It's been a couple years, Gents.
Time to freshen things before my #1 makes it's way up. Darling Bloom 6.
Just because I've been playing catch with myself the last couple forays doesn't mean I prefer it.
Bloom Tease...on the left...may it fare well.
January 31, 2006
January 26, 2006
Now Bring Me that Horizon...
I’m amused at how tangled things have become. Instead of writing about my battles in the game of Hollywood, I hitch. I hesitate as if THAT were my soft spot. On the flip side, my reservations in writing about my life have whittled to almost nothing. It’s more than a bit troubling…
I got a call yesterday. When I hung up, I felt ill…even if it was only for a moment.
In terms of my career, the career I re-located my ass out here for…I really only have two things on my plate. In case you need to be brought up to speed…
1. Wrapping a Script.
2. Swapping jabs with Mickey Mouse house.
That’s it. For the time being, my personal and professional directions are mapped out and tidy. You could say I’m simplifying things…that I need to broaden my perspective. I disagree. Things are good. Things are perfect.
But the call was from Disney. If you’ve been reading, the “girl” I’ve been referring is an exec from the studio. I know it’s difficult to sift. In between the banished ex girlfriends I foolishly re-fall for, the Philippine call girls and my 8-12 hour crushes…the “she” droppings can be a bit much. My separation is the knowledge that this is the one breaking me in.
By now, we have a good repore. Good enough where she calls…or, at least has her assistant call to say they filled MY POSITION. It was the position I was supposed to pitch for “In the New Year.” What’s the date today? January 26th. I had an opportunity that 10,000 people in this town would cut their wrists for…and I let it roll off my back. I flaked…sort of. And I feel a slight awful for it.
This is a town full of cold shoulders…the most locked down industry in the world. There are millions of “wannabes” and only a handful of “ares.” It’s your run of the mill power struggle scenario. Simply swap variables. Vanity for genocide. Narcotic driven economy for…actually, that works on both fronts. As I was saying, those holding power want to keep it. AND, those that have it remember how many times they had to break, mend and re-break their backs to get it.
I don’t understand why they called, again. Or…why they’re so encouraging, again. “Come June, you’ll have a foot up.” It’s not like they owe me anything, again. To them, I should be a nobody (though you and I know considerably better). Then again, she read my 1st(4th) script and said she and another executive really liked it. Hence, my meeting/our relationship. For some reason, I never believed her.
At the very least, if you were curious as to why I wanted to land this thing, your question should be answered. There’s heart there. If anything gets me…that’s it.
And yet the other side of my head knows I’d be better off on my own. Give and take…the greatest fucking bastard I know.
…
It’s funny, the process. Come to Hollywood with Hollywood dreams and all you want is a chance…the coveted “foot in the door.” Most people never get one, and 99% of the time…deservedly so.
Mine’s in. I’m 1 person away from anyone in this town. Tom Cruise might be 2, but besides Tommy, anyone else. It’s comforting, calming, cooling. There’s no who, what, when, where, why or how. I only have to worry about being one thing in this entire world…
Fucking remarkable.
And I want you to understand what I’ve understood. I took a break from my script, my “in” to write this. If it were a shit piece, I’d be upstairs, kicking the hell out of Frank, my accountant neighbor due to concerns I let a golden opportunity slide.
Frank is fine. He’s upstairs, probably masturbating to gay porn…getting ready to dream the night away. I didn’t harm a hair on his head.
If it were a shit piece, I’d be a twitchy, panicked, backpedaling fuckrunner. Use your imagination. Just like it sounds.
I ain’t that. So at the end of the day, at the end of it all, is it any surprise that all roads lead to such familiar stomping grounds…
Sweet, coveted uncertainty.
I got a call yesterday. When I hung up, I felt ill…even if it was only for a moment.
In terms of my career, the career I re-located my ass out here for…I really only have two things on my plate. In case you need to be brought up to speed…
1. Wrapping a Script.
2. Swapping jabs with Mickey Mouse house.
That’s it. For the time being, my personal and professional directions are mapped out and tidy. You could say I’m simplifying things…that I need to broaden my perspective. I disagree. Things are good. Things are perfect.
But the call was from Disney. If you’ve been reading, the “girl” I’ve been referring is an exec from the studio. I know it’s difficult to sift. In between the banished ex girlfriends I foolishly re-fall for, the Philippine call girls and my 8-12 hour crushes…the “she” droppings can be a bit much. My separation is the knowledge that this is the one breaking me in.
By now, we have a good repore. Good enough where she calls…or, at least has her assistant call to say they filled MY POSITION. It was the position I was supposed to pitch for “In the New Year.” What’s the date today? January 26th. I had an opportunity that 10,000 people in this town would cut their wrists for…and I let it roll off my back. I flaked…sort of. And I feel a slight awful for it.
This is a town full of cold shoulders…the most locked down industry in the world. There are millions of “wannabes” and only a handful of “ares.” It’s your run of the mill power struggle scenario. Simply swap variables. Vanity for genocide. Narcotic driven economy for…actually, that works on both fronts. As I was saying, those holding power want to keep it. AND, those that have it remember how many times they had to break, mend and re-break their backs to get it.
I don’t understand why they called, again. Or…why they’re so encouraging, again. “Come June, you’ll have a foot up.” It’s not like they owe me anything, again. To them, I should be a nobody (though you and I know considerably better). Then again, she read my 1st(4th) script and said she and another executive really liked it. Hence, my meeting/our relationship. For some reason, I never believed her.
At the very least, if you were curious as to why I wanted to land this thing, your question should be answered. There’s heart there. If anything gets me…that’s it.
And yet the other side of my head knows I’d be better off on my own. Give and take…the greatest fucking bastard I know.
…
It’s funny, the process. Come to Hollywood with Hollywood dreams and all you want is a chance…the coveted “foot in the door.” Most people never get one, and 99% of the time…deservedly so.
Mine’s in. I’m 1 person away from anyone in this town. Tom Cruise might be 2, but besides Tommy, anyone else. It’s comforting, calming, cooling. There’s no who, what, when, where, why or how. I only have to worry about being one thing in this entire world…
Fucking remarkable.
And I want you to understand what I’ve understood. I took a break from my script, my “in” to write this. If it were a shit piece, I’d be upstairs, kicking the hell out of Frank, my accountant neighbor due to concerns I let a golden opportunity slide.
Frank is fine. He’s upstairs, probably masturbating to gay porn…getting ready to dream the night away. I didn’t harm a hair on his head.
If it were a shit piece, I’d be a twitchy, panicked, backpedaling fuckrunner. Use your imagination. Just like it sounds.
I ain’t that. So at the end of the day, at the end of it all, is it any surprise that all roads lead to such familiar stomping grounds…
Sweet, coveted uncertainty.
January 23, 2006
No Lawsuits, Please...
The neighborhood is changing. Link bar stage left says so. I advise you take a look…a listen. Though a bounty of copyrights stand violated, I do fully support I-Tunes. Therefore, I own a clear conscience. How’s yours doin?
One child remains missing. Fabled Bloom 6. I had to track down a pirated copy from Signapore. Crossies, it’s on the way.
It’s nice. Things are calm this week. I’ve been working. You know, small things here and there…trying to tie up loose ends of the Lingerie Bowl before it goes up live on Super Bowl Sunday. Loose ends like finding Dennis Rodman a helicopter that will drop him off on the 50 yard line of the LA Coliseum. If anyone can beat 3500 AND fly a Huey, consider yourself hired. I never pretended this was a “normal” job.
I have a problem. In professional terms, it’s called a “to-do laundry list.” Sorry if I lost anyone. It’s super duper complicated stuff, coordinating production. Can you hear the focus in my words? The clear direction? I have things…concrete things whose fate rest on these sturdy shoulders. Tonight, the burden is life-raping.
Worry not, weary travelers. It wont last. You caught me on a bad day.
…
I took a piss test on Friday. Like I said a few weeks ago…a time will come where I’ll have to shop for sweet new means of an LA paycheck. Once Lingerie Bowl wraps, I’m falling back into another overpaying, slender hour job. I told them Saturdays, Sundays and Mondays would be out of the question. Their response? Welcome aboard.
There’s usually a simple explanation for such a reaction. Someone wants to fuck or get fucked by…you. What? At least out here, we don’t pretend.
…
Turning the corner. Sometimes, I stray from what started this fiasco. Oh, to write for the silver screen. I go through typhoons of shits and giggles in this life. However, you could cut out my eyes and I wouldn’t lose sight of why I’m here…what I’m doing. If it ever seems as if life is getting in the way, realize you’re fortune’s fool before it’s too late. Life IS the way.
I’ll be wrapping my latest foray in a month. Slightly behind schedule, but it should be worth the wait. And I’m not really worried about anything. All of the “daunting” parts of this city and this business have failed to reach me. If they haven’t come yet, they never will.
My last script did exactly what it needed to do. It raised some important brows and in the process, shed layers of my Hollywood virginity. But somewhere along the way, I realized that I do actually have “it.” And the difference between knowing I have “it” and holding “it” in my hand is just a matter of time.
I give you this fair warning because I can feel the infallibility of my future. I’m well on my way to becoming a monster. It’s not until we embrace our capabilities that we understand what it takes to dance with immortality.
Chalk it up…that one’s all mine.
…
Now ease up, Dears. Still trying to find footing. Kid fell hard last week.
One child remains missing. Fabled Bloom 6. I had to track down a pirated copy from Signapore. Crossies, it’s on the way.
It’s nice. Things are calm this week. I’ve been working. You know, small things here and there…trying to tie up loose ends of the Lingerie Bowl before it goes up live on Super Bowl Sunday. Loose ends like finding Dennis Rodman a helicopter that will drop him off on the 50 yard line of the LA Coliseum. If anyone can beat 3500 AND fly a Huey, consider yourself hired. I never pretended this was a “normal” job.
I have a problem. In professional terms, it’s called a “to-do laundry list.” Sorry if I lost anyone. It’s super duper complicated stuff, coordinating production. Can you hear the focus in my words? The clear direction? I have things…concrete things whose fate rest on these sturdy shoulders. Tonight, the burden is life-raping.
Worry not, weary travelers. It wont last. You caught me on a bad day.
…
I took a piss test on Friday. Like I said a few weeks ago…a time will come where I’ll have to shop for sweet new means of an LA paycheck. Once Lingerie Bowl wraps, I’m falling back into another overpaying, slender hour job. I told them Saturdays, Sundays and Mondays would be out of the question. Their response? Welcome aboard.
There’s usually a simple explanation for such a reaction. Someone wants to fuck or get fucked by…you. What? At least out here, we don’t pretend.
…
Turning the corner. Sometimes, I stray from what started this fiasco. Oh, to write for the silver screen. I go through typhoons of shits and giggles in this life. However, you could cut out my eyes and I wouldn’t lose sight of why I’m here…what I’m doing. If it ever seems as if life is getting in the way, realize you’re fortune’s fool before it’s too late. Life IS the way.
I’ll be wrapping my latest foray in a month. Slightly behind schedule, but it should be worth the wait. And I’m not really worried about anything. All of the “daunting” parts of this city and this business have failed to reach me. If they haven’t come yet, they never will.
My last script did exactly what it needed to do. It raised some important brows and in the process, shed layers of my Hollywood virginity. But somewhere along the way, I realized that I do actually have “it.” And the difference between knowing I have “it” and holding “it” in my hand is just a matter of time.
I give you this fair warning because I can feel the infallibility of my future. I’m well on my way to becoming a monster. It’s not until we embrace our capabilities that we understand what it takes to dance with immortality.
