The majority of the time, I come in here with direction. I grab a theme and mow my way through the traffic.
Not tonight. I have no fucking clue. But I’m wound up like you wouldn’t believe.
It’s been a while. A long, long time. Too fucking long. I could make up an excuse. Coming back from a drug bender with a life altering epiphany? No. That would be stretching the truth. I love you all too much to mislead. Fuck!
And let me preface with a confession. If I drop an arsenal of F Bombs, it’s only because I lack the necessary blend of talent and dedication that would otherwise masquerade my state of mood…through ingenious wordsmithing…in an intelligent fashion. My somewhat sincere apologies.
And we’ll both pretend you didn’t just sludge your way through a marsh of brilliance.
Where should I begin? If you read these often, I wonder if I have repetitive themes…if I seem to come back to the same place over and over. I don’t re-read once I’m through. Okay, that’s a small stretch. I rarely recall what I put here from one day to the next. That much is true.
I did something bizarre tonight…looking back. Something I did a while ago. This little thing called 20th Mile. I put the trailer…meaning not the short in its entirety…up for sake of reference…
http://homepage.mac.com/winburnsmith/iMovieTheater9.html
It was my second short film. I haven’t seen it in…I don’t know, closing in on 2 years now. If you’ve seen me, read me…you might think what I’m about to spout is a hack. I have a very, very hard time watching myself. I made another short, Harmony Battle in January. And that trailer…
http://homepage.mac.com/winburnsmith/harmonybattle/iMovieTheater4.html
I sent it out to friends, family…whatever. The day I finished editing in January was the last time I saw it. Strange…someone with as much self love as I do having a tough time taking a peek. It’s true. I watched them both tonight. I was stirred up before…but like crazy now.
20th Mile did it.
And I’ll be very forward. I understand that in life, everything is sweeter looking back. Adventures painted immortal. Star-crossed, overthrowing love. Laughter that sheds tears…
Actually, fuck understanding. The grass isn’t always greener. It WAS greener. I had all that and more. And I still have that…it just needs to be found, not sought. Don’t spit because you feel like you have to.
Where was I? Right. 20th Mile. It was a snapshot of times where heart absolutely ruled. And watching it brought me back. I’ll never admit a “golden time” in my life. I don’t believe in it. Actually, it’s fucking wrong…maybe even sinful. Every day, every year…take it for what it’s worth.
But my guts were out that last semester…hit by shots on so many sides. I can’t even begin to explain. So many great…and equally horrible. It’s all inside this 30-minute quickie. And not just that last semester, but all four years. And by all four years, I mean my life.
That’s not saying I let all of this go, but right now, I wonder…where the fuck is it hiding out here? In Los Angeles?
Champaign, Illinois. This safe little thing in the middle of nowhere…cold, flat, dead. I can only recollect my life through feeling…and it was good.
…
I used to go to bed and lie there…two hours after I turned off the lights. My stomach running too hard to go to sleep. This heart pumping something more than blood. Thicker, stronger.
Awfully heart on the sleeve, is it? Do I sound like a flake spouting like that…to you?
Then get fucked. I mean that, sincerely. I’m off…beat…or something. I don’t ache for that need to be cute…or secretive…or subtle. You know, the kind of thing you can only speak when you’re drunk or high. Or like the moment before you are about to lose something that you were too fucking blind to see coming. Something you can’t live without?
You relate? How sad. And what a terrible trick…to lead you on a sinking ship, right before it hits that iceberg.
Shit like that doesn’t occur here. Waiting to speak? Not here, not ever.
Fuck Los Angeles…
Fuck the 405, the 10 and the 101.
Fuck the cancer in the air, the cancer waiting in my lungs.
Fuck the fake starlet whores.
Fuck LA smiles.
Fuck LA “souls.”
Fuck headshots.
Fuck meetings.
Fuck lunches.
Fuck promises.
Fuck fake tits.
Fuck those above me who forget they WERE me.
Fuck you. You never were.
Fuck the coke blowers.
Fuck the cross dressers.
Fuck the Hills.
Fuck the Valleys.
Fuck LAX.
Fuck 360 days of sun.
Fuck the 5 of rain.
Fuck this heartless city and the people in it.
Fuck self-absorbed.
Fuck everyone that has turned me down.
Fuck everyone that will hand me the reigns.
No. Fuck me. A 24 year old who thinks he knows everything…who thinks he has a key to it all and that anyone cares. A stranger, lost. Fucked, fucked, fucked.
Fuck me. This last year…for smiling, laughing, humoring when I didn’t mean it. For tiptoeing…playing it safe. For leaning towards the safety of apologetic. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.
No sleeping tonight. This…shit. This good, fucking shit. Where have I been? Too sweet, too kind...too safe? Where the fuck has it been? Where the fuck have I been?
What do you do when all of a sudden, something hits you and you want to throw a fist through a brick wall. Who do you tell? Who do you talk to? This shit…this shit you’re reading. It’s foolish, it’s irresponsible. It’s sometimes telling too much. Giving too much.
So where are we going today boys and girls? I think it’s coming, no need to write an opus tonight.
I watched that little fucking short. You know what I did when I finished…originally? I sent it out. I showed it around with a stamp. This is me. This is my love. This is everything I can wrap my heart around at this moment in my life. No apologies. Never an apology.
I’m not sure at what point it surfaced out here, but I’ve been afraid. Afraid that every meeting will be my last. That every pitch will be mocked. That my words will be picked apart and chewed up. In short, that everything I aim to do will be a complete misfire. I suppose it’s natural. It’s a dangerous business, putting yourself out there. Some of the offices I was in, and that quick were…intimidating. Or, could be considered as such. I guess I can justify how even a strong state of mind could waver. How even my mind…the mind I tote and strut about these pages can at moments become weak.
And again, fuck me for that. No excuses. I don’t mean to be angry. I don’t mean to be anything other than what I am…and all of a sudden, guilt. Fucking guilt like I did something wrong.
And maybe I am guilty. Guilty of doubting my invincibility. It doesn’t happen often, but still…
Still.
Here we come, full circle. Why the ill-temper? I can’t stand growing up…to learn something every day that I pray I could have known the day before. The world’s greatest tragedy occurs the moment you’re content with yourself, your knowledge, your trip…tragic because it only occurs the moment you die. We hit our stride as our last breath escapes. The last drop of understanding. I want it all…I want it now and forever. Fuck me, but it hurts.
And I think for a little while there, I was in danger of growing out of “this phase.” I was in danger of going into a trance that lasts forever…with no one to snap me out of it.
One of these days, I’ll never say another word. But not today...and no time soon. There’s just too much.
October 31, 2005
October 28, 2005
Lend Me Your Ears and I'll Sing You A Song...
Fred Savage came into the restaurant tonight. Ah, Wonder Years. Remember? I do. Want to know what else I remember…exactly?
Third grade. I don’t know why all of my childhood references seem to trace back to that same year, but they do. Must have been one of the criticals. When Freddie walked in, I could think only of square dancing.
Yes, SD. The forecast is doubtful that SD infused curriculums span elementary schools across the country, but for two weeks, every third grader that passes the realm of Sheridan School in Lake Forest, Illinois learns the ins and outs. And wouldn’t you know…a memorable episode of Wonder Years aired the night before we were going to start. Allow me to lend precious insight to that fateful day.
Getting your partner is everything. Everything. How do I put this…delicately? In third grade, square dancing is sex. Sex is square dancing. Hot, relentless, glorious. The rare, knock me back sort that comes along once every…let’s not delve.
