Wound...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

20th Mile did it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck Los Angeles…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We’ll see….

All because Fred Savage came in tonight.

Sometimes…I wander.

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

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

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

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

What if I’m wrong?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit you not…on with the show.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Believe me…I know.

Fall Mix...

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

Go fuck yourself.

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

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

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

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

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


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

Elizabethtown and my next thing...

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

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

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

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

But I hated that fucking movie.

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

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

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

She was sparkling. Ms. Dunst, that is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plenty.

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

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

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

Anyway…

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

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

You know me…plenty.

And you’ll be the first to hear.

Mutiny at The Tower Bar...

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

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

Our GM is on his way out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In a blog.

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

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

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

You see what I'm saying?

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

Sigur Ros

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

Winter Winds...Blowin' In.

Change is coming. Hard…

Last night, something shook the hell out of me.

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

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

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

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

But my friends, the damage has been done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay with me…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost…

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

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

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

Great is coming.

Can you feel it?

Rent Due...

1078.84. No. Thank you, West Hollywood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And all of it will soon.

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

Dumpy tucker mast, bounce bounce.

My little ups

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

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

Trust me, I’ve seen it.

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

It’s story time…my first pitch meeting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shots in the dark. What else is life about?

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

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

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

Shout Back...

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

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

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

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

Where you at? Who the hell are you?

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

A Nice Little Sunday-ish Week...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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...

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?

...

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.

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...

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.

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.

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…

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???

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.

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…