Chalk it up…that one’s all mine.
…
Now ease up, Dears. Still trying to find footing. Kid fell hard last week.
January 16, 2006
Ode to a Long Lost...
Someone’s gum is stuck to the chair next to my bed.
It was Friday the 13th. If ever a day flies the red flag, would it not have been that one? I should have seen it coming…
…
I have a feeling this post is going to roll heavy and telling. So if you will, permit me a brief digression in the spirit of easing tension.
If you ever get the urge to chain me down and lock me in a metal cabinet for a duration of time exceeding 10 weeks, the deal I strike is this: Give me 10 songs and I’ll manage. Though I refuse to dish the 10 songs unless you ask, I will confess that I recently found myself a new one. In case you didn’t pick up…that’s fairly high praise. I never lent an ear until a week ago. Shit Happens. In case you haven’t, lend yours when you get the chance.
Arcade Fire – Wake Up
…
Where was I? Friday the 13th.
I don’t much like to talk about it, but I used to have this painful addiction. The sort that can mix and toss pleasure and pain in such a ruthless manner that when it leaves, it leaves you cracked and chipped…broken into thousands of pieces.
My addiction was a she.
And it wasn’t all her fault. I have matured enough to know that in the realm of anything considered to be “normal” life, I am out of my fucking mind.
On Friday the 13th, she was a fog…rolling in and disappearing. So vivid, it very well could have been a dream. I knew the feeling all too well.
My feet are cold and my sleep pattern has suffered a ruthless Blitzkrieg. It takes a lot of work to go from being cynical to…something entirely else in the course of 6 hours. Let’s just say I had a little help from an “old friend.”
On Friday, my head hit pillow at five in the morning…alone, but not really. I was dead tired. Though, when I closed my eyes, I was not transported, lifted or whisked away. I got to hang out with me from 5-7am. Then, from 10am until 5am the next day. It’s not as hot as it sounds.
Let’s jump ahead to Saturday where the last thing I wanted to do on this entire fucking planet was go to Basque for a birthday party. I was sick with something doctors don’t “get.” Terribly fucking ill with something germs have no hand in.
I sucked it up, faked a good face and stayed until 2. Knowing sleep was out of the question, I went to an after hours coke bumping soiree and sat through Wedding Crashers. You’d be surprised how insightful the crew became. My head hit pillow just before the sun came up and I was alone. That “alone” feeling I had all but marvelously forgotten.
Oh, and FYI: If I blew coke, don’t you think I would have skipped that part of the story? Fucking please. In case you were wondering…I’m still me.
…
Sometimes, before I go out, I raise a glass with cronies, “here’s to falling in love for the night.” No one gets it, ever. Probably because I speak in the tonal ballpark of someone steps away from leaping through the window of a skyscraper. More than anything, it’s a joke for hopeless LA cynics who think they’re too good for everyone. Ladies, gentlemen…welcome to my thought process.
In more ways than I could ever succinctly explain, I’ve been bone picking with Cupid. To a man who puts food on his celestial table through the business of love, I’ve been downright disrespectful. On Friday, his vengeance was swift. Dude stuck a shank in my heart and left it in all weekend. I think it was a quarter to 1 when it happened…
Head, heels…you can fill the blanks.
What the fuck was she doing in my city?
…
We spend our lives jumping and catching trains…locked in a never-ending battle.
Come 4 o’clock on this Monday, it’s time to once again jump the train. Years ago, I’d jump and walk away with a broken neck. Mind you, walking becomes quite difficult when one sustains such an injury. These days, my tuck and roll is nearly flawless…allowing me the freedom to jump on and off without sustaining much injury at all.
Care for elaboration on the keyword, “much?” Of the thousands of cracks I earlier spoke...it’s down to a couple hundred. Nothing weeks of therapy couldn’t mend. Right, World?
…
But my tales are never always and only grim. This weekend, I found something that was absolutely necessary. There’s a point on the other side of the tunnel. And it’s this place where for a moment, all of your faults…all the rocks and razors you’ve stumbled across and bled by can somehow become…inconsequential. Because in that moment, you’re both holding a piece of something so haunting and fragile. Beyond and around, there’s endlessly nothing.
How I envy the parts of my past that knew it well.
I know. The sign is blinking, flashing, singing and screaming. It’s jumping out of the ground, trying to bash my face with its aluminum forged by our country’s finest condemned men and women. I know it all too well.
Sometime tomorrow, I’ll snap out of it. I’ll remember that I live in Los Angeles…that it’s time to jump. And even if the chemicals in my head were playing tricks on me, I know the good stuff when it comes. It came…and now it’s leaving. Forever, once again.
Don’t ask me why her gum is still stuck to the chair next to my bed. Or more importantly, why I haven’t thrown it away. I couldn’t tell you.
Okay, strike that. Allow me to steal a quote from paragraph 9…
“I have matured enough to know that in the realm of anything considered to be “normal” life, I am out of my fucking mind.”
Over the past day and a half, a realization has been rolling through my head. Its echoes refuse to stop. They just beat louder and louder and louder…
I’m fucked for the rest of my life. Forever and ever. All because of a she. What do you want me to say?
Oops.
January 09, 2006
Sigh...
I’m supposed to set up a meeting to pitch Mickey Mouse next week. Same studio…yes, again. Second week in January…that’s what my girl said. Though, my interpretation of the invitation was loose…so I am treating it as such. After all, I’m not ready.
Step back. Let me re-phrase. It’s not that I’m not ready. I’m full of soul-lifting, pull masses out of the gutter, tales. It’s just that I’m not ready for them.
Nothing forced will ever be good. Trying to hit my loose deadline next week would at this moment…seem forceful. Until my pitches are hotter than video-phone sex, she wont be hearing my rings. Then again, who’s to say a storm of brilliance doesn’t roll in tonight…in bed…while I fail to sleep.
This week in the trades, Disney got in on some action. It went a little something like…
'Chicken' pair sell Disney on 'Missing' pitch
6 Jan 2006 3:27am EST - By Tatiana Siegel
Chicken Little scribes Ron Friedman and Steve Bencich are reteaming with Walt Disney Pictures for the live-action family comedy The Missing Link. Disney paid mid-six figures for Friedman and Bencich's pitch, which is described as a monkey spy adventure in the vein of The Bourne Identity. Beau Flynn and Tripp Vinson of ContraFilm are producing along with Bryan Brucks, who brought the idea to Flynn and ContraFilm creative executive Gitty Daneshvari. Disney's Karen Glass and Casey Wolfe will oversee for the studio.
…
Did your eyes hear that? A “monkey spy adventure in the vein of Bourne Identity.” That’s what I’m up against. You might say it’s nowhere even in the realm of being up my alley. Or…how perfect?
It’s likely you know me better than I know myself…in THAT sense. Honest.
I’ll figure it out sooner rather than later. But lately, I’ve been deep into finishing my “soul searching angels in New York,” piece. At this very moment…my desktop is a digital picture from my last NYC jaunt. Battery Park. Taken from the hurricane deck on the Staten Island Ferry. I’ll never forget the feeling of a city so beautifully bitter.
One of these days, when I’m everything I promised I would be, you’ll look back with a certainty in your whisper and say…of course.
…
Did I mention that it’s Lingerie Bowl season? Yeah…it is. In case you don’t know what I’m talking about, I added a link from this site on the sidebar. I’ve pretty much been working with them since the day I set foot in this town. All of your questions regarding my work can be answered by one of the following responses…
1. Of course.
2. Worse.
It goes down on Pay-Per View at halftime of the Super Bowl. When the Director of Operations takes off for the 14-city bus tour in a week, I have to keep everything in Los Angeles running smooth…whatever that means.
My title for the company has spanned the board. When I first got into town, I straightened the Producer’s garage for a Benny. This summer, I wrote and floor directed their 50k television pilot that got a small offer from E!.
But really, my title should be Human Mapquest. We have 60 girls. Very beautiful. Very self-conscious. Very have lived in LA for much longer than I have and have no idea how to find ANYTHING. When we do photo shoots, hold events or have production days, they all seem to wind up with my cell number. Not funny. After the third pick up, I become quite swift in dropping, “I’m from Chicago…find you a gas station, Smith out.”
And here’s another thing. This town is all about chewing these girls up and spitting ‘em out. There will always be someone to come along that’s more beautiful…or exotic…or younger. Usually, all of the above.
It’s cruel and terrible, but it’s the nature of the beast in this town and in this life. Naturally, the process will break them down in bits and pieces. Over time, it adds up.
Since I’m not a pig, I can say this to you. Or perhaps the “pig” qualifier is that I am saying this to you. But 35 of the 60 girls want to have my children. The rest, I haven’t met. There’s something in my appearance that screams, “life/soul band aid.” Girls looking for that sort of healing usually turn out to be a little fucking bit out of their chain him down and cling, minds.
I got over certain things in this town real quick…real quick. Beautifully flaunting women was one of them. Now, around Lingerie Bowlers…I just pretend like I’m gay. Or, that I have a very serious girlfriend. Of course, in this town…nobody believes the latter.
…
Chronicles of the Sweet Life. That’s what I call these posts, correct? Sometimes, my worries stem from a failure to live up to my end of the deal. This past Friday served as a reminder to my initial reference.
I didn’t “work.” Technically. I woke up at 8 to polish a scene before heading to my cult spin class. Already rough, I know. Did I mention it was sunny and an unseasonably warm 80 degrees? Well, it was. I have a handful of friends in MWF noon spin. It’s like a family. Two of them were going to spend the afternoon by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I agreed to wingman. Now, I can’t really paint the picture of this place to you, but take my word that it’s exquisitely beautiful…elegant, sweet, wonderful. For reasons we don’t need to spend time on, they’re treated like King and Queen every time they go. Though, they’re not together. This will be important later.
Did I mention the entire place is painted pink?
We sat under the sun and drank champagne until the glowing rays cooled. After moving to the Jacuzzi, we ate Fruit Stripe and drank a toast to all our lovelies in the cold Midwest and on the East coast.
I met the Queen out that night in Santa Monica. We left…indiscriminately searching for a Westwood In and Out at 2AM. I don’t eat In and Out at 2AM. I don’t eat In and Out period. Something must be coming. When we got to her place, we allowed our lips a cheek and said goodbye through eyes and smiles.
That was a day…
Every now and then, one comes. Los Angeles has the power to be magic like that. Perhaps in greater frequency than any other crack in this world.
Now, it’s a part of me…that January 6th, 2006.
Step back. Let me re-phrase. It’s not that I’m not ready. I’m full of soul-lifting, pull masses out of the gutter, tales. It’s just that I’m not ready for them.
Nothing forced will ever be good. Trying to hit my loose deadline next week would at this moment…seem forceful. Until my pitches are hotter than video-phone sex, she wont be hearing my rings. Then again, who’s to say a storm of brilliance doesn’t roll in tonight…in bed…while I fail to sleep.
This week in the trades, Disney got in on some action. It went a little something like…
'Chicken' pair sell Disney on 'Missing' pitch
6 Jan 2006 3:27am EST - By Tatiana Siegel
Chicken Little scribes Ron Friedman and Steve Bencich are reteaming with Walt Disney Pictures for the live-action family comedy The Missing Link. Disney paid mid-six figures for Friedman and Bencich's pitch, which is described as a monkey spy adventure in the vein of The Bourne Identity. Beau Flynn and Tripp Vinson of ContraFilm are producing along with Bryan Brucks, who brought the idea to Flynn and ContraFilm creative executive Gitty Daneshvari. Disney's Karen Glass and Casey Wolfe will oversee for the studio.