The touch, the spin, the dose-e-doe. Oh, blow me spell check. Nobody knows dose-e-doe.
I landed my girl. As far as I was concerned in my “Wonder Years,” she was THE GIRL. Allison Martinet. No fictitious names here boys and girls. Possibly mis-spelled, but not fictitious. I was sweet on her. I think she was sweet on me. Cheers Miss Norman. That day, you made my life. Anyone else and I’d likely be mining indistinctive ore in southern Wyoming.
I think we were good. Who remembers anyway? Or more important…who the fuck cares?
But I do remember the doors that opened after our fateful pairing. I remember when second base was kissing with a bit more than lips. Bizarre…but I do remember…the back hallway at Hawthorn theater. I wonder what Allison is up to.
And I wonder if my readers are connected enough where Allison lends a response. Was it Hawthorn Theater? 4th Grade? Or am I way off? I’m pretty sure we haven’t spoken in years.
We’ll see….
All because Fred Savage came in tonight.
Sometimes…I wander.
Guess what’s gone to holy hell? Or am I getting redundant? I don’t remember how long ago it was that you could quote me as saying I had a good job. Nothing like working 28 nights in October to bleed the soul.
We caught our managers cooking the books. Last Monday, 450 dollars disappeared from the tip pool. Someone’s been taking our money. And by taking, I mean stealing. And by stealing…that ain’t cool.
So anyway, it’s time to go. I’m miserable, only working to build a cushion. And yes, I realize how badly that screams hypocrite. How does that not go against everything that I am…that I preach? Exactly.
We all could have walked tonight…and the notion was circulating. For whatever reason, it didn’t happen. It’s that guilt…that hesitation where no matter the certainty of deception, you give someone the benefit of the doubt. The terrible weakness of being kind. That little bitch of a pestering voice…
What if I’m wrong?
We called a meeting. My opening argument went along the lines of, “We have a serious problem with the tip pool. I’m an instinctual man and I trust my instincts. They tell me that we’re being deceived…that you’re backpedaling, making up stories…and we’re being lied to.”
If you’re the manager…or better yet, a world renowned Matre’D and one of your minions accuses you of lying…and stealing, what’s your response? Yes, I’m asking.
Here’s how it went…and how it goes if you are lying through your teeth:
- Where’s (insert our GM’s name)? Could you please find him? He handles tips.
- He said you handle tips. (Insert uncomfortable silence).
Enter our GM…who’s been hiding his head in the sand the last two days.
- So here’s the problem I think you’re talking about. Monday’s party. You see. There was a service charge of 20% because of the size of the party. You see. And they tipped on top of that. Okay. So…wait, what was I saying? Sorry. I had to just like climb up like three flights of stairs. Hold on. Let me catch my breath.
Shit you not…on with the show.
- So, you guys get the tip and the service charge (which is a...tip) goes to the house.
They knew we were coming and that’s all the sparkle we got. At least dance a dance. Coat that shit sugary sweet.
If these accusations were completely unfounded, and everyone could look down at clean hands, here’s how it should have gone:
-What did you just say? Are you serious? You’re questioning me? My dignity, my character? Who are you? Who the fuck are you? Get out of my restaurant. Your last check will be mailed with a, “Go fistfuck yourself and don’t ever come back.” I never, ever want to see you again.
Or maybe that was exactly what I was crossing fingers for…to stage some dramatic, have fun running it without us walk out. It didn’t happen. If they were to oust me, I could at least collect severance. The only problem is that my job security is limitless. I can call my bosses liars and cheats, go in the next day, and they’ll kiss my ass and cross their fingers that I don’t walk out…that none of us walk out. If you ever find yourself in a managerial situation such as previously mentioned…you don’t exactly own the high ground…in case that’s not blatantly obvious.
I’m pretty sure I mentioned the same cliché characteristics in my initial interview.
- Hard worker, dedicated, reliable, personable…
And didn’t mention that when the luster wears off, I become the most rabid fucking revolutionist against authority in all its forms. And more dangerous yet…my words inspire…and will lead to an overthrow in the ballpark of 98%.
Fuck with me and I will fuck you. That’s a terrible thing to say, is it not? I completely agree. But I can say such things. I have the right. Why? Because I can also say show me love and you will be my Queen. You will be my King. You will be whatever you ever wanted to be. Sometimes, I find it troubling how this pendulum of mine swings. More often than not, though…I end up giving thanks.
There’s tragedy behind this…and on so many levels. I can’t even get into it. For the past 5 months, I’ve lived my life with these people. And in some fucked up way, it’s going to be sad to leave. It’s just the way I am…like waving goodbye to a vacation spot you see once a year even though you’re dying to get back home. Obscure references, I know…but if you get it, you get it.
It’s just that…this isn’t how I want to go out. It’s not my style.
This place suffocates, robs away the foolish. The foolish that gets me by in a manner that…how do I explain? I’m just…such a dreamer. And I want more of it back.
I’m just…there are bits and pieces of life out there…things that make me so heavy I have to fill up, blow out and smile just to breathe. And I don’t recall ever finding one at the Argyle Hotel.
Bits and pieces like the one riding #15 in spin. Bits and pieces like what’s starting to flow on my sheets the second time through. Bits and pieces that will rain from the sky as I wonder through the years that come.
What a cheat, to tie it back with a line like that.
Believe me…I know.
Third grade. I don’t know why all of my childhood references seem to trace back to that same year, but they do. Must have been one of the criticals. When Freddie walked in, I could think only of square dancing.
Yes, SD. The forecast is doubtful that SD infused curriculums span elementary schools across the country, but for two weeks, every third grader that passes the realm of Sheridan School in Lake Forest, Illinois learns the ins and outs. And wouldn’t you know…a memorable episode of Wonder Years aired the night before we were going to start. Allow me to lend precious insight to that fateful day.
Getting your partner is everything. Everything. How do I put this…delicately? In third grade, square dancing is sex. Sex is square dancing. Hot, relentless, glorious. The rare, knock me back sort that comes along once every…let’s not delve.
The touch, the spin, the dose-e-doe. Oh, blow me spell check. Nobody knows dose-e-doe.
I landed my girl. As far as I was concerned in my “Wonder Years,” she was THE GIRL. Allison Martinet. No fictitious names here boys and girls. Possibly mis-spelled, but not fictitious. I was sweet on her. I think she was sweet on me. Cheers Miss Norman. That day, you made my life. Anyone else and I’d likely be mining indistinctive ore in southern Wyoming.
I think we were good. Who remembers anyway? Or more important…who the fuck cares?
But I do remember the doors that opened after our fateful pairing. I remember when second base was kissing with a bit more than lips. Bizarre…but I do remember…the back hallway at Hawthorn theater. I wonder what Allison is up to.
And I wonder if my readers are connected enough where Allison lends a response. Was it Hawthorn Theater? 4th Grade? Or am I way off? I’m pretty sure we haven’t spoken in years.
We’ll see….
All because Fred Savage came in tonight.
Sometimes…I wander.
Guess what’s gone to holy hell? Or am I getting redundant? I don’t remember how long ago it was that you could quote me as saying I had a good job. Nothing like working 28 nights in October to bleed the soul.
We caught our managers cooking the books. Last Monday, 450 dollars disappeared from the tip pool. Someone’s been taking our money. And by taking, I mean stealing. And by stealing…that ain’t cool.
