I guess it doesn’t matter. The point is that the smell has been draped upon me, stuck to my clothes like the clinging of cigarette smoke…but a good thing.
I’m closing in on a wall, right about to drive my face straight into it. Last night, I ran home from work so I could make it out for cocktails. Past midnight, all I could think to order was Walker with cubes. They ran fast, soothing, and things were good. Two hours prior, this girl had given me her number, the kind of girl whose number I would generally ask for but this time didn’t have to. So I had to find out about that…
My alarm went off this morning at 6:07, woke me from my 3 hour whiskey nap. I ran to the gym because going out is poor excuse to cut life corners. If I slept with her, I’d be writing about the dogs of Santorini or nothing at all. This should be clear and obvious.
The music was loud, lights pulsing. I was wandering when I crossed her by the bar. She reached out and touched my face and I let her. I looked to her and she let me.
Outside, after all that goes unsaid occurred, I took a cheek and spoke goodnight. As I passed her friend, I was stopped. She told me to be careful, concerned…for me.
I laughed.
She asked why.
I was already running home.
May 20, 2008
May 19, 2008
Then September...
He said the peaches were good. This was the first thing I heard today and it could have been the last. Instantly, I found a lightness of being. Peach season. They were soft to the touch, the samples promising. I purchased three pounds. White. Fuzzy. Welcome.
Every Sunday, I wish I had Sundays off. I dreamt so often of walking to the Melrose Place farmer’s market to roam with ease, black Gelson’s bag in hand…feeling, prodding, charming…to, fro. Today, for what could have been the first Sunday in a year, I was off, free. I roamed, felt, prodded and charmed. Was it as glorious as I had imagined? Yes. Magnificent.
…
Something happens to the air in Los Angeles when the peaches come. Four years of it already ingrained into my mind, rushing forward like an unrelenting force…
Mulholland. Stomping heavy footed and crooked down Melrose, Sunset, Fairfax. Rooftop pools and crowded beaches. Sweat. Eyes like death. The Greek. Corona, Don Julio. Those who stagger…all who try. Chavez and worries of infidelity. Daydrunk. Tan lines. Finding them. Body Shop Sprites at 3 in the AM. Rolling down the top of La Cienega as the sun fades. Summer romance. Failing all. Championing self-destruction. Sweet smell of AC and Hawaiian Tropic deep tanning oil. Knees burning on carpet, pinning hands, tilting, lifting, breathing…scored by Hot Fuss, Abbey Road, Dark Side of the Moon. Wishing on stars. Backyards and bouncycastles. Midnight shows. Optimism. Faith. Immortality. Planning the escape.
Every Sunday, I wish I had Sundays off. I dreamt so often of walking to the Melrose Place farmer’s market to roam with ease, black Gelson’s bag in hand…feeling, prodding, charming…to, fro. Today, for what could have been the first Sunday in a year, I was off, free. I roamed, felt, prodded and charmed. Was it as glorious as I had imagined? Yes. Magnificent.
…
Something happens to the air in Los Angeles when the peaches come. Four years of it already ingrained into my mind, rushing forward like an unrelenting force…
Mulholland. Stomping heavy footed and crooked down Melrose, Sunset, Fairfax. Rooftop pools and crowded beaches. Sweat. Eyes like death. The Greek. Corona, Don Julio. Those who stagger…all who try. Chavez and worries of infidelity. Daydrunk. Tan lines. Finding them. Body Shop Sprites at 3 in the AM. Rolling down the top of La Cienega as the sun fades. Summer romance. Failing all. Championing self-destruction. Sweet smell of AC and Hawaiian Tropic deep tanning oil. Knees burning on carpet, pinning hands, tilting, lifting, breathing…scored by Hot Fuss, Abbey Road, Dark Side of the Moon. Wishing on stars. Backyards and bouncycastles. Midnight shows. Optimism. Faith. Immortality. Planning the escape.
May 01, 2008
April 22, 2008
An Evening Trip Through YouTube Playland...
I know, okay. Lately, I’ve been obsessed. This used to be a sanctuary for the written word. Lately, the YouTubification of Chronicles has been a little less than subtle. And my leaning solely on clips has been reprehensible to say the least.
But I want to prove that it serves a purpose. I want to show you my inspirations tonight, two things I came across that brought me to life. After all, you are visiting the site of a self-obsessed man who actually, just last week received an e-mail from an ex-girlfriend titled “Indicators of Narcissistic Personality Disorder…sound like anyone you know?”… and wouldn’t you know, I’m including an excerpt taken from that very e-mail:
1. Has a grandiose sense of self-importance.
2. Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty or ideal love.
3. Believes that he or she is overly special or unique.
4. Possesses a heightened sense of entitlement.
Obviously, I answered yes. But that’s not the point. I want to show you a couple things, things to me, on this night that are absolutely remarkable.
First, if you asked me to pick one person in the world to meet, I would initially freeze, then worry the choice I was about to make wouldn't hold enough gravity before dropping the inevitable words, Matthew Bellamy...
Now listen for me, to Hans Zimmer's remarkable chime. The Siren song comes in at 4:39 but don't cheat. Over the last 3 weeks, True Romance has absolutely been my saving grace. The score is so good, so intoxicating, you can literally float away on it. Maybe the most perfect ever. The rest speaks for itself...
...
...
...
I’ve just finished closing folder 9 of my latest script, Kimberly and Valentine. Inside it lies a sketchpad titled 9th revised and Final Draft Documents titled 9a, 9b and 9c. 8 folders precede folder 9, all with multiple drafts and multiple sketchpads…
Ten scripts make up a stack that sits on top of my bookshelf. They range anywhere from 64 to 184 pages. My Rescue Me and Billy Bambino won me praise, meetings and promises. Training Angels broke me down, sent me traveling the world for 4 months. The rest just sit there, sporadically brilliant but mostly overwritten, amateur or sloppy.
Recently, as was documented, I was more than bursting my own seams…aching, acid ripping through my brain because I more than hopefully gave draft 1b of Kimberly and Valentine to a person who could have connected my professional dots. In my mind, the glorious 3-step process could not have been simpler…
1. Put raw script in Titan’s hands.
2. Woo said Titan.
3. Titan lifts peasant from literary obscurity.
In reality though, it didn’t quite go like that. Turned out said Titan was rather more interested in said peasant’s rooster than his writing. Oh charm, why have you cursed me so…
This town is such a cliché. Never even read it.
…
But pain heals. I’ve moved on, about 17 drafts to be exact. I no longer feel like I’m going to puke when I talk or think about this new darling of mine. Funny thing happens over the course of a new script. As it matures, so does this writer.
Tomorrow morning, I wake up and start in again from page 20 of 9c. I’ll polish, help smooth and grow the new seeds I’ve recently planted inside it and lose track of life outside this blackened apartment for hours or weeks at a time. This is my life now. For this moment, obscurity is comfortable and I feel calm. Because, because…
In ten years, two stars, an actor and an actress will be 28 and 29. They’ll be the most sought after things in town, pitching tentpoles and filling billboards. And when you ask them about their success, they’ll both point back to the day when they were cast in this silly little movie written by a silly little writer who had never before written a silly little thing. The silly little movie will be called Kimberly and Valentine.
And that’s how it’s going to go down. Not because I’m talented, delusional or something in between, but something entirely else…
This town is such a cliché.