…
Did your eyes hear that? A “monkey spy adventure in the vein of Bourne Identity.” That’s what I’m up against. You might say it’s nowhere even in the realm of being up my alley. Or…how perfect?
It’s likely you know me better than I know myself…in THAT sense. Honest.
I’ll figure it out sooner rather than later. But lately, I’ve been deep into finishing my “soul searching angels in New York,” piece. At this very moment…my desktop is a digital picture from my last NYC jaunt. Battery Park. Taken from the hurricane deck on the Staten Island Ferry. I’ll never forget the feeling of a city so beautifully bitter.
One of these days, when I’m everything I promised I would be, you’ll look back with a certainty in your whisper and say…of course.
…
Did I mention that it’s Lingerie Bowl season? Yeah…it is. In case you don’t know what I’m talking about, I added a link from this site on the sidebar. I’ve pretty much been working with them since the day I set foot in this town. All of your questions regarding my work can be answered by one of the following responses…
1. Of course.
2. Worse.
It goes down on Pay-Per View at halftime of the Super Bowl. When the Director of Operations takes off for the 14-city bus tour in a week, I have to keep everything in Los Angeles running smooth…whatever that means.
My title for the company has spanned the board. When I first got into town, I straightened the Producer’s garage for a Benny. This summer, I wrote and floor directed their 50k television pilot that got a small offer from E!.
But really, my title should be Human Mapquest. We have 60 girls. Very beautiful. Very self-conscious. Very have lived in LA for much longer than I have and have no idea how to find ANYTHING. When we do photo shoots, hold events or have production days, they all seem to wind up with my cell number. Not funny. After the third pick up, I become quite swift in dropping, “I’m from Chicago…find you a gas station, Smith out.”
And here’s another thing. This town is all about chewing these girls up and spitting ‘em out. There will always be someone to come along that’s more beautiful…or exotic…or younger. Usually, all of the above.
It’s cruel and terrible, but it’s the nature of the beast in this town and in this life. Naturally, the process will break them down in bits and pieces. Over time, it adds up.
Since I’m not a pig, I can say this to you. Or perhaps the “pig” qualifier is that I am saying this to you. But 35 of the 60 girls want to have my children. The rest, I haven’t met. There’s something in my appearance that screams, “life/soul band aid.” Girls looking for that sort of healing usually turn out to be a little fucking bit out of their chain him down and cling, minds.
I got over certain things in this town real quick…real quick. Beautifully flaunting women was one of them. Now, around Lingerie Bowlers…I just pretend like I’m gay. Or, that I have a very serious girlfriend. Of course, in this town…nobody believes the latter.
…
Chronicles of the Sweet Life. That’s what I call these posts, correct? Sometimes, my worries stem from a failure to live up to my end of the deal. This past Friday served as a reminder to my initial reference.
I didn’t “work.” Technically. I woke up at 8 to polish a scene before heading to my cult spin class. Already rough, I know. Did I mention it was sunny and an unseasonably warm 80 degrees? Well, it was. I have a handful of friends in MWF noon spin. It’s like a family. Two of them were going to spend the afternoon by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I agreed to wingman. Now, I can’t really paint the picture of this place to you, but take my word that it’s exquisitely beautiful…elegant, sweet, wonderful. For reasons we don’t need to spend time on, they’re treated like King and Queen every time they go. Though, they’re not together. This will be important later.
Did I mention the entire place is painted pink?
We sat under the sun and drank champagne until the glowing rays cooled. After moving to the Jacuzzi, we ate Fruit Stripe and drank a toast to all our lovelies in the cold Midwest and on the East coast.
I met the Queen out that night in Santa Monica. We left…indiscriminately searching for a Westwood In and Out at 2AM. I don’t eat In and Out at 2AM. I don’t eat In and Out period. Something must be coming. When we got to her place, we allowed our lips a cheek and said goodbye through eyes and smiles.
That was a day…
Every now and then, one comes. Los Angeles has the power to be magic like that. Perhaps in greater frequency than any other crack in this world.
Now, it’s a part of me…that January 6th, 2006.
January 01, 2006
Hello There, 2006...
It’s been raining all day in Los Angeles. How fitting. If there’s a city that could afford to be washed clean, it’s this one. Nothing supports a New Years Day comaover like a never-ending rainstorm. New Years Day. Three little words that when strung together…hold such gravitas.
Let me tell you a bit about myself.
…
I believe in love at first sight. That we are well on our way to the end of the world. Psychiatry will take us there.
I believe that people give up too easy. That picking a fight is the greatest form of bonding. Atheists lack vision.
I believe the age of 12 is 94% responsible for how we turn out. That smoke always leads to a fire. Heavy hearts are murdering smiles.
I believe that when a kiss rivals sex…and it can, you’ve found the one. That tragedy creates an artist. There is no affirmation greater than a powerful storm.
I believe that hearts are meant to be broken. That NASCAR deserves be the national pastime of Guatemala. Paul Thomas Anderson is beyond brilliant.
I believe that I am going to live longer than anyone in human history. That there is nothing more admirable than determination. Only fools think hope is fading.
I believe that 100 years from now, your great grandchildren will be reading my words. That arrogance is healthy. Nothing soothes greater than marble painting.
I believe there are lessons to be learned from swallowing sand. That conquering fear leads to exponential growth. The past has its place.
I believe foolish instincts are our greatest life compass. That only fools ignore them. Ronald McDonald was originally designed to haunt children.
…
I also believe…and this is important…that New Years resolutions are the single most sinister thing one can engage in.
When people tell me about their resolutions, I make mental notes. Hint: avoid my mental notes like “Life Goes On” Corky avoids wild card entry into the 2006 Shanghai Underground Deathfight.
In this particular instance, my mental note would go a little something like…passionate about making generous and likely multi-annual contributions to the failure at life fund.
So let me get this straight…you want to change your life???
But…you have to wait until the first of the year to do it? I fail to understand. Apologies. I claim to be a lot of things, but never intelligent. Maybe that’s my boggle.
There is one thing, however…that I do know. Me and excuses, well…let’s just say that if excuses were little children, I’d hammer their fragile spines with a hockey stick. Don’t test me.
In truth, it’s not aggression that overcomes. I worry about the state of things.
How dare we let slip from our conscience what happens when the yellow brick road ceases to lead…
We die.
Let me tell you a bit about myself.
…
I believe in love at first sight. That we are well on our way to the end of the world. Psychiatry will take us there.
I believe that people give up too easy. That picking a fight is the greatest form of bonding. Atheists lack vision.
I believe the age of 12 is 94% responsible for how we turn out. That smoke always leads to a fire. Heavy hearts are murdering smiles.
I believe that when a kiss rivals sex…and it can, you’ve found the one. That tragedy creates an artist. There is no affirmation greater than a powerful storm.
I believe that hearts are meant to be broken. That NASCAR deserves be the national pastime of Guatemala. Paul Thomas Anderson is beyond brilliant.
I believe that I am going to live longer than anyone in human history. That there is nothing more admirable than determination. Only fools think hope is fading.
I believe that 100 years from now, your great grandchildren will be reading my words. That arrogance is healthy. Nothing soothes greater than marble painting.
I believe there are lessons to be learned from swallowing sand. That conquering fear leads to exponential growth. The past has its place.
I believe foolish instincts are our greatest life compass. That only fools ignore them. Ronald McDonald was originally designed to haunt children.
…
I also believe…and this is important…that New Years resolutions are the single most sinister thing one can engage in.
When people tell me about their resolutions, I make mental notes. Hint: avoid my mental notes like “Life Goes On” Corky avoids wild card entry into the 2006 Shanghai Underground Deathfight.
In this particular instance, my mental note would go a little something like…passionate about making generous and likely multi-annual contributions to the failure at life fund.
So let me get this straight…you want to change your life???
But…you have to wait until the first of the year to do it? I fail to understand. Apologies. I claim to be a lot of things, but never intelligent. Maybe that’s my boggle.
There is one thing, however…that I do know. Me and excuses, well…let’s just say that if excuses were little children, I’d hammer their fragile spines with a hockey stick. Don’t test me.
In truth, it’s not aggression that overcomes. I worry about the state of things.
How dare we let slip from our conscience what happens when the yellow brick road ceases to lead…
We die.
December 30, 2005
That Ticking Clock...Two Thousand What?
I’m sick. The body hurts. My whore of a home state infected me. Sweet Illinois…or so I thought. She sent me back to Cali with illness. All is fair, I suppose.
I suppose. What can I say? Bitch was pissed. She can’t let go. I’ve been bedding my current sweetheart going on a year and a half. Somewhere along the way, I fell for her…and now I’ve fallen hard. What’s an inspired, love starved youth to do?
I have boats to say. But…I’ll save my ramble for a later date. Or, more appropriately…a later year.
I can’t believe I just said that shit.
I’d be up till 4. Fraid I don’t love you that much.
Okay, not true. This heart has plenty. And speaking of my heart…I think it’s enlarged. No, I’m not being metaphorically cute. I’m talking medical disorder. For some reason, it’s gotten so big, it oozes, pulses and pops its way through the gaps in my ribs. In turn, I get this stabbing, drop a fire cracker down my aorta and feel it explode…thing.
It’s awesome.
What’s wrong, you ask?
Likely nothing. I pander to drama. But, to be fair and kind, let’s role-play.
I’ll be me. You can be my last call conquest. I take my cue as the lights come up.
~~It’s not that I’ve had bad luck with love…it’s just that I love recklessly. I love deeply. At least I like to believe I do. (This sounds thick, but consider the stage…and performer). I guess you could say that I should’ve learned my lesson. Leave yourself open and you’re bound to get cut. (Take a “painful” slug from your J&D…give her sub-conscious 1.2 seconds to recall a movie or song she thinks she’s now living). Call me a fool, but it’s something I’ve come to expect. But as many times as my heart has been torn in this life, it heals. It grows bigger, stronger…it begs me to take the leap…again…to not be chained down by my past. In complete sincerity, I want to tell you something. I don’t know how much room I have left. That’s why lately, I’ve closed off. I made a promise to myself. A promise that I’ve had no problem upholding…until tonight…until I met you.~~
…
Oh, Hollywood…
I’m not a piece of shit. Sometimes, maybe…
In my life, I bide time…waiting to be overthrown. Otherwise, I’m a tease who adores the game. It’s just that…if you don’t know me, never trust me.
What? At least I’m honest…here. And that’s some that counts, right?
…
Anyway, I’ve 2 things for you. SNL again, but fucking wow. Dare you to watch it less than 10 times.
Make that the triple dog variety.
http://www.youtube.com/watch.php?v=zLElfJ9YCh0
…
And I found about 20 old, burned CD’s. Digs from my old, polluted computer. How I missed them. Precious orphans. I’ll give a few.
Aaron Lewis – Outside (Live - ’99 Family Values Tour)
Dire Straits – Romeo and Juliet
Joe Cocker – The Letter (Live)
Primitive Radio Gods – Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth With Money in My Hand
Aimee Mann – Save Me
Smashing Pumpkins – Tonight, Tonight
Our Lady Peace – Superman’s Dead (Live)
…
And since I am the Devil’s Advocate…allow me to lend a little New Year’s Eve advice…
Shoot warm Cuervo…find a hot tub. Have a drunken heart to heart with a stranger. Perhaps a second? Get naked. Welcome 2006 in the only reliably fitting manner…leaping off balconies singing cartwheels.
I suppose. What can I say? Bitch was pissed. She can’t let go. I’ve been bedding my current sweetheart going on a year and a half. Somewhere along the way, I fell for her…and now I’ve fallen hard. What’s an inspired, love starved youth to do?