So anyway, it’s time to go. I’m miserable, only working to build a cushion. And yes, I realize how badly that screams hypocrite. How does that not go against everything that I am…that I preach? Exactly.
We all could have walked tonight…and the notion was circulating. For whatever reason, it didn’t happen. It’s that guilt…that hesitation where no matter the certainty of deception, you give someone the benefit of the doubt. The terrible weakness of being kind. That little bitch of a pestering voice…
What if I’m wrong?
We called a meeting. My opening argument went along the lines of, “We have a serious problem with the tip pool. I’m an instinctual man and I trust my instincts. They tell me that we’re being deceived…that you’re backpedaling, making up stories…and we’re being lied to.”
If you’re the manager…or better yet, a world renowned Matre’D and one of your minions accuses you of lying…and stealing, what’s your response? Yes, I’m asking.
Here’s how it went…and how it goes if you are lying through your teeth:
- Where’s (insert our GM’s name)? Could you please find him? He handles tips.
- He said you handle tips. (Insert uncomfortable silence).
Enter our GM…who’s been hiding his head in the sand the last two days.
- So here’s the problem I think you’re talking about. Monday’s party. You see. There was a service charge of 20% because of the size of the party. You see. And they tipped on top of that. Okay. So…wait, what was I saying? Sorry. I had to just like climb up like three flights of stairs. Hold on. Let me catch my breath.
Shit you not…on with the show.
- So, you guys get the tip and the service charge (which is a...tip) goes to the house.
They knew we were coming and that’s all the sparkle we got. At least dance a dance. Coat that shit sugary sweet.
If these accusations were completely unfounded, and everyone could look down at clean hands, here’s how it should have gone:
-What did you just say? Are you serious? You’re questioning me? My dignity, my character? Who are you? Who the fuck are you? Get out of my restaurant. Your last check will be mailed with a, “Go fistfuck yourself and don’t ever come back.” I never, ever want to see you again.
Or maybe that was exactly what I was crossing fingers for…to stage some dramatic, have fun running it without us walk out. It didn’t happen. If they were to oust me, I could at least collect severance. The only problem is that my job security is limitless. I can call my bosses liars and cheats, go in the next day, and they’ll kiss my ass and cross their fingers that I don’t walk out…that none of us walk out. If you ever find yourself in a managerial situation such as previously mentioned…you don’t exactly own the high ground…in case that’s not blatantly obvious.
I’m pretty sure I mentioned the same cliché characteristics in my initial interview.
- Hard worker, dedicated, reliable, personable…
And didn’t mention that when the luster wears off, I become the most rabid fucking revolutionist against authority in all its forms. And more dangerous yet…my words inspire…and will lead to an overthrow in the ballpark of 98%.
Fuck with me and I will fuck you. That’s a terrible thing to say, is it not? I completely agree. But I can say such things. I have the right. Why? Because I can also say show me love and you will be my Queen. You will be my King. You will be whatever you ever wanted to be. Sometimes, I find it troubling how this pendulum of mine swings. More often than not, though…I end up giving thanks.
There’s tragedy behind this…and on so many levels. I can’t even get into it. For the past 5 months, I’ve lived my life with these people. And in some fucked up way, it’s going to be sad to leave. It’s just the way I am…like waving goodbye to a vacation spot you see once a year even though you’re dying to get back home. Obscure references, I know…but if you get it, you get it.
It’s just that…this isn’t how I want to go out. It’s not my style.
This place suffocates, robs away the foolish. The foolish that gets me by in a manner that…how do I explain? I’m just…such a dreamer. And I want more of it back.
I’m just…there are bits and pieces of life out there…things that make me so heavy I have to fill up, blow out and smile just to breathe. And I don’t recall ever finding one at the Argyle Hotel.
Bits and pieces like the one riding #15 in spin. Bits and pieces like what’s starting to flow on my sheets the second time through. Bits and pieces that will rain from the sky as I wonder through the years that come.
What a cheat, to tie it back with a line like that.
Believe me…I know.
October 19, 2005
Fall Mix...
For me, it’s like this. You hear a great song…one you crave to hear over and over, and it turns into your soundtrack. It becomes part of your life, always riding shotgun until another takes its place. Sound like a Time-Life infomercial???
Go fuck yourself.
Anyway…years down the road, when an old song comes out of nowhere…it hits you with something. Some kind of happiness. Some kind of hurt. It reminds you of someone that was in your life. Something you were battling…whatever. But it’s one hell of a connection.
So…for both you and me, I am going to bookmark NOW with the songs of my life. Slap a label on top. Late Fall, 2006. Five, ten, twenty years down the road…when I hear these songs, I will remember THIS exact time in my life. All that I am…all that I was…all that I wanted to be.
No explanation necessary, but the order was carefully selected. I Tunes has got em all…I believe. Not too few, not too many. Just right.
May every song I ever list remind me of how foolish I was…for always and ever.
1. All These Things I’ve Done – The Killers
2. Fix You – Coldplay
3. Come Pick Me Up – Ryan Adams
4. Heysatan – Sigur Ros
5. My Father’s Gun – Elton John
6. Jesus Walks – Kanye West
7. Io (This Time Around) – Helen Stellar
8. Hide and Seek – Imogen Heap
9. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over – Jeff Buckley
How bout you? The silent congregation. What am I, your lit whore? You come for a quickie that ALWAYS ends up all over my face…then you throw a 20 on the tussled sheets before slamming the door on your way out. Where’s the respect? Give me a song. I don’t even care if you say Mariah Carey. Yes, I hate that bitch…but that first single…guilty.
Go fuck yourself.
Anyway…years down the road, when an old song comes out of nowhere…it hits you with something. Some kind of happiness. Some kind of hurt. It reminds you of someone that was in your life. Something you were battling…whatever. But it’s one hell of a connection.
So…for both you and me, I am going to bookmark NOW with the songs of my life. Slap a label on top. Late Fall, 2006. Five, ten, twenty years down the road…when I hear these songs, I will remember THIS exact time in my life. All that I am…all that I was…all that I wanted to be.
No explanation necessary, but the order was carefully selected. I Tunes has got em all…I believe. Not too few, not too many. Just right.
May every song I ever list remind me of how foolish I was…for always and ever.
1. All These Things I’ve Done – The Killers
2. Fix You – Coldplay
3. Come Pick Me Up – Ryan Adams
4. Heysatan – Sigur Ros
5. My Father’s Gun – Elton John
6. Jesus Walks – Kanye West
7. Io (This Time Around) – Helen Stellar
8. Hide and Seek – Imogen Heap
9. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over – Jeff Buckley
How bout you? The silent congregation. What am I, your lit whore? You come for a quickie that ALWAYS ends up all over my face…then you throw a 20 on the tussled sheets before slamming the door on your way out. Where’s the respect? Give me a song. I don’t even care if you say Mariah Carey. Yes, I hate that bitch…but that first single…guilty.
October 17, 2005
Elizabethtown and my next thing...
It was great. Cameron Crowe never misses his mark. Vanilla Sky still sits on top of my list. He’s got heart and slaps it out there. It’s the one fault I keep hearing…reading over and over in the reviews. Why? There’s vulnerability when you go for the emotional throat. It’s a roll of the dice. If you hit it right, you create something memorable, something that doesn’t come and go on its “numbers.”