But I want to prove that it serves a purpose. I want to show you my inspirations tonight, two things I came across that brought me to life. After all, you are visiting the site of a self-obsessed man who actually, just last week received an e-mail from an ex-girlfriend titled “Indicators of Narcissistic Personality Disorder…sound like anyone you know?”… and wouldn’t you know, I’m including an excerpt taken from that very e-mail:
1. Has a grandiose sense of self-importance.
2. Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty or ideal love.
3. Believes that he or she is overly special or unique.
4. Possesses a heightened sense of entitlement.
Obviously, I answered yes. But that’s not the point. I want to show you a couple things, things to me, on this night that are absolutely remarkable.
First, if you asked me to pick one person in the world to meet, I would initially freeze, then worry the choice I was about to make wouldn't hold enough gravity before dropping the inevitable words, Matthew Bellamy...
Now listen for me, to Hans Zimmer's remarkable chime. The Siren song comes in at 4:39 but don't cheat. Over the last 3 weeks, True Romance has absolutely been my saving grace. The score is so good, so intoxicating, you can literally float away on it. Maybe the most perfect ever. The rest speaks for itself...
...
...
...
I’ve just finished closing folder 9 of my latest script, Kimberly and Valentine. Inside it lies a sketchpad titled 9th revised and Final Draft Documents titled 9a, 9b and 9c. 8 folders precede folder 9, all with multiple drafts and multiple sketchpads…
Ten scripts make up a stack that sits on top of my bookshelf. They range anywhere from 64 to 184 pages. My Rescue Me and Billy Bambino won me praise, meetings and promises. Training Angels broke me down, sent me traveling the world for 4 months. The rest just sit there, sporadically brilliant but mostly overwritten, amateur or sloppy.
Recently, as was documented, I was more than bursting my own seams…aching, acid ripping through my brain because I more than hopefully gave draft 1b of Kimberly and Valentine to a person who could have connected my professional dots. In my mind, the glorious 3-step process could not have been simpler…
1. Put raw script in Titan’s hands.
2. Woo said Titan.
3. Titan lifts peasant from literary obscurity.
In reality though, it didn’t quite go like that. Turned out said Titan was rather more interested in said peasant’s rooster than his writing. Oh charm, why have you cursed me so…
This town is such a cliché. Never even read it.
…
But pain heals. I’ve moved on, about 17 drafts to be exact. I no longer feel like I’m going to puke when I talk or think about this new darling of mine. Funny thing happens over the course of a new script. As it matures, so does this writer.
Tomorrow morning, I wake up and start in again from page 20 of 9c. I’ll polish, help smooth and grow the new seeds I’ve recently planted inside it and lose track of life outside this blackened apartment for hours or weeks at a time. This is my life now. For this moment, obscurity is comfortable and I feel calm. Because, because…
In ten years, two stars, an actor and an actress will be 28 and 29. They’ll be the most sought after things in town, pitching tentpoles and filling billboards. And when you ask them about their success, they’ll both point back to the day when they were cast in this silly little movie written by a silly little writer who had never before written a silly little thing. The silly little movie will be called Kimberly and Valentine.
And that’s how it’s going to go down. Not because I’m talented, delusional or something in between, but something entirely else…
This town is such a cliché.
March 21, 2008
March 19, 2008
There's obviously something wrong with him. He's taken off his shoes and one of his socks and actually... I think he's crying.
A smart man recently told me I can’t succeed without a broken heart. I laughed. People must think I’m so smug.
I don’t know if what I’ve experienced over the past couple weeks has been a dream -- these great and potential promises…or opportunities. Sometimes, I wake in the middle of the night, across the room or on my balcony, stirred from conversation with a mysterious gentleman in a suit whose face I try to ignore. At some point in our conversation, I bump my head or shin and realize I should go back to bed, to try and fall asleep before I think too much about what has again transpired, with growing frequency…before I remember again, the emptiness I feel when I look into his voided eyes.
Los Angeles is screwed. Or it’s me. I need everything. I need so much, worry and hope I’ll never be fulfilled. I can’t wait. No calming talents remain. Today, I was at the gym from 630-8, again from 1230-145, and again from 5-8…consciously obsessive, for clearance. I was reaching for something, some sort of fix because I couldn’t work and didn’t want to fuck or think. In these situations, I know little else to do.
And there’s not enough money to leave again.
…
A broken heart. I started drinking yesterday at 11 after deeming it appropriate to induce feeling. I wanted to get 5 hours into my shift at work, doing rounds on tables, and come crashing down from the Guinness and Jameson and Baileys. I wanted to feel a brutal moment of life, to tempt the bottom to find me, to scream it away until my eyes would bleed, because…
So many things I can’t talk about here or anywhere. Just because.
Either way, it was coming. I’ve known for weeks now, coming off this high…of creation, of seeing and feeling and willing a scripted world that was mine but wasn’t…this world not capable of reciprocating the love I’ve given. Stories don’t matter at this point, just that they’re told and out. And this last one I told felt like love, clearing away all my lust and sadness and anger, like I was inducing an artificial peace in hopes it would correct me – like I was cheating – all along knowing I would be punished for it.
It feels like Sunday, dragging forever, but it’s Tuesday…or Wednesday. And I can’t tell myself everything will be better by Friday, or next Tuesday, or a month from now, or a year or ever. All I can see is a clock that reads 1:24 and it’s not moving. It may never again move. This is mine, bliss turned to shit and raging through my veins, poisoning me, my mind. I have to respect it.
…
Selectively, selectively falling in love with the places and things and people I can’t attain, to have this bastard thing nagging and pleading and scorching inside. What else have I ever known but broken…
I want to pull it out and eat it, show it off, spit it into every face I see.
There is no rescue.
March 04, 2008
Just now coming up for air...
I recently had one of those Hollywood encounters that people look back and speak of, somewhere from the top of the mountain, about bumping into and meeting someone with the clout and talent to lift them from where they once sat. I’ve had them in the past, but never like this. He said in as many words: write a script no one else has seen, make it your voice and nothing else, don’t sell out to the market and let me see it…but don’t dick around and do it fast – I’m staffing.
I had just finished a 125 page – 16 song musical that will somewhere, someday find an audience and was easing into the idea of starting something fresh when all this happened. In fact, I was just beginning the exact thing he was suggesting…a tale of two kids in love, their dreams of escape, robbery, bounty hunters, YouTube and the media circus, murder, sex, revenge and the Rolling Stones. At least that’s what I tell myself – that this was the exact thing he was suggesting.
But I wasn’t there yet, not even close to passing it off. It would take 2 brain-bleeding weeks to get there...and then even that would be a stretch. But since I’ve always had drive – I wasn’t worried about being good…and quick, very quick.
So that I may continue, please trust me when I say that this is big. Actually, now confronting all this, the thought of such a blunt and direct opportunity scares the shit out of me. Because at the end of the day, it means I have to face myself, cock out, ready to rock, on stage, full audience, under spotlight. For 2 weeks, I spent every minute of my life weaving stories and arcs, electrifying pages, dancing lines…all that shit.
Somewhere in the binge, she came out, and I understood, not for the first time, what it’s like to write with someone in mind, my damsel, my heroine, my Kimberly…
Alison Lohman. It was Matchstick Men that did it. I saw her on my pages, saying something like…if you harm him in any way, I will kill you and everyone in this place. And if he dies, from this moment until the day of my last breath, I’ll rain a hell on this corner of the world so vicious, Lucifer himself will plead me to stop.
And with that, things turned concrete. Every now and again, she would show up in my dreams, kiss my cheek something sweet and wake me under a spell of love. Yes, brilliant actresses woo me prudely while I sleep. I love it.