I have boats to say. But…I’ll save my ramble for a later date. Or, more appropriately…a later year.
I can’t believe I just said that shit.
I’d be up till 4. Fraid I don’t love you that much.
Okay, not true. This heart has plenty. And speaking of my heart…I think it’s enlarged. No, I’m not being metaphorically cute. I’m talking medical disorder. For some reason, it’s gotten so big, it oozes, pulses and pops its way through the gaps in my ribs. In turn, I get this stabbing, drop a fire cracker down my aorta and feel it explode…thing.
It’s awesome.
What’s wrong, you ask?
Likely nothing. I pander to drama. But, to be fair and kind, let’s role-play.
I’ll be me. You can be my last call conquest. I take my cue as the lights come up.
~~It’s not that I’ve had bad luck with love…it’s just that I love recklessly. I love deeply. At least I like to believe I do. (This sounds thick, but consider the stage…and performer). I guess you could say that I should’ve learned my lesson. Leave yourself open and you’re bound to get cut. (Take a “painful” slug from your J&D…give her sub-conscious 1.2 seconds to recall a movie or song she thinks she’s now living). Call me a fool, but it’s something I’ve come to expect. But as many times as my heart has been torn in this life, it heals. It grows bigger, stronger…it begs me to take the leap…again…to not be chained down by my past. In complete sincerity, I want to tell you something. I don’t know how much room I have left. That’s why lately, I’ve closed off. I made a promise to myself. A promise that I’ve had no problem upholding…until tonight…until I met you.~~
…
Oh, Hollywood…
I’m not a piece of shit. Sometimes, maybe…
In my life, I bide time…waiting to be overthrown. Otherwise, I’m a tease who adores the game. It’s just that…if you don’t know me, never trust me.
What? At least I’m honest…here. And that’s some that counts, right?
…
Anyway, I’ve 2 things for you. SNL again, but fucking wow. Dare you to watch it less than 10 times.
Make that the triple dog variety.
http://www.youtube.com/watch.php?v=zLElfJ9YCh0
…
And I found about 20 old, burned CD’s. Digs from my old, polluted computer. How I missed them. Precious orphans. I’ll give a few.
Aaron Lewis – Outside (Live - ’99 Family Values Tour)
Dire Straits – Romeo and Juliet
Joe Cocker – The Letter (Live)
Primitive Radio Gods – Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth With Money in My Hand
Aimee Mann – Save Me
Smashing Pumpkins – Tonight, Tonight
Our Lady Peace – Superman’s Dead (Live)
…
And since I am the Devil’s Advocate…allow me to lend a little New Year’s Eve advice…
Shoot warm Cuervo…find a hot tub. Have a drunken heart to heart with a stranger. Perhaps a second? Get naked. Welcome 2006 in the only reliably fitting manner…leaping off balconies singing cartwheels.
December 20, 2005
Inapropo Refs and Gratitude. Grease pan, bake a 375, 12 mins...
My site, the site you’re eyes are currently dancing…is a gang-bang. No need to waste time on a darling Monday. Analogies will drop early, often.
Have you ever been in a situation where someone stops you with a look? One that informs of a line in the sand. Watch out. They’ll usually follow the declaration with a second look…you just crossed it.
Por ejemplo…
I was in Baja last January, a gringo with a map and no compass…trying to make a movie. On the second night, 145 miles north of Bajia De Los Angeles, I stopped at an abandoned beach 2 miles off the broken and ripped main road. I can almost promise you’ve never seen anything like it. I meant the road…but the beach, too. The road was the sort where you cross fingers for hours on end, praying your car doesn’t shake to pieces and strand you in the middle of the fucking desert. How else should I describe it? It’s a fucking desert!
It was 11:45 Baja time…whatever that means. I locked my doors and clenched my hatchet…which would likely qualify me as a junior barbarian or barbarian in training. That night, one thing was for sure…the banditos were coming for me. I would fight them off, plunge my baby axe into one of their faces and spend the rest of my life in a sub-standard Mexican prison.
Not exactly the thoughts that breed sweet dreams. And that’s not even mentioning the faint, flickering light coming from the other side of the burm. Being an avid explorer, I had to know where the light was being made. I left my car and crossed a small sand dune. Then, another…
There was a beach fire in between my secluded spot and what I thought was an out of season hotel. Wouldn’t you know, that night…3 lovely San Diegans just happened to be tipping a handle of Bacardi by the fire. Looking back, it’s possible they were Sirens.
Why am I telling this story? I don’t remember where I was heading. Perhaps a reference…the last time a suggestion or action of mine inspired a, “line cross.”
I’m lost. An abandoned beach? Rum? Fire? Outnumbered bachelor? Starry, open sky, secret-is-safe Mexico?
Apologies. It just ain’t clicking. Maybe I’m tired. Or, maybe my imagination isn’t firing on all cylinders tonight. You should know which word to underline there. Come now, this is a heart too sweet for that.
At least I like to believe it is.
…
There’s a line you cross, a barrier when you stray past the semi-taboo and enter into something else. Like I said, this site is and has always aspired to be a gang bang.
And if you’re going to gang bang, fucking gang bang. Commit.
Now that I’ve come this far tonight, I fail to see the romance. Exactly. See how you back into it? How it works on so many…plateaus?
I often have a roundabout style. But for one night, let me translate this merry-go-round…
Thanks for reading. Thanks for writing that you’re reading. Thanks for writing to read. Since I’m not dying for another 90 years, we got a long way to go.
Yes. I could have saved time, if only I began where I ended…
Thank you, no.
Have you ever been in a situation where someone stops you with a look? One that informs of a line in the sand. Watch out. They’ll usually follow the declaration with a second look…you just crossed it.
Por ejemplo…
I was in Baja last January, a gringo with a map and no compass…trying to make a movie. On the second night, 145 miles north of Bajia De Los Angeles, I stopped at an abandoned beach 2 miles off the broken and ripped main road. I can almost promise you’ve never seen anything like it. I meant the road…but the beach, too. The road was the sort where you cross fingers for hours on end, praying your car doesn’t shake to pieces and strand you in the middle of the fucking desert. How else should I describe it? It’s a fucking desert!
It was 11:45 Baja time…whatever that means. I locked my doors and clenched my hatchet…which would likely qualify me as a junior barbarian or barbarian in training. That night, one thing was for sure…the banditos were coming for me. I would fight them off, plunge my baby axe into one of their faces and spend the rest of my life in a sub-standard Mexican prison.
Not exactly the thoughts that breed sweet dreams. And that’s not even mentioning the faint, flickering light coming from the other side of the burm. Being an avid explorer, I had to know where the light was being made. I left my car and crossed a small sand dune. Then, another…
There was a beach fire in between my secluded spot and what I thought was an out of season hotel. Wouldn’t you know, that night…3 lovely San Diegans just happened to be tipping a handle of Bacardi by the fire. Looking back, it’s possible they were Sirens.
Why am I telling this story? I don’t remember where I was heading. Perhaps a reference…the last time a suggestion or action of mine inspired a, “line cross.”
I’m lost. An abandoned beach? Rum? Fire? Outnumbered bachelor? Starry, open sky, secret-is-safe Mexico?
Apologies. It just ain’t clicking. Maybe I’m tired. Or, maybe my imagination isn’t firing on all cylinders tonight. You should know which word to underline there. Come now, this is a heart too sweet for that.
At least I like to believe it is.
…
There’s a line you cross, a barrier when you stray past the semi-taboo and enter into something else. Like I said, this site is and has always aspired to be a gang bang.
And if you’re going to gang bang, fucking gang bang. Commit.
Now that I’ve come this far tonight, I fail to see the romance. Exactly. See how you back into it? How it works on so many…plateaus?
I often have a roundabout style. But for one night, let me translate this merry-go-round…
Thanks for reading. Thanks for writing that you’re reading. Thanks for writing to read. Since I’m not dying for another 90 years, we got a long way to go.
Yes. I could have saved time, if only I began where I ended…
Thank you, no.
December 19, 2005
Saturday Night Live...
Still and always the most untouchable show on TV.
http://img-nex.kongisking.net/kong/movies/121705-SNLJackBlack9.mov
And how tragically John Belushi is Jack Black?
http://img-nex.kongisking.net/kong/movies/121705-SNLJackBlack9.mov
And how tragically John Belushi is Jack Black?
December 14, 2005
Let Me Tell You Why I'm an Idiot...
Then again, when has the power of sight ever failed in painting the more resonant picture? Top of Rockefeller Center in New York City…the newly opened suicide dreamer’s Candyland.
http://homepage.mac.com/winburnsmith/PhotoAlbum10.html
Some things, I’ll never understand. Like heights, for example. Or Vertigo…and why the fuck I put myself through it.
My fingers need to touch foundation, no wandering.
Short, quick breaths…constant shivers.
Testicles retreat into my lower intestines.
People think I’m a 24-year-old crack baby.
I make unsettling, involuntary noises.
I close my eyes and dart through narrow passages with the bravado of John Bobbit moments before his second, “first” sexual encounter.
I laugh to myself…a calming of the nerves.
The alarm in my stomach calls for vomit…but nothing is locked or loaded.
Bitter, freezing wind. Every moment, I waited for it to blow hard enough to dust me off the landing, foster my date with destiny. That never happened.
There were three platforms...and stairs leading to those platforms. This means one could elect to see just one platform and head down…or elect to see all three.
In spite of the buckets of personal anguish I share…I elected to be an idiot. I elected to eliminate the potential regret of not making it to the top.
It’s that same trigger that likes to selectively fire. Tell me what to do? Go fuck yourself. Don’t eat arsenic, it’s bad for you? Yourself, go fuck. The same stubborn shit applies to my own instincts.
My heart beats 54 times every minute. For those 8 minutes I spent on top of the world… double that. And when I walked past an engineer speaking quietly with one of the security officers…
“Not super smooth. The main elevator just crapped out.”
Triple it.
My insides shook something fierce. When I finally made it back down, bet your cabinet of illegal prescription drugs that my hand ran across the marble on floor one. Trust me, it’s not cliché when you feel shit like that.
…
Of course the city was great. There was a distinct sweetness I was hoping to find. Spirits were high…crowds rampant. Everyone follows “The New Yorker’s Guide to Mastering the Holiday Dating Trifecta: The Scarf-Wrap, Arm Brace and Sidewalk Strut.” I passed dozens if not hundreds of couples with a smirk, freezing my naked face off…knowing they would have a place in my Blogville. Usually…the uniformity would tempt my desire to dish swift facial roundhouses. But in sincerity, I dug it. What else are the holidays about?
But wait…
Breed that, the reflection of another great and wandering trip to our country’s great city…confusion, wonder, exhaustion…and the ache of my desire to return home, to my city of angels…and I’ve earned allowance to drop something a little more profound…
What else is life about?
http://homepage.mac.com/winburnsmith/PhotoAlbum10.html
Some things, I’ll never understand. Like heights, for example. Or Vertigo…and why the fuck I put myself through it.
My fingers need to touch foundation, no wandering.
Short, quick breaths…constant shivers.
Testicles retreat into my lower intestines.
People think I’m a 24-year-old crack baby.
I make unsettling, involuntary noises.
I close my eyes and dart through narrow passages with the bravado of John Bobbit moments before his second, “first” sexual encounter.
I laugh to myself…a calming of the nerves.
The alarm in my stomach calls for vomit…but nothing is locked or loaded.
Bitter, freezing wind. Every moment, I waited for it to blow hard enough to dust me off the landing, foster my date with destiny. That never happened.