People wonder what’s wrong with the movie “industry.” I’ll tell you. Fantastic Four opened to 60 million. Liz Town pulled 11 million. I understand my bias…that I would likely stand up for anything Crowe did…but Fantastic Four was shit in a plastic bag with a yellow ribbon. And that’s being generous.
Wanna know the result? Fantastic Four becomes a franchise. The sequel comes summer 2007. The third installment one year later. The next time Cameron Crowe wants to make a film, his climbing hill gets steeper. Troubling indeed.
But every now and again, a film comes along that shifts perspective. For instance, Crash. Here’s a small film…an original voice. Initially, it opens on a few screens, slowly picks up steam and becomes this huge hit. Critically and commercially. Great! Right? I should be happy. Movies like Crash broaden the perspective, right? It proves there may yet be hope for the masses…
But I hated that fucking movie.
So that solves zero. Fuck. Okay. The blanket problem is Orlando Bloom. It’s not that I dislike him…he’s just not the guy I’d want at the plate in the bottom of the 9th with the winning run on second base. Maybe in a few years, maybe. He’s good at slapping doubles down the line. I’ll give that much. But when it comes to taking it out of the park, it’s always a fly ball to the warning track. He’s not yet the star this town makes him out to be.
Kirsten Dunst is. And it has nothing to do with my sexual orientation.
Tonight, at Whole Foods, I fell in love for 7 seconds. I didn’t see her face or figure, just that she was wearing a red hat. That’s all it took. Why? Go see the movie and you’ll quickly wonder or understand…but at least you’ll have a point of reference.
She was sparkling. Ms. Dunst, that is.
Anyway, that’s enough about Liz Town. Onward to the so-called “sweet life.” I was at the gym right around the time I decided a change of direction was necessary. New job, new apt…all that good stuff. I’ll tell you about my gym.
Equinox, West Hollywood. It’s nice. Beautiful, successful people. Upper/middle echelon LA. I sneak in through the back door, but only in terms of success…of course. Some of the people are even quite decent. Not that I’m judgmental…
It’s also pretty gay. A straight man may even fall into the minority. If you’re from another part of the country, particularly outside of a major city, that may be hard to believe…but it’s true.
One day, I was doing curls. I don’t know if it’s my baby face, or some kind of friendly pheromone I give off, but I’m approached quite often. And yes…by men who want to be more than friends.
“You know, when you’re doing curls, let your hand fall and your wrist drag. My trainer told me years ago and it makes all the difference.”
He went on about my blessed genetics. Sometimes, I forget my height. At least I think that’s what he was talking about. We spoke small before I dropped one of my trademark exit lines. I thought it might have been a little presuming of me to come out and say I appreciate the interest, but that I’m really not interested in…dick. At least not anyone else’s.
So a week and a half passes. Something like that. My time frame is a little foggy, but I do know that I met him before I decided to shake my life up. I’m giving my month’s notice from the Tower Bar this week and have been looking for apartments. Rent in LA is very expensive. I wanted to find a place in the hills, a guest apartment. Something of an escape from the mainland down below. But realistically, that’s not realistic.
So anyway, I had been looking on Craigslist. Something I vowed against since my early Hollywood days of freelance gigging. There was a posting -- live-in assistant -- Sunset Plaza.
I live behind Sunset Plaza. It’s the area that has grown into my LA nest. I have no interest in leaving any time soon. So, I replied. Photo, quick bio…figured I’d wait and see. If you have ever been on Craigslist, you know it’s a zoo.
I’ve also made posts from my days with the Lingerie Bowl. You have no idea how many people reply. To a post like this, I’d stab in the ballpark of 500.
An e-mail came the next morning. It went something like. “Holy shit, you’re that kid from the gym. I was telling you about the wrist trick.” This was Wednesday.
Yesterday, I was up at his house…pitching. I told him about my new project, the one I’m writing. Personally, I feel like it’s a curse to give out anything more than not much while you’re in the process...so I didn’t. More than anything, it was a meet and greet. Feel each other out. In this town, when you pitch…you’re pitching 40% what you’re working on. The other 60% is about you. Behavior, mannerisms, vibe. Since I’m comfortable with who I am and the impressions I leave behind, it’s comforting to think I already have 60% in the bag. But then again, what do I know?
Plenty.
Oh, and I forgot. He’s married, has 2 kids and 2 gorgeous Huskies. I didn’t know real dogs existed in this town. It’s all these little fucking rodents. Dogs I would just as soon punt as pat.
We shot ideas, talked about the state of movies. He had some well-connected ideas that I thought were solid…exciting projects that are about to get off the ground. But right away, I could tell he had been broken. One of his initial confessions was that after all his time in this town, he has learned to focus on what sells. He gets his hard-on talking about the ultimate example in high concept/cash out pitches. Liar, Liar. A lawyer can’t tell a lie. My hard-on comes from writing stories that I think would stand out from the heap of high concept cash ins. The kind that I want to see. The kind that I want to write about. It sounds like we would be miles apart and would have a hard time working together. I don’t think so.
He’s seasoned, I’m green. I think the key to my success will fall somewhere in the middle. Closer to my side than his, but still in the middle. He’s already found success. Quite a bit from the looks of things. Still, that doesn’t mean you jump ship and head East when in your heart…you know paradise lies west.
Anyway…
Private apartment, private entrance. And the place is…yeah, kind of nice. Like spiral staircase into a tower room, nice. Jacuzzi, grill, patio. I’m not sure what else I could ask for. I wanted new job…a new place. Here it is. I’m moving out December 1st. The position opens right after Thanksgiving.
I’m not saying it’s mine. But things seem to be progressing rather fast. It’s time for a change. What more could I ask for…and this quick?
You know me…plenty.
And you’ll be the first to hear.
People wonder what’s wrong with the movie “industry.” I’ll tell you. Fantastic Four opened to 60 million. Liz Town pulled 11 million. I understand my bias…that I would likely stand up for anything Crowe did…but Fantastic Four was shit in a plastic bag with a yellow ribbon. And that’s being generous.
Wanna know the result? Fantastic Four becomes a franchise. The sequel comes summer 2007. The third installment one year later. The next time Cameron Crowe wants to make a film, his climbing hill gets steeper. Troubling indeed.
But every now and again, a film comes along that shifts perspective. For instance, Crash. Here’s a small film…an original voice. Initially, it opens on a few screens, slowly picks up steam and becomes this huge hit. Critically and commercially. Great! Right? I should be happy. Movies like Crash broaden the perspective, right? It proves there may yet be hope for the masses…
But I hated that fucking movie.
So that solves zero. Fuck. Okay. The blanket problem is Orlando Bloom. It’s not that I dislike him…he’s just not the guy I’d want at the plate in the bottom of the 9th with the winning run on second base. Maybe in a few years, maybe. He’s good at slapping doubles down the line. I’ll give that much. But when it comes to taking it out of the park, it’s always a fly ball to the warning track. He’s not yet the star this town makes him out to be.
Kirsten Dunst is. And it has nothing to do with my sexual orientation.
Tonight, at Whole Foods, I fell in love for 7 seconds. I didn’t see her face or figure, just that she was wearing a red hat. That’s all it took. Why? Go see the movie and you’ll quickly wonder or understand…but at least you’ll have a point of reference.
She was sparkling. Ms. Dunst, that is.
Anyway, that’s enough about Liz Town. Onward to the so-called “sweet life.” I was at the gym right around the time I decided a change of direction was necessary. New job, new apt…all that good stuff. I’ll tell you about my gym.
