tell me I’m the only one guilty of destruction lust. Please.
But now I want to talk about Canada.
If you haven’t already heard about the seal killings, then I have to be honest…ignorance may very well be bliss. You might want to consider this the last line of today’s post and move on. Really. You wont like this.
I mean it.
Alright then…
Protectseals.org -- Scroll down and watch the video…all of it.
Feel that? Hurts bad and wont go away, huh?
There was one thing that echoed in my mind. Over and over again. Who the fuck are we? Say it with emphasis on the “Fuck” and the “We.” It really makes all the difference.
What’s your mind saying?
Why isn’t there someone out there to spit on us? Or to drag a stick through our beloved congregation? In a way, I find that I am praying for my common man as well as myself. That there is something up there, looking down. Praying their spit is our tsunami…and their sticks are our tornados and earthquakes. Maybe they too have a lust for destruction. Let’s cross our fingers that they are out there…remorseless destructionists. At least then, we will be in the sad company of sad company when answering for the things we have done.
There’s a swirling disappointment at this moment in my life. It’s a realization that if I were laying face down and helpless on the sidewalk outside my apartment, there wouldn’t be anyone to come along and club the back of my head until I die. Remember the emphasis? Now say it again…who the fuck are we?
In closing, there’s this word that I have always had a great appreciation for…a word that brings me a little comfort when I think of our tragic capabilities…
Relativity…and if that doesn’t dance your fancy, try closing with a cliché.
What goes around…comes around.
3-23-05
I worry about being delusional. That’s just honesty talking.
I heard sirens when I was driving through the rain tonight. But looking around, there was no ambulance...or emergency. No one was pulling over or slowing down. There was nothing. So I flipped the music and continued on my journey home.
But the ringing came back. This time louder…and louder…and louder…until I finally saw the lights. That familiar re-assurance. Wipe your brow. Be thankful you still have sanity…at least for one more day.
Just as I saw an ambulance appear in my rearview, a police car appeared on the horizon in front of me. As they passed each other…intersecting in the intersection, I laughed. Fucking fools…what do you say we mix in a Mapquest?
But humor rarely lasts.
As the ambulance sped through the intersection, it stopped…as in time stood still (If you believe in that sort of thing). I could see directly inside that ambulance through the small back window. Trust me, this was well beyond the jurisdiction of 20/20 eyes and a steady diet of baby carrots.
A man was lying on the stretcher. An oxygen mask gripped his face…his weak face. I saw what was inside that window for no more than two seconds and I can tell you with confidence…that man died tonight.
I know where you think I am going with this. Appreciate life. Life is fragile. Here one minute, gone the next.
Not a chance. If you know me, you know I have never believed in any of that. If you really know me…you know that is never going to change.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t look. It doesn’t mean I don’t feel. It doesn’t mean I don’t think. Hopefully, that much is obvious.
But there was something else. Maybe it’s just the way I chose to imagine it. Someone was clenching his hand…and clenching it tight. For love…for life. Was it my imagination? Maybe. To be honest, I don’t know for sure. Anything is possible.
I’m sure somewhere, someone would wave a red flag when the line separating fiction and reality becomes so blurred that you can no longer tell them apart.
If only I believed in red flags…
I heard sirens when I was driving through the rain tonight. But looking around, there was no ambulance...or emergency. No one was pulling over or slowing down. There was nothing. So I flipped the music and continued on my journey home.
But the ringing came back. This time louder…and louder…and louder…until I finally saw the lights. That familiar re-assurance. Wipe your brow. Be thankful you still have sanity…at least for one more day.
Just as I saw an ambulance appear in my rearview, a police car appeared on the horizon in front of me. As they passed each other…intersecting in the intersection, I laughed. Fucking fools…what do you say we mix in a Mapquest?
But humor rarely lasts.
As the ambulance sped through the intersection, it stopped…as in time stood still (If you believe in that sort of thing). I could see directly inside that ambulance through the small back window. Trust me, this was well beyond the jurisdiction of 20/20 eyes and a steady diet of baby carrots.
A man was lying on the stretcher. An oxygen mask gripped his face…his weak face. I saw what was inside that window for no more than two seconds and I can tell you with confidence…that man died tonight.