There were three platforms...and stairs leading to those platforms. This means one could elect to see just one platform and head down…or elect to see all three.
In spite of the buckets of personal anguish I share…I elected to be an idiot. I elected to eliminate the potential regret of not making it to the top.
It’s that same trigger that likes to selectively fire. Tell me what to do? Go fuck yourself. Don’t eat arsenic, it’s bad for you? Yourself, go fuck. The same stubborn shit applies to my own instincts.
My heart beats 54 times every minute. For those 8 minutes I spent on top of the world… double that. And when I walked past an engineer speaking quietly with one of the security officers…
“Not super smooth. The main elevator just crapped out.”
Triple it.
My insides shook something fierce. When I finally made it back down, bet your cabinet of illegal prescription drugs that my hand ran across the marble on floor one. Trust me, it’s not cliché when you feel shit like that.
…
Of course the city was great. There was a distinct sweetness I was hoping to find. Spirits were high…crowds rampant. Everyone follows “The New Yorker’s Guide to Mastering the Holiday Dating Trifecta: The Scarf-Wrap, Arm Brace and Sidewalk Strut.” I passed dozens if not hundreds of couples with a smirk, freezing my naked face off…knowing they would have a place in my Blogville. Usually…the uniformity would tempt my desire to dish swift facial roundhouses. But in sincerity, I dug it. What else are the holidays about?
But wait…
Breed that, the reflection of another great and wandering trip to our country’s great city…confusion, wonder, exhaustion…and the ache of my desire to return home, to my city of angels…and I’ve earned allowance to drop something a little more profound…
What else is life about?
December 08, 2005
A Fresh Battle and Back to NYC...
I just finished a Mulholland Drive…drive.
As I returned and passed the Beverly Hills Hotel, my mix ran out. A mix that did its job…carrying me through the beautiful valley views.
But, I needed something to carry me home. Lucky for Winburn, Pat Benatar was kickin' it on XM. And I concur, love is most certainly a battlefield. What a fucking jam. Suddenly, dance is my craving.
I haven’t fully ruled out the possibility that I’m partially insane…or that I have serious, bubbling emotional problems. But we’ll get back to that. Perhaps another night. This one might run long.
I treated this week as if it were another one of my be all, end all’s. See, I had another pitch with a studio bigwig yesterday. I’ve been speaking a bit of rabble lately…flaked out on a handful of good souls. Now, you know why.
So I talked with my little chickadee late on Thursday. She had spots to fill. Spots with my name attached, perhaps?
Let me first tell you that landing this gig would be striking oil, gold…golden oil. Whatever. Orgasm. There’s little more I could ask for. I thought I was shooting for a 1-year contract with a salary that tips in around a grand a week. I thought wrong. Apparently, I’ve been shooting much higher. Or, at least…so I was informed. Like, 140% higher. So, they ain’t fuckin' around.
I like to think of myself as a creative individual…with a very active, dancing mind. When she called and asked me to pitch again, no sweat. I know my stuff, I trust my stuff. But, well…let me explain.
You see, the first time around, I went into the pitch with “my stuff” and bombed. Not because “my stuff” is bomb material. It’s that “my stuff” wasn’t going to become “their stuff” any time in the near future. Creatively, we were miles apart.
So she told me to study “their stuff” and fire away. “The sooner, the better.” I spent this past weekend watching movies I would have never otherwise taken the time to see. Very broad appeal, comedic, family-friendly fare. I thought I was in for a shit flavored treat, but when Vin Diesel starts referring to the infant as “Red Baby” in The Pacifier…I mean, come on. Good stuff. I watched a lot of movies this weekend. More than usual.
And I came up with about 30 ideas. From those, I cut it down to 2, set up my meeting and came out swinging. The others were a little too…not for them.
That means roughly 93% of my ideas aren’t even allowed to set foot on this studio’s playground. Trust me, this thing isn’t as easy as it sounds.
I prepare for a pitch about the same way I prepared to pitch back in my days of tossing baseballs. Funny, huh? It’s the same principle as going on stage, as giving a speech, as performing 30 Jacks deep while your friends are filming in the closet...
Okay, that last one, I didn’t even give myself a chance.
But, there’s something really personal about giving a pitch. You’re so vulnerable. The only protection I had was the rationalization that these weren’t my babies, they were my whore children. Derived to impress a studio that has found extraordinary success by following a specific formula. They know what they’re doing, and do it well. I want in.
If the job were mine, you would have been informed in my opening sentence. Following that, my closing sentence would have informed you of my intentions to go on a 122-hour drunkard of celebration. I’m here. I’m sober. I didn’t get the job.
I started right into the first pitch. My greatest challenge in talking creative is staying focused and not diving into, “what the fuck did you just say?” territory. When you’re accomplished, dive all you want. When you’re a young pup, you’ve got to be short and sweet…cut and dry. It’s all part of the pecking order. Right now, executives own me. In 10 years, I’ll own them. But right now…the only time that matters…I have heaps to learn. It’s really fucking tough telling a 2-hour story in a succinct 3 minutes. There’s so much I want to say. So much brilliance I want to demonstrate. It’s the curse of being blessed as a gifted writer.
New readers, take that last bit with a sip of sarcasm.
But if you want to debate the “blessed” remark, you’d better hurry. It wont be much of a debate for long.
That was 100% sincere.
So my first idea…and let me state upfront that the lack of originality pains me. It was Freaky Friday meets The Breakfast Club. I divulge because I doubt it will ever make it to paper. “The Hot Chick” made 35 million in the box office. Come the fuck on. This would make a killing. Especially with my scorching words as its backbone. Yes, scorching.
“The elements are strong…and there’s no way for you to have known this, but the studio is moving away from “high school” movies.”
She’s like a queen who reins with an iron fist over my only insecurity. Plus, I think one fifth of me is in love with her. I don’t know if that hurts or helps the situation.
Next!
Okay, whatever. She passed on my gimmick idea. I wasn’t completely heartbroken. The first pitch was more of an icebreaker than anything. And I needed it. In all honesty, half way through, I hit this terrible snag where I crossed my fingers and prayed for coherence. Pitching is the scariest and most exciting thing in my life.
My second pitch…Elf meets Big Fish. Try spinning that web in a tight 3 minutes. I did…try, that is. Mine took 7. Still, it managed to stand. Why? Because it would be a Christmas classic…hilarious and heartfelt. But what can I say, you have to hire me and find out. I can’t speak my sweet subtlety to you. All I need is some paper, a pen and just a little bit of time. Roll the dice on me. See what it feels like to scream, “Yahtzee, motherfucker!”
She gave me some feedback. The kind of feedback where I try to be brief and not overstay my welcome. At the end of it all, I had to ask…where does this leave us?
I expected her to show appreciation for my time…upon which time, I would thank her for her valuable time. We would endure a clean break and part ways with cheerful holiday wishes. Then, I would run into her at a party 5 years from now with a, “Told you I had skillz. You should have hired me. You could have been the shout out in all my acceptance speeches.” Instead…
“We’ll just keep going back and fourth. Call me with a slam-dunk. January, we’ll go again.”
I had three crammed days and came up with a foul tip. Now, I have 30. Might as well go out and celebrate. Close a door and I’ll kick it open. Leave it open, and it’s over. Baby, come January…I’m taking that job.
Mind you, coming up with a slam-dunk in this town is like pissing into the bullseye of a water gun game at your hometown summer carnival…from 30 feet out.
Since my stream is strong, steady…I say no worries.
The funny thing about life is that you can choose to take every situation in one of two directions.
I’m choosing to take this as someone trying to lasso a wild talent. She hears my thousand mile per hour sputter and sees a project. Give him a month to sand himself out…to sand over those rough edges and that boy could be smooth.
…
So I’m heading back to New York this Saturday…staying till Tuesday. Need to fill in the last few blanks for the script. Okay, very large blanks. I used to have a deadline. Mid-January. No thanks. I’ll get there when I get there. Especially with the “new development.” I’d be a fool if I took it lightly.
My little scripting vacation is all but over. Come January, time to pimp the charm and land some sweet new means of an LA paycheck.
But things are going. If anything, I’ll always have that. And I’ve written about this quite a bit, but how fucking romantic can it get? These will be the times we all look back and smile. Having no real idea of who we are or where we’re going…fighting to keep that head above water.
We remember feelings. The times we fought, the times we fell, the times we laughed, loved, cried.
And when they’re swirling, which they are…
What a gift.
As I returned and passed the Beverly Hills Hotel, my mix ran out. A mix that did its job…carrying me through the beautiful valley views.
But, I needed something to carry me home. Lucky for Winburn, Pat Benatar was kickin' it on XM. And I concur, love is most certainly a battlefield. What a fucking jam. Suddenly, dance is my craving.
I haven’t fully ruled out the possibility that I’m partially insane…or that I have serious, bubbling emotional problems. But we’ll get back to that. Perhaps another night. This one might run long.
I treated this week as if it were another one of my be all, end all’s. See, I had another pitch with a studio bigwig yesterday. I’ve been speaking a bit of rabble lately…flaked out on a handful of good souls. Now, you know why.
So I talked with my little chickadee late on Thursday. She had spots to fill. Spots with my name attached, perhaps?
Let me first tell you that landing this gig would be striking oil, gold…golden oil. Whatever. Orgasm. There’s little more I could ask for. I thought I was shooting for a 1-year contract with a salary that tips in around a grand a week. I thought wrong. Apparently, I’ve been shooting much higher. Or, at least…so I was informed. Like, 140% higher. So, they ain’t fuckin' around.
I like to think of myself as a creative individual…with a very active, dancing mind. When she called and asked me to pitch again, no sweat. I know my stuff, I trust my stuff. But, well…let me explain.
You see, the first time around, I went into the pitch with “my stuff” and bombed. Not because “my stuff” is bomb material. It’s that “my stuff” wasn’t going to become “their stuff” any time in the near future. Creatively, we were miles apart.
So she told me to study “their stuff” and fire away. “The sooner, the better.” I spent this past weekend watching movies I would have never otherwise taken the time to see. Very broad appeal, comedic, family-friendly fare. I thought I was in for a shit flavored treat, but when Vin Diesel starts referring to the infant as “Red Baby” in The Pacifier…I mean, come on. Good stuff. I watched a lot of movies this weekend. More than usual.
And I came up with about 30 ideas. From those, I cut it down to 2, set up my meeting and came out swinging. The others were a little too…not for them.
That means roughly 93% of my ideas aren’t even allowed to set foot on this studio’s playground. Trust me, this thing isn’t as easy as it sounds.
I prepare for a pitch about the same way I prepared to pitch back in my days of tossing baseballs. Funny, huh? It’s the same principle as going on stage, as giving a speech, as performing 30 Jacks deep while your friends are filming in the closet...
Okay, that last one, I didn’t even give myself a chance.
But, there’s something really personal about giving a pitch. You’re so vulnerable. The only protection I had was the rationalization that these weren’t my babies, they were my whore children. Derived to impress a studio that has found extraordinary success by following a specific formula. They know what they’re doing, and do it well. I want in.
If the job were mine, you would have been informed in my opening sentence. Following that, my closing sentence would have informed you of my intentions to go on a 122-hour drunkard of celebration. I’m here. I’m sober. I didn’t get the job.
I started right into the first pitch. My greatest challenge in talking creative is staying focused and not diving into, “what the fuck did you just say?” territory. When you’re accomplished, dive all you want. When you’re a young pup, you’ve got to be short and sweet…cut and dry. It’s all part of the pecking order. Right now, executives own me. In 10 years, I’ll own them. But right now…the only time that matters…I have heaps to learn. It’s really fucking tough telling a 2-hour story in a succinct 3 minutes. There’s so much I want to say. So much brilliance I want to demonstrate. It’s the curse of being blessed as a gifted writer.