Equinox, West Hollywood. It’s nice. Beautiful, successful people. Upper/middle echelon LA. I sneak in through the back door, but only in terms of success…of course. Some of the people are even quite decent. Not that I’m judgmental…
It’s also pretty gay. A straight man may even fall into the minority. If you’re from another part of the country, particularly outside of a major city, that may be hard to believe…but it’s true.
One day, I was doing curls. I don’t know if it’s my baby face, or some kind of friendly pheromone I give off, but I’m approached quite often. And yes…by men who want to be more than friends.
“You know, when you’re doing curls, let your hand fall and your wrist drag. My trainer told me years ago and it makes all the difference.”
He went on about my blessed genetics. Sometimes, I forget my height. At least I think that’s what he was talking about. We spoke small before I dropped one of my trademark exit lines. I thought it might have been a little presuming of me to come out and say I appreciate the interest, but that I’m really not interested in…dick. At least not anyone else’s.
So a week and a half passes. Something like that. My time frame is a little foggy, but I do know that I met him before I decided to shake my life up. I’m giving my month’s notice from the Tower Bar this week and have been looking for apartments. Rent in LA is very expensive. I wanted to find a place in the hills, a guest apartment. Something of an escape from the mainland down below. But realistically, that’s not realistic.
So anyway, I had been looking on Craigslist. Something I vowed against since my early Hollywood days of freelance gigging. There was a posting -- live-in assistant -- Sunset Plaza.
I live behind Sunset Plaza. It’s the area that has grown into my LA nest. I have no interest in leaving any time soon. So, I replied. Photo, quick bio…figured I’d wait and see. If you have ever been on Craigslist, you know it’s a zoo.
I’ve also made posts from my days with the Lingerie Bowl. You have no idea how many people reply. To a post like this, I’d stab in the ballpark of 500.
An e-mail came the next morning. It went something like. “Holy shit, you’re that kid from the gym. I was telling you about the wrist trick.” This was Wednesday.
Yesterday, I was up at his house…pitching. I told him about my new project, the one I’m writing. Personally, I feel like it’s a curse to give out anything more than not much while you’re in the process...so I didn’t. More than anything, it was a meet and greet. Feel each other out. In this town, when you pitch…you’re pitching 40% what you’re working on. The other 60% is about you. Behavior, mannerisms, vibe. Since I’m comfortable with who I am and the impressions I leave behind, it’s comforting to think I already have 60% in the bag. But then again, what do I know?
Plenty.
Oh, and I forgot. He’s married, has 2 kids and 2 gorgeous Huskies. I didn’t know real dogs existed in this town. It’s all these little fucking rodents. Dogs I would just as soon punt as pat.
We shot ideas, talked about the state of movies. He had some well-connected ideas that I thought were solid…exciting projects that are about to get off the ground. But right away, I could tell he had been broken. One of his initial confessions was that after all his time in this town, he has learned to focus on what sells. He gets his hard-on talking about the ultimate example in high concept/cash out pitches. Liar, Liar. A lawyer can’t tell a lie. My hard-on comes from writing stories that I think would stand out from the heap of high concept cash ins. The kind that I want to see. The kind that I want to write about. It sounds like we would be miles apart and would have a hard time working together. I don’t think so.
He’s seasoned, I’m green. I think the key to my success will fall somewhere in the middle. Closer to my side than his, but still in the middle. He’s already found success. Quite a bit from the looks of things. Still, that doesn’t mean you jump ship and head East when in your heart…you know paradise lies west.
Anyway…
Private apartment, private entrance. And the place is…yeah, kind of nice. Like spiral staircase into a tower room, nice. Jacuzzi, grill, patio. I’m not sure what else I could ask for. I wanted new job…a new place. Here it is. I’m moving out December 1st. The position opens right after Thanksgiving.
I’m not saying it’s mine. But things seem to be progressing rather fast. It’s time for a change. What more could I ask for…and this quick?
You know me…plenty.
And you’ll be the first to hear.
October 12, 2005
Mutiny at The Tower Bar...
Our ironman Scottish barkeep walked tonight. He collected his tips with a peace out. No notice. Nothing. It's so terribly inconsiderate and unprofessional. And yet, we all had his back. The minions at least. He worked eleven hour shifts 6 days a week. Good luck filling that.
Our pastry chef, my Sugarmama, bolted. And Sugarmama…give a shout if you’re still reading this. The minions miss you.
Our GM is on his way out.
I wanted to leave to handshakes, hugs, winks and sweet cheeks. I wanted to come back in a few months to have a drink...to see that the child I partially fathered had grown into a strapping young adult. Now, I'm starting to worry about the welfare of "One of LA's 5 hot restaurants."
Everyone has their breaking point. You have no idea. That’s all I can say. The employees of the Tower Bar are black eyed wives who come crawling back. He struck me with a hand of love, we say. And then we ask HIM to forgive US.
It's as if a domestic abuse consultant paid a visit to 8358 Sunset and began bludgeoning us with positive re-enforcement. You can do better than this...respect yourself, your body...you have the power to change your life...
Okay...It's not quite that serious. Yes, I’m a little concerned about the future of the Tower Bar, but they'll manage. They'll be fine. My child may have a few brush ins with the law...some petty things like underage possession, transportation and mob action...but he'll come out clean on the other end. After all, it's our trials that make us stronger. Trust my words. Write what you know, that's what they say.
What a dustfucking time of year. October...no man's land. The season is about to change. Well, never here...but if you're lucky, you know what I mean. I miss it. It's about that time when the months hold value. The grab hold of the heart variety. But still, they’re quite a ways away.
I'm trying to figure out this standstill. Maybe it's just me. One of my greatest gifflaws is knowing deep down...that I'm an incredibly self-absorbed person. I have to be. Think about it. In this life...in my life, the one and only thing I want to do is tell stories. Touch the masses, reach millions...all that good stuff. If I believe in my path, which I absolutely do, I have to believe that my view of the world is the view for which the masses blindly yearn…
Everyone’s waiting for someone to take their hand. Always.
I sit here, spout my life and know there’s temptation to define. Tell me who I am, go ahead. The thing is...I know my words inside and out. I know every implication behind every word. The little dance every phrase chooses or chooses not to make. If a word takes you by the hand and steps on your toe...it meant to. If it dips you carefully only to lose strength and drop you...it meant to. If it spins you round, makes you fall in love just before kissing you so perfectly sweet...well then you're just giving too much credit. I'm not that good…
In a blog.
The problem is that I'm living to save dimes. It’s expensive to be a free man in LA for December and January. And that’s what I need to be. I wake up every day and slug it out with my first draft. I'm looking at it right now. 87 pages. It's coming. Been a little over three weeks and tomorrow morning, round 18.
But in the back of my mind, I'm guilty of looking forward...slightly. And that's my greatest personal sin. Because dying tomorrow isn’t some bull shit motto to live life by. I absolutely mean it. I’m rarely guilty, but right now, it’s hard not to be. Can you blame? In these months coming, I'll let a heart do what it must...and thinking about it makes me smile.
But that's enough...for now. Cause these next 5 weeks will likely be a slugfest. And when they're gone...I'll miss them. And when they come back…somehow, I’ll be happy to see them again. Ain’t it funny?
You see what I'm saying?
Then don’t just read, listen. I wouldn’t be here if I thought I were wasting your time.
Our pastry chef, my Sugarmama, bolted. And Sugarmama…give a shout if you’re still reading this. The minions miss you.
Our GM is on his way out.