I know where you think I am going with this. Appreciate life. Life is fragile. Here one minute, gone the next.
Not a chance. If you know me, you know I have never believed in any of that. If you really know me…you know that is never going to change.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t look. It doesn’t mean I don’t feel. It doesn’t mean I don’t think. Hopefully, that much is obvious.
But there was something else. Maybe it’s just the way I chose to imagine it. Someone was clenching his hand…and clenching it tight. For love…for life. Was it my imagination? Maybe. To be honest, I don’t know for sure. Anything is possible.
I’m sure somewhere, someone would wave a red flag when the line separating fiction and reality becomes so blurred that you can no longer tell them apart.
If only I believed in red flags…
3-22-05
I saw something tonight.
It was a movie called Millions.
Looking back onto my Monopoly days, I do recall The Get Out of Jail Free Card. It was great. You could essentially shatter any and all liberal laws of the Monopoly landscape with immunity from prosecution. Or, you could throw doubles and get out in one to three rolls. It seems an absurd way to govern Monopolyland, but then again…we’re not the ones who elected a midget with a top hat into the mayor’s office, are we?
The point is, it existed in the form of either an orange or yellow card…and it had the power to make hardship disappear.
Where was I going with this? Okay, I remember…
So anyway, this movie…Millions. All I am going to tell you is that right now…I feel right. That’s not saying I live all the other moments of my life in misery. Actually, I get along quite fine. Quite fine. But personally, it’s a rare thing to feel “right.” There’s no time to explain. Either you get it or you don’t.
I’m not telling you to rush out and see this movie.
Instead, tuck it in your back pocket. Know it’s there.
A day will roll along and you’ll need getting calibrated…to find your lost tune. When that day comes, it never comes gentle. It’s going to blast you across the face…then in the gut. And sometimes, though rare…it’s going to get you somewhere off the map.
That’s when you pull it out. Slap that thing down on the table and ante up. See what happens. I realize this won’t be a universal remedy. But for me, tonight…it was. What other gauge do I have?
Even if you never see it…or if you do and it does nothing, you can still roll doubles.
But cross your fingers and hope that when they land, there’s still a game left to be played.
It was a movie called Millions.
Looking back onto my Monopoly days, I do recall The Get Out of Jail Free Card. It was great. You could essentially shatter any and all liberal laws of the Monopoly landscape with immunity from prosecution. Or, you could throw doubles and get out in one to three rolls. It seems an absurd way to govern Monopolyland, but then again…we’re not the ones who elected a midget with a top hat into the mayor’s office, are we?
The point is, it existed in the form of either an orange or yellow card…and it had the power to make hardship disappear.
Where was I going with this? Okay, I remember…
So anyway, this movie…Millions. All I am going to tell you is that right now…I feel right. That’s not saying I live all the other moments of my life in misery. Actually, I get along quite fine. Quite fine. But personally, it’s a rare thing to feel “right.” There’s no time to explain. Either you get it or you don’t.
I’m not telling you to rush out and see this movie.
Instead, tuck it in your back pocket. Know it’s there.
A day will roll along and you’ll need getting calibrated…to find your lost tune. When that day comes, it never comes gentle. It’s going to blast you across the face…then in the gut. And sometimes, though rare…it’s going to get you somewhere off the map.
That’s when you pull it out. Slap that thing down on the table and ante up. See what happens. I realize this won’t be a universal remedy. But for me, tonight…it was. What other gauge do I have?
Even if you never see it…or if you do and it does nothing, you can still roll doubles.
But cross your fingers and hope that when they land, there’s still a game left to be played.
3-20-05
3-21-05
I am not an angry person.
It’s just that sometimes…strike that, often, I want to drive over people with my car. You see, in California, there’s this thing. This understanding where any pedestrian…at any time…without looking….has the right to cross the street. What gives? What’s the one lesson your parents taught you when you were a little kid? Other than, “Don’t eat scissors.” It was, “Look both ways before crossing the street.”
I guess in California, that mandate falls somewhere beyond, “Converse with strangers after accepting any and all of the delicious, unwrapped candy they offer.”