New readers, take that last bit with a sip of sarcasm.
But if you want to debate the “blessed” remark, you’d better hurry. It wont be much of a debate for long.
That was 100% sincere.
So my first idea…and let me state upfront that the lack of originality pains me. It was Freaky Friday meets The Breakfast Club. I divulge because I doubt it will ever make it to paper. “The Hot Chick” made 35 million in the box office. Come the fuck on. This would make a killing. Especially with my scorching words as its backbone. Yes, scorching.
“The elements are strong…and there’s no way for you to have known this, but the studio is moving away from “high school” movies.”
She’s like a queen who reins with an iron fist over my only insecurity. Plus, I think one fifth of me is in love with her. I don’t know if that hurts or helps the situation.
Next!
Okay, whatever. She passed on my gimmick idea. I wasn’t completely heartbroken. The first pitch was more of an icebreaker than anything. And I needed it. In all honesty, half way through, I hit this terrible snag where I crossed my fingers and prayed for coherence. Pitching is the scariest and most exciting thing in my life.
My second pitch…Elf meets Big Fish. Try spinning that web in a tight 3 minutes. I did…try, that is. Mine took 7. Still, it managed to stand. Why? Because it would be a Christmas classic…hilarious and heartfelt. But what can I say, you have to hire me and find out. I can’t speak my sweet subtlety to you. All I need is some paper, a pen and just a little bit of time. Roll the dice on me. See what it feels like to scream, “Yahtzee, motherfucker!”
She gave me some feedback. The kind of feedback where I try to be brief and not overstay my welcome. At the end of it all, I had to ask…where does this leave us?
I expected her to show appreciation for my time…upon which time, I would thank her for her valuable time. We would endure a clean break and part ways with cheerful holiday wishes. Then, I would run into her at a party 5 years from now with a, “Told you I had skillz. You should have hired me. You could have been the shout out in all my acceptance speeches.” Instead…
“We’ll just keep going back and fourth. Call me with a slam-dunk. January, we’ll go again.”
I had three crammed days and came up with a foul tip. Now, I have 30. Might as well go out and celebrate. Close a door and I’ll kick it open. Leave it open, and it’s over. Baby, come January…I’m taking that job.
Mind you, coming up with a slam-dunk in this town is like pissing into the bullseye of a water gun game at your hometown summer carnival…from 30 feet out.
Since my stream is strong, steady…I say no worries.
The funny thing about life is that you can choose to take every situation in one of two directions.
I’m choosing to take this as someone trying to lasso a wild talent. She hears my thousand mile per hour sputter and sees a project. Give him a month to sand himself out…to sand over those rough edges and that boy could be smooth.
…
So I’m heading back to New York this Saturday…staying till Tuesday. Need to fill in the last few blanks for the script. Okay, very large blanks. I used to have a deadline. Mid-January. No thanks. I’ll get there when I get there. Especially with the “new development.” I’d be a fool if I took it lightly.
My little scripting vacation is all but over. Come January, time to pimp the charm and land some sweet new means of an LA paycheck.
But things are going. If anything, I’ll always have that. And I’ve written about this quite a bit, but how fucking romantic can it get? These will be the times we all look back and smile. Having no real idea of who we are or where we’re going…fighting to keep that head above water.
We remember feelings. The times we fought, the times we fell, the times we laughed, loved, cried.
And when they’re swirling, which they are…
What a gift.
December 05, 2005
Blanket Blue Ball, you and me both...
I’m trying to think of the last time I shed a tear over something in REAL life. Either way you look at it…troubling.
I just watched a great movie. In America. Really good. Though, talk about botched marketing. It’s some asshole’s fault it took me this long to give it a good look. Anyway, take a guess at what inspired the initial link in my chain of thought?
I’ve been in all weekend. Flaked 2 parties cause I’m buried in headwork. Buried. Of course, this headwork is real work…that will hopefully lead to real work. Got me???
In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not always super direct. Ask my ex’s.
They’ve been fixing my apartment complex for 3 months. No, not my ex’s. The Bandaras family of handy men. When they finally leave, I’ll take my stab at figuring out what the fuck they did.
They DO leave El Pollo Loco all over my courtyard. I will CERTAINLY give them that.
I’m fucking salty!
On Saturday, they re-paved the steps leading up to my apartment. Any NORMAL human being would have been confined.
Not this nimble minx…
Hold on…Fuck me, that little slide hits me every time. #6 on August and Everything After. For cliff noters, pick it up at 2:35. Every time and I don’t know why. That whole album is orgasm.
But anyway…
Upon lurching my way across railing in nimble feats of strength and grace, I tore a hole in the ass of my #1 pair of pants. The kind of hole that lures in a sweet whisper to viewing audiences…
Watch closely…magic waits behind but one curtain. That is…if I’m even wearing a buffer…which is rare these days.
I just killed my candle. The wax reservoir escaped. Fucking idiot.
My face is heavy. This is what it feels like to throw your head in a frying pan…on high for 3 days…with a splash of De Cecco.
Crossies. Juices will fly before this chap leaves for NYC. Daddy is about to throw me into the lake…see if I sink or swim.
Let’s get it over with, fuckbags. I’ve got one hell of a crawl stroke.
I just watched a great movie. In America. Really good. Though, talk about botched marketing. It’s some asshole’s fault it took me this long to give it a good look. Anyway, take a guess at what inspired the initial link in my chain of thought?
I’ve been in all weekend. Flaked 2 parties cause I’m buried in headwork. Buried. Of course, this headwork is real work…that will hopefully lead to real work. Got me???
In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not always super direct. Ask my ex’s.
They’ve been fixing my apartment complex for 3 months. No, not my ex’s. The Bandaras family of handy men. When they finally leave, I’ll take my stab at figuring out what the fuck they did.
They DO leave El Pollo Loco all over my courtyard. I will CERTAINLY give them that.
I’m fucking salty!
On Saturday, they re-paved the steps leading up to my apartment. Any NORMAL human being would have been confined.
Not this nimble minx…
Hold on…Fuck me, that little slide hits me every time. #6 on August and Everything After. For cliff noters, pick it up at 2:35. Every time and I don’t know why. That whole album is orgasm.
But anyway…
Upon lurching my way across railing in nimble feats of strength and grace, I tore a hole in the ass of my #1 pair of pants. The kind of hole that lures in a sweet whisper to viewing audiences…
Watch closely…magic waits behind but one curtain. That is…if I’m even wearing a buffer…which is rare these days.
I just killed my candle. The wax reservoir escaped. Fucking idiot.
My face is heavy. This is what it feels like to throw your head in a frying pan…on high for 3 days…with a splash of De Cecco.
Crossies. Juices will fly before this chap leaves for NYC. Daddy is about to throw me into the lake…see if I sink or swim.
Let’s get it over with, fuckbags. I’ve got one hell of a crawl stroke.
November 30, 2005
Bloodlust and a Fresh Mix...
I want to kill Subway Jared.
Allow me to say that one more time. I want to kill Subway Jared.
He seems nice. A dedicated, strapping young man who lost 325 pounds by eating nothing but Subway subs. Cool for you, Jared.
You’re still gonna die.
Let’s take it back to the roots. Get underneath this twisty little thing called murderous rage…
I want to stuff him in a parachute sack and tie him to the back of my car…take a trip to familiar Baja back roads. After bleeding and tenderizing his body for 32 miles, I would promptly feed him to the nearest pack of coyotes and sexed up wild dogs.
I want to road trip with Jared to Northern Cali, cherishing every one of the 360, “you’re a failure” minutes it would take to reach our destination. Upon arrival, I’d put rocks in his socks, smash him across the back of his head with my Louisville Slugger and toss him into Lake Tahoe.
And this may be getting out of line, but…
I watch Jared’s spasmatically reserved annunciation and get a hard on thinking about hacking his jaw off with a crowbar. Is that wrong? Disturbed? Upon completion of the initial task, I would pound HIS face in with HIS removed jaw. I assure you, no one has ever beaten the hell from someone with their own jaw. A leg, maybe…but come on. And that’s the kind of guy I am. Trailblazer. Pioneer.
Don’t get me wrong. Back in the day, it was an admirable feat. It was like, hey…that fat fuck Jared lost 325 pounds on the Subway diet. Sweet. Good for Jared. Those days are no longer. Go hide in a cave…somewhere in the Appalachians for the rest of your life.
It’s not too much to ask. And yes, I am asking.
I bet he lives in Los Angeles. I bet he has an agent. I bet he actually goes to auditions. I bet if I remove the Illinois plates from my car, I can hit and run that fucker with a passion that only the truly gifted poets could sing.
Look, I’m not here to fill you with the same murderous intent that flows through my veins. It’s just that…if you see him, could you please kill him?
Enough Jared.
…
Want to feel my early morning California on this November 30th?
Why, of course…
1. Interstate Love Song – Stone Temple Pilots
2. Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo’ole
3. It Beats 4 U - My Morning Jacket
4. Where is My Mind? – Pixies
5. Another Day - Rent (Movie Soundtrack)
6. Perfect Situation - Weezer
7. Forget Her – Jeff Buckley
8. Gideon - My Morning Jacket
9. Knock Yourself Out - Jon Brion
10. Glamorous Indie Rock and Roll - The Killers
Allow me to say that one more time. I want to kill Subway Jared.
He seems nice. A dedicated, strapping young man who lost 325 pounds by eating nothing but Subway subs. Cool for you, Jared.
You’re still gonna die.
Let’s take it back to the roots. Get underneath this twisty little thing called murderous rage…
I want to stuff him in a parachute sack and tie him to the back of my car…take a trip to familiar Baja back roads. After bleeding and tenderizing his body for 32 miles, I would promptly feed him to the nearest pack of coyotes and sexed up wild dogs.
I want to road trip with Jared to Northern Cali, cherishing every one of the 360, “you’re a failure” minutes it would take to reach our destination. Upon arrival, I’d put rocks in his socks, smash him across the back of his head with my Louisville Slugger and toss him into Lake Tahoe.
And this may be getting out of line, but…
I watch Jared’s spasmatically reserved annunciation and get a hard on thinking about hacking his jaw off with a crowbar. Is that wrong? Disturbed? Upon completion of the initial task, I would pound HIS face in with HIS removed jaw. I assure you, no one has ever beaten the hell from someone with their own jaw. A leg, maybe…but come on. And that’s the kind of guy I am. Trailblazer. Pioneer.
Don’t get me wrong. Back in the day, it was an admirable feat. It was like, hey…that fat fuck Jared lost 325 pounds on the Subway diet. Sweet. Good for Jared. Those days are no longer. Go hide in a cave…somewhere in the Appalachians for the rest of your life.
It’s not too much to ask. And yes, I am asking.
I bet he lives in Los Angeles. I bet he has an agent. I bet he actually goes to auditions. I bet if I remove the Illinois plates from my car, I can hit and run that fucker with a passion that only the truly gifted poets could sing.
Look, I’m not here to fill you with the same murderous intent that flows through my veins. It’s just that…if you see him, could you please kill him?
Enough Jared.
…
Want to feel my early morning California on this November 30th?