I finished the first pass and thought of puking, giddy, just to empty what remnants of residue I had left. After the fifth pass, my face was numb, like I’d been sucked beautifully dry. And with that, it was time.
…
On Sunday, I woke up before the sun to make a 6 in the AM train to Universal City. From there, at 8:15, I ran 26.2 miles through the streets of Los Angeles. When I finished (3:43), I sat in the middle of the street eating apples and bananas. Then, I took a nap in the street. Then, I was abruptly stirred by Paramedics who let me leave under my own accord after much convincing that I was just, “kickin’ it there and not actually dying.” Then, I took a couple trains back to my car and drove home, skin burnt red and nipples crazy-glued.
At 7, I met my encounter at the Chateau for dinner (the gentleman, not the girl in the picture). We talked about endeavors and what I could only sum up as the joy and pain of life. As I paid the valet, as we were leaving, I handed him a packet, home-made, containing my script, Kimberly and Valentine. Afterwards, I wandered about town, stopping for drinks here, there…I don’t always quite recall.
Eventually, I made it home, obviously, because I’m here now. Then I slept, nearly forever and dreamt of things good and futures bright…at least on this Sunday.
I had just finished a 125 page – 16 song musical that will somewhere, someday find an audience and was easing into the idea of starting something fresh when all this happened. In fact, I was just beginning the exact thing he was suggesting…a tale of two kids in love, their dreams of escape, robbery, bounty hunters, YouTube and the media circus, murder, sex, revenge and the Rolling Stones. At least that’s what I tell myself – that this was the exact thing he was suggesting.
But I wasn’t there yet, not even close to passing it off. It would take 2 brain-bleeding weeks to get there...and then even that would be a stretch. But since I’ve always had drive – I wasn’t worried about being good…and quick, very quick.
So that I may continue, please trust me when I say that this is big. Actually, now confronting all this, the thought of such a blunt and direct opportunity scares the shit out of me. Because at the end of the day, it means I have to face myself, cock out, ready to rock, on stage, full audience, under spotlight. For 2 weeks, I spent every minute of my life weaving stories and arcs, electrifying pages, dancing lines…all that shit.
Somewhere in the binge, she came out, and I understood, not for the first time, what it’s like to write with someone in mind, my damsel, my heroine, my Kimberly…
Alison Lohman. It was Matchstick Men that did it. I saw her on my pages, saying something like…if you harm him in any way, I will kill you and everyone in this place. And if he dies, from this moment until the day of my last breath, I’ll rain a hell on this corner of the world so vicious, Lucifer himself will plead me to stop.
And with that, things turned concrete. Every now and again, she would show up in my dreams, kiss my cheek something sweet and wake me under a spell of love. Yes, brilliant actresses woo me prudely while I sleep. I love it.
I finished the first pass and thought of puking, giddy, just to empty what remnants of residue I had left. After the fifth pass, my face was numb, like I’d been sucked beautifully dry. And with that, it was time.
…
On Sunday, I woke up before the sun to make a 6 in the AM train to Universal City. From there, at 8:15, I ran 26.2 miles through the streets of Los Angeles. When I finished (3:43), I sat in the middle of the street eating apples and bananas. Then, I took a nap in the street. Then, I was abruptly stirred by Paramedics who let me leave under my own accord after much convincing that I was just, “kickin’ it there and not actually dying.” Then, I took a couple trains back to my car and drove home, skin burnt red and nipples crazy-glued.
At 7, I met my encounter at the Chateau for dinner (the gentleman, not the girl in the picture). We talked about endeavors and what I could only sum up as the joy and pain of life. As I paid the valet, as we were leaving, I handed him a packet, home-made, containing my script, Kimberly and Valentine. Afterwards, I wandered about town, stopping for drinks here, there…I don’t always quite recall.
Eventually, I made it home, obviously, because I’m here now. Then I slept, nearly forever and dreamt of things good and futures bright…at least on this Sunday.
February 22, 2008
February 03, 2008
Vampire Weekend, Coronet and the Things That Bide My Time...
Checking the play count on I-Tunes, I have officially listened to the aforementioned’s song Walcott 192 times since adding it last Wednesday. It’s Sunday. Sometimes, falling for a new song, I’ll set it on repeat and go on about my business. Either I spaced, left the room or got caught working on a hearty stretch of something new – something that must have spun me dizzy and orgasmic.
The reality is a likely blend of each – reason for my obsessive listening (in case you need a re-connection…some do). Everyone needs filler and this song is pretty wicked. There’s only so much of the family (Muse, Arcade Fire, R-Head & Off-Chutes, Killers, Arctic Monkeys, Modest Mouse) one can constantly listen.
…
This week I was out at the Coronet, saying goodbye to a friend. He was jumping ship to Rhode Island…soon to become a daddy. As if it would be poisonous to raise a child in Los Angeles…
One drink turned to…a couple, several? I don’t recall. What I do recall was a feeling, a tearing in the fibers of my heart, saying goodbye to something, someone who was leaving town. I remember the hug…more of an embrace and then wondering to self about the point in which this relationship had forged and how many others I had like it. Few? Several? Many? I lacked the time to think, had an inescapably pressing personal appointment at midnight. My feet and hands couldn’t stop kicking and tapping and pounding…not angry but unsettled, confounded, wild as usual.
On my way out of the bar, I felt eyes. It was as if some form of intense attention had shifted towards the route of my exit, following my steps. I heard yelling, someone pleading for my notice but I was in a hurry. Some girl. I kept moving, parting the crowd, out the door.
Outside, I waited to cross the street, jaywalked between passing cars because I’m rebel youth. She followed me out, calling, singing, stalking. There was tenderness in her words – I thought – I could feel it in the air. Tenderness or desperation. I glanced quickly, instantly determined she wasn’t the bed or wed type – my only two stopping types at that moment…
I judge. Then, blew a kiss without hearing a word, her voice muffled by the traffic between us. As I pulled away, she watched. I wondered where she got off, looking so sad. So disappointed. I wondered why I didn’t stop, wondered why I didn’t listen to what she had to say…even if just to hear…wondered why I act like this happens all the time, like I am above it or something worse. Is there anything worse? Does this happen all the time? I don’t know. I don’t care to remember. I had a fucking appointment.
…
I recently found myself studying the construction of the English alphabet. My definition of construction consists of straights and arcs, dots and crosses. I studied similarities between letters, how to break them into families, how fragments of some mirror fragments of others…how everything fits into a beautiful and simple puzzle. Everything.
Then I built my own. My straights and arcs, dots and crosses…to fill a specific need. To absolutely guarantee at least one comfort through the days of my life. To be foreign, when I choose…misunderstood when I need to be, to everyone save myself…as this life calls for it.
And I can’t say why.
And it makes me heavy.
The reality is a likely blend of each – reason for my obsessive listening (in case you need a re-connection…some do). Everyone needs filler and this song is pretty wicked. There’s only so much of the family (Muse, Arcade Fire, R-Head & Off-Chutes, Killers, Arctic Monkeys, Modest Mouse) one can constantly listen.
…
This week I was out at the Coronet, saying goodbye to a friend. He was jumping ship to Rhode Island…soon to become a daddy. As if it would be poisonous to raise a child in Los Angeles…
One drink turned to…a couple, several? I don’t recall. What I do recall was a feeling, a tearing in the fibers of my heart, saying goodbye to something, someone who was leaving town. I remember the hug…more of an embrace and then wondering to self about the point in which this relationship had forged and how many others I had like it. Few? Several? Many? I lacked the time to think, had an inescapably pressing personal appointment at midnight. My feet and hands couldn’t stop kicking and tapping and pounding…not angry but unsettled, confounded, wild as usual.