Maybe it’s the thought of seeing the looks in these people’s eyes…the moment before my Chevy meets their torso at a brisk 45 miles per hour. It’s not blood lust or a desire to harm. I think it’s just a certain curiosity to see if their body would be propelled either upward or outward. Is that wrong?
I am not an angry person. Actually, I believe quite the contrary. Gentle, kind, understanding. In reality though, we all fall somewhere in the middle. The only question is where. It’s an amazing contrast. The way you see yourself and the way others see you. More likely than not, it is far from what you expect.
I am not an angry person. So what then? Ambitious, kind, generous, smart, funny, handsome, charming and one of a kind...of course.
Now hold on a minute. Since it’s March Madness, allow me to self-censor and find the appropriate analogy. Only a loon picks the favorites all the way through. If you know college hoops, you know it doesn’t quite work like that. Here’s the first round:
#1 Kind vs. #16 Phony
#2 One of a Kind vs. #15 Insincere
#3 Charming vs. #14 Two Faced
#4 Funny vs. #13 Unrealistic
#5 Smart vs. #12 Misguided
#6 Generous vs. #11 Self Absorbed
#7 Ambitious vs. #10 Naive
#8 Handsome vs. #9 Arrogant
In a perfect world, there would be no upsets. Am I saying this isn’t a perfect world? Um…not yet. Let’s just say I’m straddling a fence with sharp, masculinity threatening points at the top. So it’s in my best interest to get off. I’m just not ready.
In reality, my tourney is just like the real tourney. If you are going to bet on anything, bet on upsets. What’s not to love? The dreams of all but one team are crushed. It’s beautiful, and I’ll tell you why.
There’s this thing…immortality. You can’t see it, but trust me, it’s there…waiting to be captured. Maybe this will be the year. Since Optimism always beats Pessimism in my pre-season NIT championship, I can say it like I have said it many times before. This will be the greatest tournament to date…unforgettable.
I just hope it goes wire to wire with last minute heroics.
The never fade type.
I am not an angry person.
It’s just that sometimes…strike that, often, I want to drive over people with my car. You see, in California, there’s this thing. This understanding where any pedestrian…at any time…without looking….has the right to cross the street. What gives? What’s the one lesson your parents taught you when you were a little kid? Other than, “Don’t eat scissors.” It was, “Look both ways before crossing the street.”
I guess in California, that mandate falls somewhere beyond, “Converse with strangers after accepting any and all of the delicious, unwrapped candy they offer.”
Maybe it’s the thought of seeing the looks in these people’s eyes…the moment before my Chevy meets their torso at a brisk 45 miles per hour. It’s not blood lust or a desire to harm. I think it’s just a certain curiosity to see if their body would be propelled either upward or outward. Is that wrong?
I am not an angry person. Actually, I believe quite the contrary. Gentle, kind, understanding. In reality though, we all fall somewhere in the middle. The only question is where. It’s an amazing contrast. The way you see yourself and the way others see you. More likely than not, it is far from what you expect.
I am not an angry person. So what then? Ambitious, kind, generous, smart, funny, handsome, charming and one of a kind...of course.
Now hold on a minute. Since it’s March Madness, allow me to self-censor and find the appropriate analogy. Only a loon picks the favorites all the way through. If you know college hoops, you know it doesn’t quite work like that. Here’s the first round:
#1 Kind vs. #16 Phony
#2 One of a Kind vs. #15 Insincere
#3 Charming vs. #14 Two Faced
#4 Funny vs. #13 Unrealistic
#5 Smart vs. #12 Misguided
#6 Generous vs. #11 Self Absorbed
#7 Ambitious vs. #10 Naive
#8 Handsome vs. #9 Arrogant
In a perfect world, there would be no upsets. Am I saying this isn’t a perfect world? Um…not yet. Let’s just say I’m straddling a fence with sharp, masculinity threatening points at the top. So it’s in my best interest to get off. I’m just not ready.
In reality, my tourney is just like the real tourney. If you are going to bet on anything, bet on upsets. What’s not to love? The dreams of all but one team are crushed. It’s beautiful, and I’ll tell you why.
There’s this thing…immortality. You can’t see it, but trust me, it’s there…waiting to be captured. Maybe this will be the year. Since Optimism always beats Pessimism in my pre-season NIT championship, I can say it like I have said it many times before. This will be the greatest tournament to date…unforgettable.