I wanted to leave to handshakes, hugs, winks and sweet cheeks. I wanted to come back in a few months to have a drink...to see that the child I partially fathered had grown into a strapping young adult. Now, I'm starting to worry about the welfare of "One of LA's 5 hot restaurants."
Everyone has their breaking point. You have no idea. That’s all I can say. The employees of the Tower Bar are black eyed wives who come crawling back. He struck me with a hand of love, we say. And then we ask HIM to forgive US.
It's as if a domestic abuse consultant paid a visit to 8358 Sunset and began bludgeoning us with positive re-enforcement. You can do better than this...respect yourself, your body...you have the power to change your life...
Okay...It's not quite that serious. Yes, I’m a little concerned about the future of the Tower Bar, but they'll manage. They'll be fine. My child may have a few brush ins with the law...some petty things like underage possession, transportation and mob action...but he'll come out clean on the other end. After all, it's our trials that make us stronger. Trust my words. Write what you know, that's what they say.
What a dustfucking time of year. October...no man's land. The season is about to change. Well, never here...but if you're lucky, you know what I mean. I miss it. It's about that time when the months hold value. The grab hold of the heart variety. But still, they’re quite a ways away.
I'm trying to figure out this standstill. Maybe it's just me. One of my greatest gifflaws is knowing deep down...that I'm an incredibly self-absorbed person. I have to be. Think about it. In this life...in my life, the one and only thing I want to do is tell stories. Touch the masses, reach millions...all that good stuff. If I believe in my path, which I absolutely do, I have to believe that my view of the world is the view for which the masses blindly yearn…
Everyone’s waiting for someone to take their hand. Always.
I sit here, spout my life and know there’s temptation to define. Tell me who I am, go ahead. The thing is...I know my words inside and out. I know every implication behind every word. The little dance every phrase chooses or chooses not to make. If a word takes you by the hand and steps on your toe...it meant to. If it dips you carefully only to lose strength and drop you...it meant to. If it spins you round, makes you fall in love just before kissing you so perfectly sweet...well then you're just giving too much credit. I'm not that good…
In a blog.
The problem is that I'm living to save dimes. It’s expensive to be a free man in LA for December and January. And that’s what I need to be. I wake up every day and slug it out with my first draft. I'm looking at it right now. 87 pages. It's coming. Been a little over three weeks and tomorrow morning, round 18.
But in the back of my mind, I'm guilty of looking forward...slightly. And that's my greatest personal sin. Because dying tomorrow isn’t some bull shit motto to live life by. I absolutely mean it. I’m rarely guilty, but right now, it’s hard not to be. Can you blame? In these months coming, I'll let a heart do what it must...and thinking about it makes me smile.
But that's enough...for now. Cause these next 5 weeks will likely be a slugfest. And when they're gone...I'll miss them. And when they come back…somehow, I’ll be happy to see them again. Ain’t it funny?
You see what I'm saying?
Then don’t just read, listen. I wouldn’t be here if I thought I were wasting your time.
October 10, 2005
Sigur Ros
http://www.emichrysalis.co.uk/quicktime/sigur_ros/glosoli/index.php?version=7.020&bandwidth=150000
October 06, 2005
Winter Winds...Blowin' In.
Change is coming. Hard…
Last night, something shook the hell out of me.
I work 6 nights a week. That’s every night but Sunday. It’s tough, stressful work. The kind of job where you EARN every dollar. I’ve been there four months and have witnessed Tower Bar’s birth. It’s starting to boom. We get a great clientele and I’ve suddenly bounded into a rather silly income bracket. I have a college degree and drop food in front of people’s faces. Did I mention that?
But I found out last night (Tuesday) that Tower Bar absolutely needs me. I feel like I could garnish the asparagus puree with my vitamin-rich urine and not get fired.
I was invited to a very important dinner with a friend on Wednesday and had to leave early. I told our director (who is a service legend around the world and could quite possibly have been a loveable Hitler in a previous life--whatever that means) that I would have to leave early…and he had a Russian panic attack. Really. I’ve come to the realization that in this business…a good runner is difficult to find. And I’m solid. Not great, but solid. That’s as far as I’ll go. Others may speak different tones.
But after everything…the planning, the guilt (which you wouldn’t think would exist after someone works 13 straight days--it did), and the pleading…the dinner fell through. So, the fuss was completely unnecessary.
But my friends, the damage has been done.
I’m leaving Tower Bar. It’s a secret, but November 19th is my last day.
My rationale? Well, I was talking it through with our darling pastry chef tonight at work (who by the way, is also busting out of Dodge). I started to explain how I like my job. I’ve always liked my job. In a lot of ways, I like everything about it…and it’s going to be really sad when I leave when...
“Dude, commitment-phobe…popping up again. It’s kind of obvious.”
“What? I’m talking about work? What are you talking about?”
But she leaves. Crazy girl. Like she knows. And the wheels start spinning. Work-girlfriends…girlfriends-work. Suddenly, I’m adding a little extra punctuation on my mental notes. Something along the lines of, Crazy Girl???
We meet in May. I like the looks of the place. It’s gorgeous. Stunning. So I climb on board. I learn as I go, having NO previous experience in any restaurant…not to mention the highest of ends. But I learn, I adapt. I give it a shot…and things seem to click. I’m good to the restaurant, and the restaurant is good to me. Everyone says that once we get reviewed, the biz will double…triple. There is going to be this great prize waiting. Uh oh. You see that? You see where this is going?
Stay with me…
So time passes, we have our ups and downs. We drive each other crazy on the busy nights…mentally and physically exhausting nights…now coming six days a week. And it’s rough, but at the end of every night, I leave with a smile on my face.
Last week was our biggest ever. Things have supposedly finally clicked. I get my big prize…a promise fulfilled. I walk with a pocket of Bens. Everything is great, right? Um…
Suddenly, I’m feeling a lean. It starts slight…and just keeps growing. Oh wait. Here come the phone calls. Wait? Didn’t I just screen your call 20 minutes ago? Why are you calling back? Oh wait…no room. Uh oh. Why are you making me cynical? I’m not a cynical person. You NEED me to be here? You want to RELY on me?
Sorry. You’re really sweet, but no can do.
Maybe there are a few parallel lines running through there. Fine, many.
So I start to think. Not that I ever stop, but you know what I mean. I miss seeing the sun go down. The freedom of being untied for those magic 35 minutes…my greatest indulgence in life. I’ve been giving it up for the past 4 months.
And it’s no one’s fault. Like I said, it’s going to be a sad day when I walk from the Tower Bar…
But it’s not love…and that almost says it all.
Almost…
Every day that passes, I feel one day closer to dying. If you want to know EXACTLY what I’m feeling, that’s it.
And not everyone is born with that. Without it, where would I be? Not here. Not chasing this. I’d be someone else, somewhere else, something else…and I’ll pass on all three. Nothing trumps this. Five years from now, ten years from now…what can trump this? Every new minute of this life, that’s the question we should all be asking.
So I’m moving on…moving out. December 1st, I’m moving into a new apartment. One that slopes against the side of LA’s in-between canyons. Something tucked behind the trees. Smaller, tighter. Something that’s more…me. There are places in LA that feel thousands of miles away. I’ll find one.
Great is coming.
Can you feel it?
Last night, something shook the hell out of me.