On my way out of the bar, I felt eyes. It was as if some form of intense attention had shifted towards the route of my exit, following my steps. I heard yelling, someone pleading for my notice but I was in a hurry. Some girl. I kept moving, parting the crowd, out the door.
Outside, I waited to cross the street, jaywalked between passing cars because I’m rebel youth. She followed me out, calling, singing, stalking. There was tenderness in her words – I thought – I could feel it in the air. Tenderness or desperation. I glanced quickly, instantly determined she wasn’t the bed or wed type – my only two stopping types at that moment…
I judge. Then, blew a kiss without hearing a word, her voice muffled by the traffic between us. As I pulled away, she watched. I wondered where she got off, looking so sad. So disappointed. I wondered why I didn’t stop, wondered why I didn’t listen to what she had to say…even if just to hear…wondered why I act like this happens all the time, like I am above it or something worse. Is there anything worse? Does this happen all the time? I don’t know. I don’t care to remember. I had a fucking appointment.
…
I recently found myself studying the construction of the English alphabet. My definition of construction consists of straights and arcs, dots and crosses. I studied similarities between letters, how to break them into families, how fragments of some mirror fragments of others…how everything fits into a beautiful and simple puzzle. Everything.
Then I built my own. My straights and arcs, dots and crosses…to fill a specific need. To absolutely guarantee at least one comfort through the days of my life. To be foreign, when I choose…misunderstood when I need to be, to everyone save myself…as this life calls for it.
And I can’t say why.
And it makes me heavy.
January 22, 2008
Heath Ledger...
It stole my breath when I saw it, this freeze as it went from my eyes to my head…stopping in an instant to think it was wrong or misprinted. So arresting.
And it wasn’t just about the movies. It was the thought of a father, of a recent husband who somewhere, to an unknown extent had a grieving heart of his own.
It’s mind-bending, the thought…to have the best parts of you so visible…or what it would be like to find yourself in front of a camera and trying, just trying to be good, to be remembered. Then to be a small piece of a film that’s offered up to the world. To be offered up to the world. And suddenly everyone has a right to know and love, you…your life, or not, instantly materialized from air, from nothing.
He dealt make believe. And now, all that’s left, remnant memories…the life of a great and still budding talent coming to an instant and vicious halt. He had a pull, always had something of a pull, and now that he’s dead, I find myself realizing how easy it was to glance over the moment he became something else entirely, gravity, and in remarkable form, like a coat that takes time. Heath Ledger was a great promise far from ripe, an already rare talent and yet so far from realized.
He was a scientist on the brink of curing cancer. He was our hopeful to shatter record in the mile. He was a politician to rally sides divided. And the thought of a loss like that makes me sad. At the end of the day, all he was to us was an artist, an actor. But he was loved. The simplicity of it makes me sad.
I’m not going to come out and say he was too young, that it’s not supposed to go down like this. And I’m not going to fall back on crutches like, “this just goes to show.” Not a chance, ever…not how I’m constructed. Great and terrible things happen all the time.
Tonight, I rest with a heavy heart. Heavier than expected…and that seems to be the gathered sentiment.
We end on tonight’s final salute. Brilliant, tragic, brilliant…
And it wasn’t just about the movies. It was the thought of a father, of a recent husband who somewhere, to an unknown extent had a grieving heart of his own.
It’s mind-bending, the thought…to have the best parts of you so visible…or what it would be like to find yourself in front of a camera and trying, just trying to be good, to be remembered. Then to be a small piece of a film that’s offered up to the world. To be offered up to the world. And suddenly everyone has a right to know and love, you…your life, or not, instantly materialized from air, from nothing.
He dealt make believe. And now, all that’s left, remnant memories…the life of a great and still budding talent coming to an instant and vicious halt. He had a pull, always had something of a pull, and now that he’s dead, I find myself realizing how easy it was to glance over the moment he became something else entirely, gravity, and in remarkable form, like a coat that takes time. Heath Ledger was a great promise far from ripe, an already rare talent and yet so far from realized.
He was a scientist on the brink of curing cancer. He was our hopeful to shatter record in the mile. He was a politician to rally sides divided. And the thought of a loss like that makes me sad. At the end of the day, all he was to us was an artist, an actor. But he was loved. The simplicity of it makes me sad.
I’m not going to come out and say he was too young, that it’s not supposed to go down like this. And I’m not going to fall back on crutches like, “this just goes to show.” Not a chance, ever…not how I’m constructed. Great and terrible things happen all the time.
Tonight, I rest with a heavy heart. Heavier than expected…and that seems to be the gathered sentiment.
We end on tonight’s final salute. Brilliant, tragic, brilliant…
January 15, 2008
Looking for Self at Home Depot Close to Midnight on a Saturday...
Long after my flirtation with losing grip had grown into a full blown reality, I found myself finishing off an Oreo McFlurry in the parking lot of the Hollywood Home Depot wondering what the hell I was doing there but thinking to myself, there are certainly worse places to be, things to be doing, people to become.
I knew what I was there for, thinking back, I think. I began in lumber, wound my way through gardening, kitchen appliances, piping…winding with grace, ease. When it comes to riding carts in the bulk-shopping super centers of world America, Home Depot shopping carts are a personal, hands down favorite. It’s a combination of three things really…
1. Wide aisles.
2. Sleek floors.
3. My enthusiasm.
The trick is to immediately load the front end with gallons of paint or something of the like...something very heavy. That way, while gliding the aisles at high speeds, there is no risk of the front wheels coming off the ground. This precaution, in turn, lessens the risk of the back wheels buckling sideways and throwing said rider from the cart, somewhat violently and spilling red paint, not blood onto the concrete floors. And all of this, in final turn, doesn’t lead to an embarrassing conversation between the rider and a graveyard shift employee of Home Depot about shopping cart abuse and the allowance of said shopper finishing said shopping experience.
I was there for paint, paint supplies, lacquer, urethane sealer. See, I’ve lately gotten into huffing, and hard.
Not really.
I wanted to paint something I saw in a dream. Kind of a cross between a color and place, peace and panic…and determined the first step in plan go about it would be to pay a visit to the Depot, late on a Saturday night. I also don’t believe in rational determination.
…
I’ve recently discovered my great fear...recently as in the last 10 hours. Now, let us play with analogy so as to aid in the illusion of self-preservation…
Let’s say I’m a basket maker…quite the noble trade, I assure. People need baskets. People will always need baskets. And let’s say that for the last 10 weeks, I’ve been making this amazing basket. Every time I look at it, blood fires through my guts. And when I feel it, liquid vitality. When I hold it, I learn a new shade of happiness for the first time, each time. Ah, pandering to drama…
But my basket is different. It’s not constructed entirely the same way other baskets are constructed. The handle doesn’t lead to a basin to place goods such as, say, shoes and apples. Instead, the basin and handle aren’t connected at all. So when you try to place goods beneath the handle, they fall, roll right off the flat surface. People look at the basket and say, “What the fuck? Why can’t you just attach the handle the right way like everyone else?” In my mind, I tell them it’s balanced. I tell them to hold the handle from beneath the basin, to balance the goods above the handle, because it’s totally skillful and awesome and who else does? They say, “But that’s insane, why would I want to balance the goods when I can simply carry them?”
It's an answer I know but can't yet speak. And that, friends, is torture.