I just hope it goes wire to wire with last minute heroics.
The never fade type.
3-16-05
So it begins. If at any point you feel I’m cramming perception down your throat, you’re right. I am.
It’s funny. I have been in Tinseltown for nearly eight months now. My greatest fear is that I am losing touch. Think about it. If you live in the circus long enough, things that were once strange, unsettling and odd become the norm. At some point, Gypso becomes part of the gang. You learn to look past the fact that she is limbless and executes daring feats of aerial grace with only the power of her teeth. I have yet to decide if this is a perceptive regression. We’ll come back to that…
I was driving down Hollywood Boulevard today. And for the record, I am not street dropping. It simply adds to the ambiance of the story. There were two cars in front of me. It was right at the magic hour of the day. Right around five when the sun is punching out on my side of the globe. There is something about it that always sets me at ease. As if at that rare window in time, the air becomes happy…available for all to consume. Or…at least all save the two fine gentlemen piloting the cars in front of me. We’ll call them Denny and Lenny.
So we three are driving along. Reilly, Denny and Lenny. Thick as thieves. There were no stop signs, and surprisingly little traffic at that location and time in Los Angeles. Lenny decides to stop in the middle of the road. Naturally, Denny and I follow suit. Then, Lenny springs out of the driver’s seat. Seeing Denny’s reverse lights go up, it was obvious he knew something I didn’t. When Lenny began screaming obscenities, aggressively swinging a flashlight, and sprinting after Denny’s car - which was now redlining it in reverse - I realized that maybe we weren’t quite as thick as I had idealistically hoped. Pulling off to the side of the road, I watched through the rearview as Denny’s car sped over a small hill. Lenny gave chase until they were both out of sight. I laughed. After all, happy air was still pumping through my world. My Los Angeles.
What happens next is the same thing that happens to me every day. The feeling of having your heart broken with no leads…no suspects. Just…empty.
The air was no longer sweet. My drunk was gone…my orgasm was over. I shut off my car and sat there, wondering what to do next. I couldn’t help but think about the circus…inspired by my two good friends, Lenny and Denny. What has happened to me? Why am I laughing?
Should I be crying?
It’s funny. I have been in Tinseltown for nearly eight months now. My greatest fear is that I am losing touch. Think about it. If you live in the circus long enough, things that were once strange, unsettling and odd become the norm. At some point, Gypso becomes part of the gang. You learn to look past the fact that she is limbless and executes daring feats of aerial grace with only the power of her teeth. I have yet to decide if this is a perceptive regression. We’ll come back to that…
I was driving down Hollywood Boulevard today. And for the record, I am not street dropping. It simply adds to the ambiance of the story. There were two cars in front of me. It was right at the magic hour of the day. Right around five when the sun is punching out on my side of the globe. There is something about it that always sets me at ease. As if at that rare window in time, the air becomes happy…available for all to consume. Or…at least all save the two fine gentlemen piloting the cars in front of me. We’ll call them Denny and Lenny.
So we three are driving along. Reilly, Denny and Lenny. Thick as thieves. There were no stop signs, and surprisingly little traffic at that location and time in Los Angeles. Lenny decides to stop in the middle of the road. Naturally, Denny and I follow suit. Then, Lenny springs out of the driver’s seat. Seeing Denny’s reverse lights go up, it was obvious he knew something I didn’t. When Lenny began screaming obscenities, aggressively swinging a flashlight, and sprinting after Denny’s car - which was now redlining it in reverse - I realized that maybe we weren’t quite as thick as I had idealistically hoped. Pulling off to the side of the road, I watched through the rearview as Denny’s car sped over a small hill. Lenny gave chase until they were both out of sight. I laughed. After all, happy air was still pumping through my world. My Los Angeles.
What happens next is the same thing that happens to me every day. The feeling of having your heart broken with no leads…no suspects. Just…empty.
The air was no longer sweet. My drunk was gone…my orgasm was over. I shut off my car and sat there, wondering what to do next. I couldn’t help but think about the circus…inspired by my two good friends, Lenny and Denny. What has happened to me? Why am I laughing?
Should I be crying?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