I work 6 nights a week. That’s every night but Sunday. It’s tough, stressful work. The kind of job where you EARN every dollar. I’ve been there four months and have witnessed Tower Bar’s birth. It’s starting to boom. We get a great clientele and I’ve suddenly bounded into a rather silly income bracket. I have a college degree and drop food in front of people’s faces. Did I mention that?
But I found out last night (Tuesday) that Tower Bar absolutely needs me. I feel like I could garnish the asparagus puree with my vitamin-rich urine and not get fired.
I was invited to a very important dinner with a friend on Wednesday and had to leave early. I told our director (who is a service legend around the world and could quite possibly have been a loveable Hitler in a previous life--whatever that means) that I would have to leave early…and he had a Russian panic attack. Really. I’ve come to the realization that in this business…a good runner is difficult to find. And I’m solid. Not great, but solid. That’s as far as I’ll go. Others may speak different tones.
But after everything…the planning, the guilt (which you wouldn’t think would exist after someone works 13 straight days--it did), and the pleading…the dinner fell through. So, the fuss was completely unnecessary.
But my friends, the damage has been done.
I’m leaving Tower Bar. It’s a secret, but November 19th is my last day.
My rationale? Well, I was talking it through with our darling pastry chef tonight at work (who by the way, is also busting out of Dodge). I started to explain how I like my job. I’ve always liked my job. In a lot of ways, I like everything about it…and it’s going to be really sad when I leave when...
“Dude, commitment-phobe…popping up again. It’s kind of obvious.”
“What? I’m talking about work? What are you talking about?”
But she leaves. Crazy girl. Like she knows. And the wheels start spinning. Work-girlfriends…girlfriends-work. Suddenly, I’m adding a little extra punctuation on my mental notes. Something along the lines of, Crazy Girl???
We meet in May. I like the looks of the place. It’s gorgeous. Stunning. So I climb on board. I learn as I go, having NO previous experience in any restaurant…not to mention the highest of ends. But I learn, I adapt. I give it a shot…and things seem to click. I’m good to the restaurant, and the restaurant is good to me. Everyone says that once we get reviewed, the biz will double…triple. There is going to be this great prize waiting. Uh oh. You see that? You see where this is going?
Stay with me…
So time passes, we have our ups and downs. We drive each other crazy on the busy nights…mentally and physically exhausting nights…now coming six days a week. And it’s rough, but at the end of every night, I leave with a smile on my face.
Last week was our biggest ever. Things have supposedly finally clicked. I get my big prize…a promise fulfilled. I walk with a pocket of Bens. Everything is great, right? Um…
Suddenly, I’m feeling a lean. It starts slight…and just keeps growing. Oh wait. Here come the phone calls. Wait? Didn’t I just screen your call 20 minutes ago? Why are you calling back? Oh wait…no room. Uh oh. Why are you making me cynical? I’m not a cynical person. You NEED me to be here? You want to RELY on me?
Sorry. You’re really sweet, but no can do.
Maybe there are a few parallel lines running through there. Fine, many.
So I start to think. Not that I ever stop, but you know what I mean. I miss seeing the sun go down. The freedom of being untied for those magic 35 minutes…my greatest indulgence in life. I’ve been giving it up for the past 4 months.
And it’s no one’s fault. Like I said, it’s going to be a sad day when I walk from the Tower Bar…
But it’s not love…and that almost says it all.
Almost…
Every day that passes, I feel one day closer to dying. If you want to know EXACTLY what I’m feeling, that’s it.
And not everyone is born with that. Without it, where would I be? Not here. Not chasing this. I’d be someone else, somewhere else, something else…and I’ll pass on all three. Nothing trumps this. Five years from now, ten years from now…what can trump this? Every new minute of this life, that’s the question we should all be asking.
So I’m moving on…moving out. December 1st, I’m moving into a new apartment. One that slopes against the side of LA’s in-between canyons. Something tucked behind the trees. Smaller, tighter. Something that’s more…me. There are places in LA that feel thousands of miles away. I’ll find one.
Great is coming.
Can you feel it?
October 03, 2005
Rent Due...
1078.84. No. Thank you, West Hollywood.
It’s always such a difficult thing…catching up after being away. Though it’s been but a week, it always feels longer. Is that good or bad?
Naturally, the longer I venture away from the nest, the shittier it becomes. Twigs and berries all ruffled about. I want to say so much that instead…I opt to say very little or nothing at all. It’s the same reason I don’t believe much in catch up friends. Why put in so much work to always end where you began? But that’s for another day.
It’s Sunday…so me not speaking would toe the line of personal blasphemy. Let’s not touch that.
I was driving to work on Saturday…early evening. For any of those of you who know, XM radio is road trip road head in a convenient plastic receiver. Especially in the infinite radio abyss that is Los Angeles. There MIGHT be 1 station in town that doesn’t make me want to eat out of dog curbing refuse bags.
Do you ever hear a song and wonder how they got away with it? And right after, wonder what’s happened to the unapologetic, melodramatic rabble that used to glide through our airwaves? Well, that was my exact thought pattern as the early beats hit on Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is.” Wow. Pick that one up on I Tunes and re-discover a side of yourself that went extinct sometime over the past 6-14 years. The part that becomes re-born when that chorus drops. Where you actually reach out in gesture to the lovely lady waiting on red in the range next to you and seductively mouth, “I want you to show me,” and not care. That’s what I’m talking about.
Soon after, I crashed. No, not my car. Nothing like going to work for 13 straight days to kill a buzz. Then, nothing like trading a few words with…and let me preface by admitting these namedrops will be both shameless and unprofessional…Bill Murray and Joaquin Phoenix to help get you through running 100 covers.
Okay. Maybe that was a little misleading. By trading words, I mean…”Well, Mr. Murray, it’s a Japanese Cucumber with a white bean puree and heirloom tomato. Chives, EVO, Balsamic.” Usually, he talks shit about everything I bring to the table. This time, all I got were his eyes…which are the most hilariously tragic things you have ever seen. I am well aware of my habitual choices to use polarizing comparisons, but that’s it…dead on.
He was sitting with a gentleman that was partially to blame for the post I was supposed to write in between this and the last. A cat that was part of the heyday SNL crew. He wrote. That’s where the two of them originally hooked up. He was also the screenwriter for the second greatest Christmas/holiday film ever made. #1 - A Christmas Story. Any guesses on #2???
When I get really inspired, I tend to think irrationally. Or…not irrationally, but something else. I’m making that sound like it’s a bad thing. Irrationality. In truth, I don’t believe there should be any other driving force behind our thoughts or behaviors. We should all be foolish fools, all the time…all the way.
But I have a problem. My greatest “thing” is my fear of being “that guy.” My, oh my…how the quotes are flying this post. If you don’t know what “being that guy” means, then it is very likely that you have either recently, or quite frequently “been that guy” at some point in your life. It’s not something to shoot for.
It would mean asking him to talk shop on turf where it’s completely inappropriate to talk shop. It means that I would have to ask him the most clichéd question there is to ask. How do I write for SNL? Do I do it, or let it lie? Although he may have been asked by one thousand wannabes, he has never been asked by Reilly Smith. In the end…that’s the conclusion I keep coming back to…
So I may write a short letter…or nothing at all. Don’t know yet. I wrote a sample sketch this week to show some quick chops. You know, something fresh and not from the pile. It’s like flipping a coin at this point. I’ll let you know if I ever decide to be that guy. Sometimes, you just have to plug your nose and swallow, you know?