…
This painting…or the image I see…
It’s light…and dark. It’s angry…and luminous. It’s like standing on clouds, waiting for the sun to come, to melt my footing away until I fall, forever and ever, wondering if the end is near, screaming, happy tears, laughter, loneliness…
It’s an everlasting love, at its peak before fail and the fallout all at the same time, a broken mess. It’s bitter then sweet, never bittersweet, never anything middle of the road, cowardly, balanced, medicated…
It’s an agitation of cool, a splinter in sexy, a kiss before the fight…in my head, my dream, my constant confusion.
My constantly confusion.
…
I need a nanny for my child. And by “my child,” I mean myself. And by “myself” I mean me…to watch me and tuck me in, to sing to me until I fall asleep and hold my hand as I cross the street.
Someone who doesn't once protest my treating every ounce and drip of this life as if it were a dream...and never once worries of the trouble ahead.
I knew what I was there for, thinking back, I think. I began in lumber, wound my way through gardening, kitchen appliances, piping…winding with grace, ease. When it comes to riding carts in the bulk-shopping super centers of world America, Home Depot shopping carts are a personal, hands down favorite. It’s a combination of three things really…
1. Wide aisles.
2. Sleek floors.
3. My enthusiasm.
The trick is to immediately load the front end with gallons of paint or something of the like...something very heavy. That way, while gliding the aisles at high speeds, there is no risk of the front wheels coming off the ground. This precaution, in turn, lessens the risk of the back wheels buckling sideways and throwing said rider from the cart, somewhat violently and spilling red paint, not blood onto the concrete floors. And all of this, in final turn, doesn’t lead to an embarrassing conversation between the rider and a graveyard shift employee of Home Depot about shopping cart abuse and the allowance of said shopper finishing said shopping experience.
I was there for paint, paint supplies, lacquer, urethane sealer. See, I’ve lately gotten into huffing, and hard.
Not really.
I wanted to paint something I saw in a dream. Kind of a cross between a color and place, peace and panic…and determined the first step in plan go about it would be to pay a visit to the Depot, late on a Saturday night. I also don’t believe in rational determination.
…
I’ve recently discovered my great fear...recently as in the last 10 hours. Now, let us play with analogy so as to aid in the illusion of self-preservation…
Let’s say I’m a basket maker…quite the noble trade, I assure. People need baskets. People will always need baskets. And let’s say that for the last 10 weeks, I’ve been making this amazing basket. Every time I look at it, blood fires through my guts. And when I feel it, liquid vitality. When I hold it, I learn a new shade of happiness for the first time, each time. Ah, pandering to drama…
But my basket is different. It’s not constructed entirely the same way other baskets are constructed. The handle doesn’t lead to a basin to place goods such as, say, shoes and apples. Instead, the basin and handle aren’t connected at all. So when you try to place goods beneath the handle, they fall, roll right off the flat surface. People look at the basket and say, “What the fuck? Why can’t you just attach the handle the right way like everyone else?” In my mind, I tell them it’s balanced. I tell them to hold the handle from beneath the basin, to balance the goods above the handle, because it’s totally skillful and awesome and who else does? They say, “But that’s insane, why would I want to balance the goods when I can simply carry them?”
It's an answer I know but can't yet speak. And that, friends, is torture.
…
This painting…or the image I see…
It’s light…and dark. It’s angry…and luminous. It’s like standing on clouds, waiting for the sun to come, to melt my footing away until I fall, forever and ever, wondering if the end is near, screaming, happy tears, laughter, loneliness…
It’s an everlasting love, at its peak before fail and the fallout all at the same time, a broken mess. It’s bitter then sweet, never bittersweet, never anything middle of the road, cowardly, balanced, medicated…
It’s an agitation of cool, a splinter in sexy, a kiss before the fight…in my head, my dream, my constant confusion.
My constantly confusion.
…
I need a nanny for my child. And by “my child,” I mean myself. And by “myself” I mean me…to watch me and tuck me in, to sing to me until I fall asleep and hold my hand as I cross the street.
Someone who doesn't once protest my treating every ounce and drip of this life as if it were a dream...and never once worries of the trouble ahead.
December 23, 2007
Catherine McNeil, Christmas and the Dip at Beverly and Crescent Heights...
Today I tore a spread out of Vogue, immediately struck…this photo, the love child of two of the great crushes of my life. I’ve had…four actual ones. Something in the expression, I tell you. Half…okay, yes, Natalie Portman again, though she’s not actual. The other half is someone from side actual, someone who gave me her lips once and never again, someone I never quite figured out…
It’s Christmas Eve and I’m spending it in Los Angeles. Last year, on the beaches of Camps Bay, way down in the SA (sorry, writing a musical), all I could think of was getting back to the cold and snow and country of states united. This year, all I can think of is Christmas Story marathon, alone with nostalgic glory in my apartment on Kings Road. Things change. Themes remain the same.
Because I’m so predictable, I can tell you something. Christmas night, finding myself suddenly over a mid-day drunk, I’ll stand on my back balcony, look to the sky, wait for an impossible snowfall to come, hope for visible breath, a chill before losing balance of mind…which will drive me to head out, likely first to Mulholland then later the dip. The dip happens not far from where I live, just as you pass the light on the north side of the intersection. There’s a big yellow sign just off to the side, “DIP.” Though, I doubt with sincerity this offers relief to any drivers green to the intersection of Beverly and Crescent Heights.
Most of the time, late at night, I begin my northern creep between Beverly and 3rd street, waiting for the light to change from red to green. Sometimes, when traffic allows, I’ll sit idle in the middle of the street, waiting. I wonder what the locals think of me. I wonder if I’m lore…sometimes think about how much I yearn to be.
When the light does finally change, I go. The first time I hit the dip, accidentally going 20-25, I shot into the air, remember thinking something to myself, something along the lines of “Fucking LA.” Then later, “Fucking awesome LA.”
Over time, I worked my way into the 30’s…later to the 40’s…last week flirting into the 50’s. And yeah, life permitting, I think I enjoy it...among other things.
…
"I’m finished."
It’s Christmas Eve and I’m spending it in Los Angeles. Last year, on the beaches of Camps Bay, way down in the SA (sorry, writing a musical), all I could think of was getting back to the cold and snow and country of states united. This year, all I can think of is Christmas Story marathon, alone with nostalgic glory in my apartment on Kings Road. Things change. Themes remain the same.
Because I’m so predictable, I can tell you something. Christmas night, finding myself suddenly over a mid-day drunk, I’ll stand on my back balcony, look to the sky, wait for an impossible snowfall to come, hope for visible breath, a chill before losing balance of mind…which will drive me to head out, likely first to Mulholland then later the dip. The dip happens not far from where I live, just as you pass the light on the north side of the intersection. There’s a big yellow sign just off to the side, “DIP.” Though, I doubt with sincerity this offers relief to any drivers green to the intersection of Beverly and Crescent Heights.
Most of the time, late at night, I begin my northern creep between Beverly and 3rd street, waiting for the light to change from red to green. Sometimes, when traffic allows, I’ll sit idle in the middle of the street, waiting. I wonder what the locals think of me. I wonder if I’m lore…sometimes think about how much I yearn to be.
When the light does finally change, I go. The first time I hit the dip, accidentally going 20-25, I shot into the air, remember thinking something to myself, something along the lines of “Fucking LA.” Then later, “Fucking awesome LA.”
Over time, I worked my way into the 30’s…later to the 40’s…last week flirting into the 50’s. And yeah, life permitting, I think I enjoy it...among other things.
…
"I’m finished."
December 06, 2007
Mostly Juno...