Why, of course…
1. Interstate Love Song – Stone Temple Pilots
2. Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo’ole
3. It Beats 4 U - My Morning Jacket
4. Where is My Mind? – Pixies
5. Another Day - Rent (Movie Soundtrack)
6. Perfect Situation - Weezer
7. Forget Her – Jeff Buckley
8. Gideon - My Morning Jacket
9. Knock Yourself Out - Jon Brion
10. Glamorous Indie Rock and Roll - The Killers
November 23, 2005
Sweet Home Chicago...
I'm a complete sucker for the holidays...so what choice do I have but to head back to the icy tundra? None.
A little town tucked against Lake Michigan just North of Chicago. Lake Forest, Illinois.
I watched the first 30 minutes of Derailed on...actually it was yesterday. Come to find out, it's the new home of Jennifer Aniston's irrelevant shout out. "Living in Lake Forest...in the kind of house I've always dreamed of having." Is that what my sweet little home has become? Context?
Oh, who am I kidding? I was proud. That's my stomps.
I heard it's 19 degrees in Chicago right now. It'll be the coldest Thanksgiving in recent history. Rumors of flurries...how nice?
I tell this to friends in LA, and they think they're sifting through sarcasm before finishing with a laugh. No, I'm fucking serious. It's beautiful. More than I could ever ask for. Because in the heart, it's all I know...and all I ever want to know.
Travel safe...eat, drink and be merry. Watch holiday movies and sit by a fire. Laugh your way into an ulcer with siblings...give love to parents...pick fights with old friends. Sit on top of the one good hill in town and watch the moon echo itself against black as the waves rumble. Watch your breath.
Trudge your way through the heaps of nostalgic shit you know you'll encounter...and come out sparkling on the other side.
At least that's what I plan to do.
Cheers to yours being just as sweet.
A little town tucked against Lake Michigan just North of Chicago. Lake Forest, Illinois.
I watched the first 30 minutes of Derailed on...actually it was yesterday. Come to find out, it's the new home of Jennifer Aniston's irrelevant shout out. "Living in Lake Forest...in the kind of house I've always dreamed of having." Is that what my sweet little home has become? Context?
Oh, who am I kidding? I was proud. That's my stomps.
I heard it's 19 degrees in Chicago right now. It'll be the coldest Thanksgiving in recent history. Rumors of flurries...how nice?
I tell this to friends in LA, and they think they're sifting through sarcasm before finishing with a laugh. No, I'm fucking serious. It's beautiful. More than I could ever ask for. Because in the heart, it's all I know...and all I ever want to know.
Travel safe...eat, drink and be merry. Watch holiday movies and sit by a fire. Laugh your way into an ulcer with siblings...give love to parents...pick fights with old friends. Sit on top of the one good hill in town and watch the moon echo itself against black as the waves rumble. Watch your breath.
Trudge your way through the heaps of nostalgic shit you know you'll encounter...and come out sparkling on the other side.
At least that's what I plan to do.
Cheers to yours being just as sweet.
November 17, 2005
Mulholland Drive and the Sweetness That Follows...
LA is congested as fuck.
When I was 16, I used to go out for no reason. I’d drive along the streets, the coastline of my hometown. It’s laughable compared to the coastlines out here, but it was home. Home. That word still holds so much.
I get bottled up in the head and heart…and learned early on that it helped to get out and drive through some black, alone.
Hold that thought, memory intermission…
Remember that kid from the neighborhood? You know, the one NOBODY liked. Since severing him from the group would cause an uprising in the neighborhood contingent of mothers, a revolutionary role was born into late 80’s hoods.
The Guinea Pig. Ours held Coke in his mouth while we dumped Pop Rocks.
You know, to see if his head exploded. What?
There was always a kid with glasses who swore to God it wasn’t a myth. Everyone knows…you swear to God, and it’s case closed. So when Guinea Pig lived, we all pretended he was the coolest. But who really meant it? Sure as fuck wasn’t me.
Kids are cruel…
…
In college, I’d take off and drive the back farm roads of Central Illinois until road ran out. Often, I’d snap out and realize I was 60 miles off campus. It was great.
Then I moved to Los Angeles. The roads here are different. Shocker.
Despite all the shit I talk, this really is a gorgeous city. I don’t know how to explain it. Insert a profoundly resonant description that works for you. Then, I wont have to worry about whether or not you follow.
Fine, I’ll do it. Fucking brats.
Something along the lines of…romantic mysticism. That’s it! LA has got this romantic mysticism that’s difficult to convey, easy to talk shit about and impossible to turn your back on.
Let me tell you about my new route. I drive west on Sunset into Beverly Hills. This is always around midnight on weekdays. Usually once a week. Cars are sparse, thoughts rampant.
I head North on Coldwater Canyon and begin the slow climb. About 10 minutes later, there’s a famous little 2 way known as Mulholland Drive. Yes, it was also a movie. If you drive it, you could understand why it could be anything it ever wanted to be. It’s the top of the world. The peak between the two true valleys of Los Angeles. San Fernando and, well…whatever the one I live in is called. The Bev Hills, West Hollywood, Hollywood side. I should know.
But the lights of the two sides, from this high up...should I say mesmerizing? Hypnotic? Some day…come see.
When I first got here, I panicked. I wondered where I’d get lost. Sure as hell wasn’t gonna be at Blow parties and during blackouts. Ain’t my style. Anytime someone gets worked up when they get drunk or drugged, I feel like their asshole rubs off on me. Honestly.
I’m not in the mood to afford shit like that in this short life.
So…I can’t tell you which route goes down as the best in history. After all, many others will come. They all served different purposes...pulled me through different battles. I’m just glad I’ve got one I can trust…one I can rely on. You have no idea the importance.
…
I took a drive Monday night. It’s my good stuff. My really, really good stuff. It’s been a while since I’ve had it.
The head swing I go through in this process is at times, damaging. I know this. I knew it coming in. I’ll know it going out.
In case this is your first visit, I’ll bring you up to speed. I moved out here to write movies. Without dishing cliché-ridden splurge, it’s what I love…period. So it doesn’t bug me that 97% of this city is currently “working on a screenplay.” Though, that figure may be a bit ballooned. I’m aiming to conquer one of the most daunting industries in the world.
What’s your fucking point?
I’ll be fine. You know those people who show up in commercials telling the youth of America to follow their dreams? That if they work hard and dedicate themselves…anything can and will come true?
Gotcha! What about Nelson…the color-blind, lisp-stuttering Puerto Colombian growing up in Flint, Michigan?
Last time I heard, he wanted to be an astronaut.
Last time I checked, his book report was on Curious George…in the 11th Grade.
For Nelson, it’s not gonna happen. The difference between Nelson and me is that I am one of those people. What can I say? I grew into a stone browed, relentless, restless, fuck everybody in a whisper and woo them with a smile son of a bitch.
Plus, I know I spit shit that’s aching to get out…now.
Let me let you in on a little secret…This was my mindset for the past 6 weeks writing this hope to one day be a movie. It went a little something like this…
Refuse distributing, pussy, worthless, clever-limp, thoughtless, heartless piece of nothing. You put all your eggs into this basket? Where are you going with anything? I need to drink more. What are you doing with your life? 24 and you’re wasting it away. Save Bangled Tigers. Eat Bangled tigers. Engage in battle with Bangled Tigers. You just spent a month on 90 pages that would barely qualify to serve as a beat rag…90 times over. And then sixty more that…you’re a talent hack, cocksucker. Bullshitter. Move to Lebanon. Did she just pull the earring trick on me? Move to Swahili. Fuck her, I’m throwing these out. Open a snack shop outside the San Diego Zoo.
Needless to say, something else prevailed. Something along the lines of a cooler mind. It’s beginning to click. If you read one of my posts from the vicinity of 6 weeks ago, it’s likely that I was preparing myself for this exact thing. This week, it finally hit me. It’s going to be good.
And I know exactly what the fuck I’m doing. And that’s how it works. The struggle, sweethearts. Of course, in reality…I can only really give you my PG-13…else I’m worried you would worry about me. Soft, soft readers.
And it got me thinking…the things that were running through my mind before I started this project. Before I started reading the anvil on my face research. Before I went to New York. Before I started writing.
I got a phone call one day from a little production company. Actually, really big. Not only really big, but they’ve done some amazing stuff. You know what, fuck anonymity. It was Drew Barrymore’s company. And what got me going is that they produced a little flick called Donnie Darko. One thing led to another…to another. Yada, yada, yada…my phone rings, it’s their head of development.
Looking back, I have no idea why she called. I would never, ever call someone like me. But, I can tell you exactly WHY I got that call. The shit that comes out of my mouth…the shit I give these people in letters and on the phone has to spin their heads. And at the end of the day, they might brand me a fool…but they know I throw my stones on the table. That or they put me on the Hollywood blacklist.
I think back…and this line STILL makes me laugh. I told her that when the script was all said and done, actors will fight for these roles…and there will be 6 of them. Mind you, at the time, I was unproduced, unrepresented and uncredited. I told her I didn’t want to take it anywhere else because I only wanted to work with their company. Oh, and I was 23 years old. Wait. I almost forgot the kicker. Since I was still finishing my last script, I was asking her if I could PITCH the idea. As in…she would buy it from me BEFORE I WROTE A FUCKING WORD. I hadn’t even thought of actually starting to write it.
Wait, what was I saying? I take it back. I would most certainly call a fucker like me. If only to check sincerity…and sanity. I was VERY sincere. Maybe even partially sane.
I love myself.
…
But here’s the thing. As crazy as that sounds looking back, I can’t really say that I was a fool. Now, I have a long, long way to go before this script is done…before I send it out. Since that conversation, I’ve learned so much shit…you could fill the Nina, Pinta and half the Santa Maria with it. I know the do’s. I know the don’t…’s
And as green as I was then, what can I say? I have the same feeling that when it’s all said and done, maybe…just maybe…look the fuck out.
Initially, I gave myself till around January 15th to finish. That sounds about right. Though, the last thing I’ll ever do is rush. From here, it’s all downhill. Though, it never really is. I have two months. Two months that will also take me to Chicago to LA to New York to LA to Chicago to LA.
And after January 15th?
Might as well be another foolish adventure…chasing the little things born of closed eyes.
When I was 16, I used to go out for no reason. I’d drive along the streets, the coastline of my hometown. It’s laughable compared to the coastlines out here, but it was home. Home. That word still holds so much.
I get bottled up in the head and heart…and learned early on that it helped to get out and drive through some black, alone.
Hold that thought, memory intermission…
Remember that kid from the neighborhood? You know, the one NOBODY liked. Since severing him from the group would cause an uprising in the neighborhood contingent of mothers, a revolutionary role was born into late 80’s hoods.
The Guinea Pig. Ours held Coke in his mouth while we dumped Pop Rocks.
You know, to see if his head exploded. What?
There was always a kid with glasses who swore to God it wasn’t a myth. Everyone knows…you swear to God, and it’s case closed. So when Guinea Pig lived, we all pretended he was the coolest. But who really meant it? Sure as fuck wasn’t me.
Kids are cruel…
…
In college, I’d take off and drive the back farm roads of Central Illinois until road ran out. Often, I’d snap out and realize I was 60 miles off campus. It was great.
Then I moved to Los Angeles. The roads here are different. Shocker.
Despite all the shit I talk, this really is a gorgeous city. I don’t know how to explain it. Insert a profoundly resonant description that works for you. Then, I wont have to worry about whether or not you follow.
Fine, I’ll do it. Fucking brats.
Something along the lines of…romantic mysticism. That’s it! LA has got this romantic mysticism that’s difficult to convey, easy to talk shit about and impossible to turn your back on.
Let me tell you about my new route. I drive west on Sunset into Beverly Hills. This is always around midnight on weekdays. Usually once a week. Cars are sparse, thoughts rampant.