Regardless, I’ll post the sketch up here sometime soon. I think it could be pretty good. And, it’s SNL season again. In case any of your haven’t noticed, it’s still fucking great. It’s ALWAYS been fucking great.
Well, that’s odd. A HUGE tangent. Let’s call it stylistic. Back to the music…
I got home Saturday night and went after Foreigner. How could someone get away with singing a song like that today? It certainly didn’t stop there. When Lou Gramm left, he came out with a chart topper that raised the level of my query to exponential proportions. Ever heard the song, “Juke Box Hero?” Of course you have. Come up with a song like that today and you better be ready for constant, relentless, unstoppable sessions of shitkicking. Taking your dog for a walk? Shitkicking. Grocery shopping? Shitkicking. Donating food and clothes to your local Salvation Army? Gratitude for your generous contribution…then shitkicking. I mean…of course everyone dreams of being a jukebox hero…even today. I understand…and even sympathize with this notion. But you don’t come out and say it. Come on, dude. Lou got his, I know this.
So It’s Sunday night. With this one, I don’t know where I am or where I’m going, so maybe it’s best to cut loose.
I saw 4 movies today. That’s right, 4. This is my life, what can I say? Here’s a quick wrap…
Best Movie: A History of Violence – Solid…notably strong individual performances. One after the other.
Best Movie Moment: Serenity – Must see if you like sci-fi. Surprisingly very good. Fresh tone. Surprisingly…very good. I said it twice.
Most Overdue: Hotel Rwanda – Overdue. Nothing off-guard here. This may sound dick, but to me, there’s no sexy in truth. Cheers to a journalism major.
Ordinarily Pretty Good: Corpse Bride - Safe, entertaining…eh.
At least now I feel caught up. Maybe this week, we can get down in it…that is, if you don’t mind. It’s been two weeks and I’m 50 pages through the be-all, end-all script (at this point in my career). Last week was a tough one…but I have a feeling this one will fly…
And all of it will soon.
Nope. Sorry. Not in the mood to try and close on a pathetic clincher…not tonight.
Dumpy tucker mast, bounce bounce.
It’s always such a difficult thing…catching up after being away. Though it’s been but a week, it always feels longer. Is that good or bad?
Naturally, the longer I venture away from the nest, the shittier it becomes. Twigs and berries all ruffled about. I want to say so much that instead…I opt to say very little or nothing at all. It’s the same reason I don’t believe much in catch up friends. Why put in so much work to always end where you began? But that’s for another day.
It’s Sunday…so me not speaking would toe the line of personal blasphemy. Let’s not touch that.
I was driving to work on Saturday…early evening. For any of those of you who know, XM radio is road trip road head in a convenient plastic receiver. Especially in the infinite radio abyss that is Los Angeles. There MIGHT be 1 station in town that doesn’t make me want to eat out of dog curbing refuse bags.
Do you ever hear a song and wonder how they got away with it? And right after, wonder what’s happened to the unapologetic, melodramatic rabble that used to glide through our airwaves? Well, that was my exact thought pattern as the early beats hit on Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is.” Wow. Pick that one up on I Tunes and re-discover a side of yourself that went extinct sometime over the past 6-14 years. The part that becomes re-born when that chorus drops. Where you actually reach out in gesture to the lovely lady waiting on red in the range next to you and seductively mouth, “I want you to show me,” and not care. That’s what I’m talking about.
Soon after, I crashed. No, not my car. Nothing like going to work for 13 straight days to kill a buzz. Then, nothing like trading a few words with…and let me preface by admitting these namedrops will be both shameless and unprofessional…Bill Murray and Joaquin Phoenix to help get you through running 100 covers.
Okay. Maybe that was a little misleading. By trading words, I mean…”Well, Mr. Murray, it’s a Japanese Cucumber with a white bean puree and heirloom tomato. Chives, EVO, Balsamic.” Usually, he talks shit about everything I bring to the table. This time, all I got were his eyes…which are the most hilariously tragic things you have ever seen. I am well aware of my habitual choices to use polarizing comparisons, but that’s it…dead on.
He was sitting with a gentleman that was partially to blame for the post I was supposed to write in between this and the last. A cat that was part of the heyday SNL crew. He wrote. That’s where the two of them originally hooked up. He was also the screenwriter for the second greatest Christmas/holiday film ever made. #1 - A Christmas Story. Any guesses on #2???
When I get really inspired, I tend to think irrationally. Or…not irrationally, but something else. I’m making that sound like it’s a bad thing. Irrationality. In truth, I don’t believe there should be any other driving force behind our thoughts or behaviors. We should all be foolish fools, all the time…all the way.
But I have a problem. My greatest “thing” is my fear of being “that guy.” My, oh my…how the quotes are flying this post. If you don’t know what “being that guy” means, then it is very likely that you have either recently, or quite frequently “been that guy” at some point in your life. It’s not something to shoot for.
It would mean asking him to talk shop on turf where it’s completely inappropriate to talk shop. It means that I would have to ask him the most clichéd question there is to ask. How do I write for SNL? Do I do it, or let it lie? Although he may have been asked by one thousand wannabes, he has never been asked by Reilly Smith. In the end…that’s the conclusion I keep coming back to…
So I may write a short letter…or nothing at all. Don’t know yet. I wrote a sample sketch this week to show some quick chops. You know, something fresh and not from the pile. It’s like flipping a coin at this point. I’ll let you know if I ever decide to be that guy. Sometimes, you just have to plug your nose and swallow, you know?
Regardless, I’ll post the sketch up here sometime soon. I think it could be pretty good. And, it’s SNL season again. In case any of your haven’t noticed, it’s still fucking great. It’s ALWAYS been fucking great.
Well, that’s odd. A HUGE tangent. Let’s call it stylistic. Back to the music…
I got home Saturday night and went after Foreigner. How could someone get away with singing a song like that today? It certainly didn’t stop there. When Lou Gramm left, he came out with a chart topper that raised the level of my query to exponential proportions. Ever heard the song, “Juke Box Hero?” Of course you have. Come up with a song like that today and you better be ready for constant, relentless, unstoppable sessions of shitkicking. Taking your dog for a walk? Shitkicking. Grocery shopping? Shitkicking. Donating food and clothes to your local Salvation Army? Gratitude for your generous contribution…then shitkicking. I mean…of course everyone dreams of being a jukebox hero…even today. I understand…and even sympathize with this notion. But you don’t come out and say it. Come on, dude. Lou got his, I know this.
So It’s Sunday night. With this one, I don’t know where I am or where I’m going, so maybe it’s best to cut loose.
I saw 4 movies today. That’s right, 4. This is my life, what can I say? Here’s a quick wrap…
Best Movie: A History of Violence – Solid…notably strong individual performances. One after the other.
Best Movie Moment: Serenity – Must see if you like sci-fi. Surprisingly very good. Fresh tone. Surprisingly…very good. I said it twice.
Most Overdue: Hotel Rwanda – Overdue. Nothing off-guard here. This may sound dick, but to me, there’s no sexy in truth. Cheers to a journalism major.
Ordinarily Pretty Good: Corpse Bride - Safe, entertaining…eh.
At least now I feel caught up. Maybe this week, we can get down in it…that is, if you don’t mind. It’s been two weeks and I’m 50 pages through the be-all, end-all script (at this point in my career). Last week was a tough one…but I have a feeling this one will fly…
And all of it will soon.
Nope. Sorry. Not in the mood to try and close on a pathetic clincher…not tonight.
Dumpy tucker mast, bounce bounce.
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