So I get home from Juno and go to the I-Tunes store, immediately pick up Mott The Hoople’s “All The Young Dudes,” so I can set it on repeat to try and replicate the feelings I constantly fear losing, to recall my initial intentions of landing on this island that’s actually nothing like an island and makes me wonder from time to time what the fuck I’m going on and on and on about…
Oh, Juno. Brilliant. It will be for some time to come…hopefully forever.
Because above other things, this movie has a scene, a moment where I forgot where I was, and this flooding dodged its way through my ribs and into my stomach. Like juices of euphoria…like I had just fallen in love, a love I would never again fall from and all I could do was smile, let ‘em fall. I want to see it again, again and again, already so deeply missing that feeling.
…
After the show, I met my friend Allison, who was in the movie. She was fantastic, always fantastic. When Jason Bateman and Diablo Cody (diablocody.blogspot.com) and Jason Reitman came by, I did this priceless thing I often do that’s part genius but honestly, mostly awkward, where I want to meet them and tell them that in that moment I want to be them but actually look for something like a flat screen TV and basketball game to distract me so that I don’t have to deal with the reality of being smaller than anyone, ever, in this life. Sad, isn’t it?
And drinking a round around a dark table of a dark bar somewhere on Pico, all I could think to myself, over and over…when will I make my Juno?
…
Today, I got notes back on a project from a man whose work in this town I seriously respect and possibly revere. The project is a feature I kicked out in an inspired 7 weeks. A couple months ago, when I was winning agency looks with a TV hook, I also managed to impress this aforementioned auteur with my keyboard moves. Things were happening. Things were moving. Then, the strike hit. I lost support from one agent who left the agencies behind, didn’t yet have a pilot ready to win another agent who dug my shit…still don’t. I think he’s waiting? I felt naked…still do. The town felt dead…still does. Fucking strike, man.
So I wrote this new spec. It’s ambitious. Ambitious…that’s a funny word. It’s a word often pinned on my face, somewhat unfortunately I think. But ambitious…it’s like commending a heroin addict for using home made needles, right? When I’ve failed, without exception, it’s because I’ve gone big…and call me blue or green or whatever, but I find comfort by seeing little shame in that.
…
I was recently out to Mozza for dinner, with a friend, and remember telling him of the man reading my script. My friend, a high ladder Hollywood vet, was seriously impressed. Though I remember being fairly deep into some fine Italian red, I remember saying something like…
“You know what I want…you know what I really want. I want him to read it and toss it back in my face. I want him to look at me and ask if I know who the fuck he is and who the fuck I thought I was giving this to him…an early draft of a new piece. I want him to rip it to pieces.”
What did he actually say? Well, let me preface that by something else, what he said to me in an e-mail dated October 1, 2007 about another piece, Billy Bambino:
“You’re a very talented writer – already. Very touching, funny, surprising. Good scene structure, great dialogue, well-drawn characters, even the minor ones. No doubt in my mind you’ll be making a living in this field before much time has passed.”
At our following meeting, he echoed the same sentiments. Note: I often precede severe blows by padding them in pillows of praise…self preservation at its finest.
So when he read the new piece…
“I loved the first number…from then on, I have lots of notes to give you. I think it’s really ambitious.” Then he told me kindly, well, basically what I asked for, drunk, perched atop the bar stool at Mozza.
…
So I went into Juno needing something…a cinematic hug out and so much more. And you know what, I got it. And I could have thanked those responsible outside the theater, but I didn’t, because of my personal style or behavioral retardation or something like it.
It’s after one on a Wednesday night, and still, after getting drilled today (not really, but it feels like it) I’m good. I’ll be good. On Monday, when we meet, I battle for my wild and brilliant and bashed piece of work to a brilliant and successful man...with open ears, start another roll from there.
I don't expect it to be my Juno. I’m not there yet. But when I have my Juno, I’ll know who to thank…and by then I just may.
Oh, Juno. Brilliant. It will be for some time to come…hopefully forever.
Because above other things, this movie has a scene, a moment where I forgot where I was, and this flooding dodged its way through my ribs and into my stomach. Like juices of euphoria…like I had just fallen in love, a love I would never again fall from and all I could do was smile, let ‘em fall. I want to see it again, again and again, already so deeply missing that feeling.
…
After the show, I met my friend Allison, who was in the movie. She was fantastic, always fantastic. When Jason Bateman and Diablo Cody (diablocody.blogspot.com) and Jason Reitman came by, I did this priceless thing I often do that’s part genius but honestly, mostly awkward, where I want to meet them and tell them that in that moment I want to be them but actually look for something like a flat screen TV and basketball game to distract me so that I don’t have to deal with the reality of being smaller than anyone, ever, in this life. Sad, isn’t it?
And drinking a round around a dark table of a dark bar somewhere on Pico, all I could think to myself, over and over…when will I make my Juno?
…
Today, I got notes back on a project from a man whose work in this town I seriously respect and possibly revere. The project is a feature I kicked out in an inspired 7 weeks. A couple months ago, when I was winning agency looks with a TV hook, I also managed to impress this aforementioned auteur with my keyboard moves. Things were happening. Things were moving. Then, the strike hit. I lost support from one agent who left the agencies behind, didn’t yet have a pilot ready to win another agent who dug my shit…still don’t. I think he’s waiting? I felt naked…still do. The town felt dead…still does. Fucking strike, man.
So I wrote this new spec. It’s ambitious. Ambitious…that’s a funny word. It’s a word often pinned on my face, somewhat unfortunately I think. But ambitious…it’s like commending a heroin addict for using home made needles, right? When I’ve failed, without exception, it’s because I’ve gone big…and call me blue or green or whatever, but I find comfort by seeing little shame in that.
…
I was recently out to Mozza for dinner, with a friend, and remember telling him of the man reading my script. My friend, a high ladder Hollywood vet, was seriously impressed. Though I remember being fairly deep into some fine Italian red, I remember saying something like…
“You know what I want…you know what I really want. I want him to read it and toss it back in my face. I want him to look at me and ask if I know who the fuck he is and who the fuck I thought I was giving this to him…an early draft of a new piece. I want him to rip it to pieces.”
What did he actually say? Well, let me preface that by something else, what he said to me in an e-mail dated October 1, 2007 about another piece, Billy Bambino:
“You’re a very talented writer – already. Very touching, funny, surprising. Good scene structure, great dialogue, well-drawn characters, even the minor ones. No doubt in my mind you’ll be making a living in this field before much time has passed.”
At our following meeting, he echoed the same sentiments. Note: I often precede severe blows by padding them in pillows of praise…self preservation at its finest.
So when he read the new piece…
“I loved the first number…from then on, I have lots of notes to give you. I think it’s really ambitious.” Then he told me kindly, well, basically what I asked for, drunk, perched atop the bar stool at Mozza.
…
So I went into Juno needing something…a cinematic hug out and so much more. And you know what, I got it. And I could have thanked those responsible outside the theater, but I didn’t, because of my personal style or behavioral retardation or something like it.
It’s after one on a Wednesday night, and still, after getting drilled today (not really, but it feels like it) I’m good. I’ll be good. On Monday, when we meet, I battle for my wild and brilliant and bashed piece of work to a brilliant and successful man...with open ears, start another roll from there.
I don't expect it to be my Juno. I’m not there yet. But when I have my Juno, I’ll know who to thank…and by then I just may.
November 11, 2007
Natalie Portman...
Right now, I find myself wishing there were an opposite equivalent for the term gentleman suitor. I’ve been trying to think of it, something capable of holding the clout I need for a title to this post, something I could follow with a simple colon and roll right in, a memo of sorts…because its construction is beautiful. My discovery: there isn’t one or I am a failing wordsmith. Either way, I am fortune’s fool, have no choice but to press on, adjust on the fly.
…
The other night I had a dream. She was packing, on her way to some far away locale when we met up. She was going on about her latest role as Anne Boleyn and the magnificence of Dover Castle in England…something about it she so revered. I wasn’t completely aware I knew either existed for sure until I awoke and recalled how, in my dreams, I also recalled the ability to speak foreign foreign languages in perfect tongue and began wondering if the two phenomena were connected in some way.
…
It all started in my childhood best man, Patrick Rice’s basement. He lived right next to a Woolworth, which was both run by our town’s elderly mafia and had seriously intense candy aisles...right next to the exit. I remember this because for a brief stint (as most kids go through, right?) we stole a lot of shit…but that all ended when a green member of our crew got pinched. I wish I could remember who it was so I could out him…
We would bring our hauls back to the basement and either play video games or watch movies until coma hit. When I think of how my screen crush on Ms. Portman started, all I can think of was that basement and the crane shot to finish one of the true screen gems for all time, The Professional, and her whispering assurance to the plant she named Leon as she buried it into the resurrecting ground, away from the city, safe, so that its roots could grow.
Soon after or quite possibly in that moment, my childhood ended.
…
In the dream, we walked through Central Park, alone, down what felt like Poet’s Walk. I was carrying her small suitcase, content to listen. The colors of the ground and sky were a magnificent New York Autumn. The fallen leaves dusting our steps were replaced in their former trees by bright, animated greens and yellows and blues as if someone had painted in the voids left by seasonal change. I don’t remember the conversation we were having, just her smile and my knowing that at the end of our walk, she was leaving. I turned to her and said something mundane. We stopped, she turned to me with a smile that warmed me through and said, “I know. You already told me, a long time ago.” She leaned forward; I leaned down and gave her my cheek to kiss. She walked off and disappeared into the brilliant foliage.
…
I woke and took the opposite approach, laughed straight through the crushing sensation…unable to recall her ever making a cameo in my sleep.
I’m not a fool who only falls in his dreams…not the slightest. But it certainly lends worry, being this capable. And so, the memo…
And so, and so on.
October 31, 2007
October 11, 2007
Radiohead and My Black Gelson's Grocery Bag...
I can’t stop listening to the first 42 seconds of the In Rainbows “Nude.” It reminds me of waking up without alarm or neighbor’s ringing keys or blowers or vacuums or anything. It reminds me of walking out my front door, naked, to find nothing left…anywhere.
I don’t remember where I saw this vision, just that I did. Just erased, all life and any evidential trace of it. And it was beautiful for reasons I’m certain I’d have to explain…and because of this, my choice is to refrain. But I will tell you; it wasn’t just in a dream.
16 seconds in, the moment I keep re-visiting because I’ve never heard joy or sadness come out like this. And I don’t know which it is and it makes me want to give in and give up. And the more I think of it, the more it breaks me in half, the more I realize this is my intention. I only know that I want to feel it and hold it and own it…acquire this emotion. In my mind, I try to break it into edible pieces, send it to the kitchens in my soul or heart or gut so that it may be prepared and tasted raw, seasoned, powdered, charred, in soups, as a terrine, caramelized, emulsified and everything else so as to leave nothing gray…so that it can become mine until it is.
…
Today, I was hopping down the street with my "from the neighborhood, re-usable" black grocery bag in hand. The sun was shining through trees above my beautifully shaded Kings Road. There were children ahead following the lead of their mothers or nannies. When they reached the entrance of the Kings Road Park, they cried out, one after the other in perfect enthusiastic unison. “Yeah, the park!” And for a split second, I wished they would turn around and invite me…
But they didn’t.
I walked into the grocery store with my grocery store bag as I do 5 or so times a week. I picked up some milk, paper towels, light bulbs and a sandwich. I spoke with several employees, most of whom I know on a first name basis. I often catch wordless nods from the manager as I pass. Sometimes, he gives me free condoms and ice cream.
Okay, that's not entirely true. Anyway...
Whenever I reach the counter, there is no exchange of mundane conversation. Unless there’s a rookie bagger, the words paper or plastic aren’t spoken at all. Instead, I curl my bottom lip over the top, squint my eyes and pass with a satisfaction…I’m one of your people.
Someone once said it’s the little things that make all the difference. I’m not sure I know what that means…
But I always skip home.
I don’t remember where I saw this vision, just that I did. Just erased, all life and any evidential trace of it. And it was beautiful for reasons I’m certain I’d have to explain…and because of this, my choice is to refrain. But I will tell you; it wasn’t just in a dream.
16 seconds in, the moment I keep re-visiting because I’ve never heard joy or sadness come out like this. And I don’t know which it is and it makes me want to give in and give up. And the more I think of it, the more it breaks me in half, the more I realize this is my intention. I only know that I want to feel it and hold it and own it…acquire this emotion. In my mind, I try to break it into edible pieces, send it to the kitchens in my soul or heart or gut so that it may be prepared and tasted raw, seasoned, powdered, charred, in soups, as a terrine, caramelized, emulsified and everything else so as to leave nothing gray…so that it can become mine until it is.
…
Today, I was hopping down the street with my "from the neighborhood, re-usable" black grocery bag in hand. The sun was shining through trees above my beautifully shaded Kings Road. There were children ahead following the lead of their mothers or nannies. When they reached the entrance of the Kings Road Park, they cried out, one after the other in perfect enthusiastic unison. “Yeah, the park!” And for a split second, I wished they would turn around and invite me…
But they didn’t.
I walked into the grocery store with my grocery store bag as I do 5 or so times a week. I picked up some milk, paper towels, light bulbs and a sandwich. I spoke with several employees, most of whom I know on a first name basis. I often catch wordless nods from the manager as I pass. Sometimes, he gives me free condoms and ice cream.
Okay, that's not entirely true. Anyway...
Whenever I reach the counter, there is no exchange of mundane conversation. Unless there’s a rookie bagger, the words paper or plastic aren’t spoken at all. Instead, I curl my bottom lip over the top, squint my eyes and pass with a satisfaction…I’m one of your people.
Someone once said it’s the little things that make all the difference. I’m not sure I know what that means…
But I always skip home.
October 10, 2007
September 03, 2007
Nostalgia...
I think it happened somewhere between cutting into my fine Gelson's filet and watching an ex thing of mine on the Entourage season finale (98%), topless, blowing coke off the t's of a non ex thing of mine. I found self wondering what the hell I was doing this time last year...
That and oh my, aside from an episode on the Roosevelt kitchen floor…how sweet she used to appear.
...
This last week fucked my head. I turned 26. It was the first week in waiting for response to my television foray (usually 10-14 days). I couldn't do anything. I tried to pull together my book, tried to dive into a script, find a backup TV show...all left me limp. I picked semi-inadvertent fights with friends. I was dead, dried up, burnt out and swimming through the murk of a late summer in Los Angeles.
I decided that if I didn’t do something, there would only be bigger, deeper trouble for all parties involved in my life (just me).
The title of this post and a flooding of my heart led me somewhere semi-fresh. It's a place where only a douche would nitpick the offbeats. Honestly, don’t be a douche. I know, okay. How much time do you expect me to burn correcting? Another glorious week begins and these hands gotta be clean, this head gotta rest.
Why don't you let me handle the tone? ------------------->>>
Top right link...use headphones.
That and oh my, aside from an episode on the Roosevelt kitchen floor…how sweet she used to appear.
...
This last week fucked my head. I turned 26. It was the first week in waiting for response to my television foray (usually 10-14 days). I couldn't do anything. I tried to pull together my book, tried to dive into a script, find a backup TV show...all left me limp. I picked semi-inadvertent fights with friends. I was dead, dried up, burnt out and swimming through the murk of a late summer in Los Angeles.
I decided that if I didn’t do something, there would only be bigger, deeper trouble for all parties involved in my life (just me).
The title of this post and a flooding of my heart led me somewhere semi-fresh. It's a place where only a douche would nitpick the offbeats. Honestly, don’t be a douche. I know, okay. How much time do you expect me to burn correcting? Another glorious week begins and these hands gotta be clean, this head gotta rest.
Why don't you let me handle the tone? ------------------->>>
Top right link...use headphones.
August 24, 2007
The Float...
Something stagnant but I don’t and always know exactly what it is. It’s been hot lately, and gritty heat making appearance for the first time in late August seems strange to me. LA is funny.
I was somewhere between Brussels, Barcelona and Dublin last year when it came out. Beck released this new CD, “Information.” I remember going to a record store in Cape Town, on the waterfront last November and asking one attendant, another, another if they had it…then anything by Beck, then if they had ever heard of him and finally if something was getting lost in the translation of our same language. I gave up, then forgot.
So I guess it’s only fitting that as a deadness settles in over the city of Los Angeles for the next 2 weeks, I finally get around to picking it up because of the new and free standing and initially infectious turned festeringly good single “Timebomb.” And goodness, I needed it…a fresh soundtrack to sponsor this drift.
…
So this week we’re going to play a game. This is usually the season love (or the illusion of) dies…late August, and since my lately romances have been anything but inspiring, we have to seek dialogue elsewhere.
Momentarily, I thought of telling you about the elderly community that lives on my Kings Road but closer to Melrose and how sometimes, they band together, stand in the street and direct…okay, scream at traffic in mysterious tongue. Sometimes, they form a crazed fleet and launch offensives against passing cars. But I changed mind. Not only should the mental image suffice, but honestly, my quota for penning the crazed has been more than fulfilled.
So…let’s stick to business. If you read, you know I’m making a hard push into changing forms of paid work. Obviously, I’ve been trying to get paid through writing since I first set foot in this town, mostly to no avail. Though, in my own defense, I wasn’t giving myself a massively fair chance in trying to pump out passion projects to major studios as a 23-24 year old. So, instead of focusing on something commercially viable that I could write well, I dove deeper in the wrong direction, writing two new, separate scripts that nearly killed me. They were big and beautiful and bold…just covered in vomit I wasn’t at the time capable of wiping clean.
As I earlier mentioned, I was writing a spec episode of Rescue Me. I figured that if I played by someone else’s rules…colored mostly in the lines, I would be giving myself a fair chance to get out of the business of selling 15 dollar martinis to the patrons of Beverly Hills. So I did. It’s out, I nailed it, let’s play…
Timeline:
Background – The Ref is brilliant. Denis Leary doesn’t get to fuck Rene Russo on the stairs in Thomas Crown Affair. I like Denis Leary, I feel for Denis Leary. Rescue Me is a great show. Because of Lost and Denny Duquette, I want my own.
April – I get DVR.
Early July – I watch the previous 56 episodes of Rescue Me.
7/22 – I begin my episode, fictionally slotted mid next season, “Sabotage.”
8/3 – Solid draft done.
8/4 – 8/8 – Sun. Sex. Spin. Sleep. Ciroc. Trois Pistoles. Yoga. MacCallan 18. Harry Potter.
8/13 – Revisions done.
8/17 – “Sabotage” out to ICM.
8/18 – 8/21 – Script received. In read queue at ICM. Writer freaks out, thinks he wrote a gem and that all eggs being in a single basket isn’t in his best interest.
8/22 – Writer calls in favors. “Sabotage” goes out to William Morris and UTA.
8/23 – 8/30 – Repeat “8/4 – 8/8,” only with a new book and this new, excellent album on repeat. Try to enjoy riding a rein-less animal. Mull over the next project, confide in self that no matter the outcome, in one form or another, this is life and a sweet one at that. Remind self that it’s to always, always be played like buying shoes for a child with Osgood Schlatter’s…
Room to grow.
I was somewhere between Brussels, Barcelona and Dublin last year when it came out. Beck released this new CD, “Information.” I remember going to a record store in Cape Town, on the waterfront last November and asking one attendant, another, another if they had it…then anything by Beck, then if they had ever heard of him and finally if something was getting lost in the translation of our same language. I gave up, then forgot.
So I guess it’s only fitting that as a deadness settles in over the city of Los Angeles for the next 2 weeks, I finally get around to picking it up because of the new and free standing and initially infectious turned festeringly good single “Timebomb.” And goodness, I needed it…a fresh soundtrack to sponsor this drift.
…
So this week we’re going to play a game. This is usually the season love (or the illusion of) dies…late August, and since my lately romances have been anything but inspiring, we have to seek dialogue elsewhere.
Momentarily, I thought of telling you about the elderly community that lives on my Kings Road but closer to Melrose and how sometimes, they band together, stand in the street and direct…okay, scream at traffic in mysterious tongue. Sometimes, they form a crazed fleet and launch offensives against passing cars. But I changed mind. Not only should the mental image suffice, but honestly, my quota for penning the crazed has been more than fulfilled.
So…let’s stick to business. If you read, you know I’m making a hard push into changing forms of paid work. Obviously, I’ve been trying to get paid through writing since I first set foot in this town, mostly to no avail. Though, in my own defense, I wasn’t giving myself a massively fair chance in trying to pump out passion projects to major studios as a 23-24 year old. So, instead of focusing on something commercially viable that I could write well, I dove deeper in the wrong direction, writing two new, separate scripts that nearly killed me. They were big and beautiful and bold…just covered in vomit I wasn’t at the time capable of wiping clean.
As I earlier mentioned, I was writing a spec episode of Rescue Me. I figured that if I played by someone else’s rules…colored mostly in the lines, I would be giving myself a fair chance to get out of the business of selling 15 dollar martinis to the patrons of Beverly Hills. So I did. It’s out, I nailed it, let’s play…
Timeline:
Background – The Ref is brilliant. Denis Leary doesn’t get to fuck Rene Russo on the stairs in Thomas Crown Affair. I like Denis Leary, I feel for Denis Leary. Rescue Me is a great show. Because of Lost and Denny Duquette, I want my own.
April – I get DVR.
Early July – I watch the previous 56 episodes of Rescue Me.
7/22 – I begin my episode, fictionally slotted mid next season, “Sabotage.”
8/3 – Solid draft done.
8/4 – 8/8 – Sun. Sex. Spin. Sleep. Ciroc. Trois Pistoles. Yoga. MacCallan 18. Harry Potter.
8/13 – Revisions done.
8/17 – “Sabotage” out to ICM.
8/18 – 8/21 – Script received. In read queue at ICM. Writer freaks out, thinks he wrote a gem and that all eggs being in a single basket isn’t in his best interest.
8/22 – Writer calls in favors. “Sabotage” goes out to William Morris and UTA.
8/23 – 8/30 – Repeat “8/4 – 8/8,” only with a new book and this new, excellent album on repeat. Try to enjoy riding a rein-less animal. Mull over the next project, confide in self that no matter the outcome, in one form or another, this is life and a sweet one at that. Remind self that it’s to always, always be played like buying shoes for a child with Osgood Schlatter’s…
Room to grow.
August 08, 2007
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