I head North on Coldwater Canyon and begin the slow climb. About 10 minutes later, there’s a famous little 2 way known as Mulholland Drive. Yes, it was also a movie. If you drive it, you could understand why it could be anything it ever wanted to be. It’s the top of the world. The peak between the two true valleys of Los Angeles. San Fernando and, well…whatever the one I live in is called. The Bev Hills, West Hollywood, Hollywood side. I should know.
But the lights of the two sides, from this high up...should I say mesmerizing? Hypnotic? Some day…come see.
When I first got here, I panicked. I wondered where I’d get lost. Sure as hell wasn’t gonna be at Blow parties and during blackouts. Ain’t my style. Anytime someone gets worked up when they get drunk or drugged, I feel like their asshole rubs off on me. Honestly.
I’m not in the mood to afford shit like that in this short life.
So…I can’t tell you which route goes down as the best in history. After all, many others will come. They all served different purposes...pulled me through different battles. I’m just glad I’ve got one I can trust…one I can rely on. You have no idea the importance.
…
I took a drive Monday night. It’s my good stuff. My really, really good stuff. It’s been a while since I’ve had it.
The head swing I go through in this process is at times, damaging. I know this. I knew it coming in. I’ll know it going out.
In case this is your first visit, I’ll bring you up to speed. I moved out here to write movies. Without dishing cliché-ridden splurge, it’s what I love…period. So it doesn’t bug me that 97% of this city is currently “working on a screenplay.” Though, that figure may be a bit ballooned. I’m aiming to conquer one of the most daunting industries in the world.
What’s your fucking point?
I’ll be fine. You know those people who show up in commercials telling the youth of America to follow their dreams? That if they work hard and dedicate themselves…anything can and will come true?
Gotcha! What about Nelson…the color-blind, lisp-stuttering Puerto Colombian growing up in Flint, Michigan?
Last time I heard, he wanted to be an astronaut.
Last time I checked, his book report was on Curious George…in the 11th Grade.
For Nelson, it’s not gonna happen. The difference between Nelson and me is that I am one of those people. What can I say? I grew into a stone browed, relentless, restless, fuck everybody in a whisper and woo them with a smile son of a bitch.
Plus, I know I spit shit that’s aching to get out…now.
Let me let you in on a little secret…This was my mindset for the past 6 weeks writing this hope to one day be a movie. It went a little something like this…
Refuse distributing, pussy, worthless, clever-limp, thoughtless, heartless piece of nothing. You put all your eggs into this basket? Where are you going with anything? I need to drink more. What are you doing with your life? 24 and you’re wasting it away. Save Bangled Tigers. Eat Bangled tigers. Engage in battle with Bangled Tigers. You just spent a month on 90 pages that would barely qualify to serve as a beat rag…90 times over. And then sixty more that…you’re a talent hack, cocksucker. Bullshitter. Move to Lebanon. Did she just pull the earring trick on me? Move to Swahili. Fuck her, I’m throwing these out. Open a snack shop outside the San Diego Zoo.
Needless to say, something else prevailed. Something along the lines of a cooler mind. It’s beginning to click. If you read one of my posts from the vicinity of 6 weeks ago, it’s likely that I was preparing myself for this exact thing. This week, it finally hit me. It’s going to be good.
And I know exactly what the fuck I’m doing. And that’s how it works. The struggle, sweethearts. Of course, in reality…I can only really give you my PG-13…else I’m worried you would worry about me. Soft, soft readers.
And it got me thinking…the things that were running through my mind before I started this project. Before I started reading the anvil on my face research. Before I went to New York. Before I started writing.
I got a phone call one day from a little production company. Actually, really big. Not only really big, but they’ve done some amazing stuff. You know what, fuck anonymity. It was Drew Barrymore’s company. And what got me going is that they produced a little flick called Donnie Darko. One thing led to another…to another. Yada, yada, yada…my phone rings, it’s their head of development.
Looking back, I have no idea why she called. I would never, ever call someone like me. But, I can tell you exactly WHY I got that call. The shit that comes out of my mouth…the shit I give these people in letters and on the phone has to spin their heads. And at the end of the day, they might brand me a fool…but they know I throw my stones on the table. That or they put me on the Hollywood blacklist.
I think back…and this line STILL makes me laugh. I told her that when the script was all said and done, actors will fight for these roles…and there will be 6 of them. Mind you, at the time, I was unproduced, unrepresented and uncredited. I told her I didn’t want to take it anywhere else because I only wanted to work with their company. Oh, and I was 23 years old. Wait. I almost forgot the kicker. Since I was still finishing my last script, I was asking her if I could PITCH the idea. As in…she would buy it from me BEFORE I WROTE A FUCKING WORD. I hadn’t even thought of actually starting to write it.
Wait, what was I saying? I take it back. I would most certainly call a fucker like me. If only to check sincerity…and sanity. I was VERY sincere. Maybe even partially sane.
I love myself.
…
But here’s the thing. As crazy as that sounds looking back, I can’t really say that I was a fool. Now, I have a long, long way to go before this script is done…before I send it out. Since that conversation, I’ve learned so much shit…you could fill the Nina, Pinta and half the Santa Maria with it. I know the do’s. I know the don’t…’s
And as green as I was then, what can I say? I have the same feeling that when it’s all said and done, maybe…just maybe…look the fuck out.
Initially, I gave myself till around January 15th to finish. That sounds about right. Though, the last thing I’ll ever do is rush. From here, it’s all downhill. Though, it never really is. I have two months. Two months that will also take me to Chicago to LA to New York to LA to Chicago to LA.
And after January 15th?
Might as well be another foolish adventure…chasing the little things born of closed eyes.
November 14, 2005
Still in Need of KY...
My apartment is under construction…
They’re pulling down the walls, re plastering the stairs, stripping and re-painting. Even when I worked, I still worked at home during the day, so the half dozen or so trabajadores and I have become quite close. They’re usually my alarm in the morning and during the day. Our relationships consist of my running through the courtyard, hands over my head, trying to shield myself from falling debris. They laugh. Of course, in Spanish, they laugh Ja, Ja, Ja, Ja. Everyone knows this.
But it’s still a pretty big mess. When they leave, they do their best to clean up, but there’s always something waiting behind. Like, for instance…rusted nails…all over the place.
And it got me wondering…why I do the things I do. Because there’s no fun in stepping on a rusted nail…or staple…or piece of plaster…or glass…or aluminum barbed wiring. No fun at all. And yet, when I do my laundry…or run to get the mail, I certainly pause to look back at my pile of shoes at the front door. Pumas, Nikes, Diesels, New Balance, Rainbows, Jonnie V’s, Kenny C’s. There’s usually a pair of socks nearby and a set of slippers that date back at least 4 December twenty-fives. So, let’s just say I have my options. Nevertheless, I walk outside my front door, daily…in bare feet. I wish I could tell you I step soft…that I watch carefully where I am going. But then, well…then I’d just be lying. And Santa ain’t making stops at little boys’ houses that tell lies this close to Christmas.
Yes, I still believe in Santa Claus. I’m 24.
I’m not a poorly educated man. I am well aware the dangers of Tetanus. I’ve heard fables of the drooling romanticism in a good case of Lockjaw. I know of the swirling atrocities to my well being that wait outside my courtyard. They see bare feet and get aroused in a way that only rusted nails can. If you’re a rusted nail, there is no greater reward in life than giving someone Tetanus. Everyone knows this as well.
Last night was something. Really, really something. I’m beginning to worry, slightly…about the social choices I tend to make. Last night, I opted to stay in, pen some magic. That’s always the aim going into a session, but it doesn’t always happen. Actually, it rarely happens. But it fucking happened last night. The kind of night where if I trusted you and told you everything, I would blush. I would feel vulnerable.
But anyway…back to my worries.
This town has a wild nightlife, and I had somewhat grown to miss it after spending my last 5 months at The Argyle. The last crazy night I spent out, my friend was “dating Lindsay Lohan.” To anyone who reads tabloid magazines, understand that I put heavy quotes around that for a reason. If you’re ever in a major city, struggling to get into a club…struggling to get a drink…struggling to get a table, try dropping that line. I’m dating Lindsay Lohan. Of course, it helps to have photos and headlines to back you up.
In La La land, drop a line like that and you get magically whisked away. But that’s what makes Los Angeles what it is. And let’s make one thing very clear…that’s not something you stake your pride on. It is what it is.
But I stayed in, opting not to re-live round two of such an adventure. That’s another thing about LA. You get over things real quick. At least this Thundercat seems to.
Motherfuck! I’m not feelin' it.
The problem is…I’m completely content. I’m not pissed off, not wound up, not want to serve roundhouse dick kicks to the unsuspecting public. Do I use that a lot…dick kicks? It just rolls off the tongue.
Hold on I have to run out. Cocktails…
Alright. Three hours later and 10 Jacks deeper, I’m feeling a little bit different. And don’t expect me to rant now. I don’t do that. I’m inspired enough without needing assistance from an outside source.
But I set out to write to something tonight…and have somewhat lost my way. Well, not really. It’s just that I wasn’t planning on a bar hopping-cocktail Sunday.
But do you ever get the feeling…at some point when life feels as if it has hit this stalemate…that something is going to happen. And it’s either going to be great or terrible. I’ve got that right now…and I’ve gotten that before. And what scares me is that it always comes true.
I’m not trying to spice up a post…that’s just what I’m feeling.
When one happens, don’t say I didn’t tell you so…
They’re pulling down the walls, re plastering the stairs, stripping and re-painting. Even when I worked, I still worked at home during the day, so the half dozen or so trabajadores and I have become quite close. They’re usually my alarm in the morning and during the day. Our relationships consist of my running through the courtyard, hands over my head, trying to shield myself from falling debris. They laugh. Of course, in Spanish, they laugh Ja, Ja, Ja, Ja. Everyone knows this.
But it’s still a pretty big mess. When they leave, they do their best to clean up, but there’s always something waiting behind. Like, for instance…rusted nails…all over the place.
And it got me wondering…why I do the things I do. Because there’s no fun in stepping on a rusted nail…or staple…or piece of plaster…or glass…or aluminum barbed wiring. No fun at all. And yet, when I do my laundry…or run to get the mail, I certainly pause to look back at my pile of shoes at the front door. Pumas, Nikes, Diesels, New Balance, Rainbows, Jonnie V’s, Kenny C’s. There’s usually a pair of socks nearby and a set of slippers that date back at least 4 December twenty-fives. So, let’s just say I have my options. Nevertheless, I walk outside my front door, daily…in bare feet. I wish I could tell you I step soft…that I watch carefully where I am going. But then, well…then I’d just be lying. And Santa ain’t making stops at little boys’ houses that tell lies this close to Christmas.
Yes, I still believe in Santa Claus. I’m 24.
I’m not a poorly educated man. I am well aware the dangers of Tetanus. I’ve heard fables of the drooling romanticism in a good case of Lockjaw. I know of the swirling atrocities to my well being that wait outside my courtyard. They see bare feet and get aroused in a way that only rusted nails can. If you’re a rusted nail, there is no greater reward in life than giving someone Tetanus. Everyone knows this as well.
Last night was something. Really, really something. I’m beginning to worry, slightly…about the social choices I tend to make. Last night, I opted to stay in, pen some magic. That’s always the aim going into a session, but it doesn’t always happen. Actually, it rarely happens. But it fucking happened last night. The kind of night where if I trusted you and told you everything, I would blush. I would feel vulnerable.
But anyway…back to my worries.
This town has a wild nightlife, and I had somewhat grown to miss it after spending my last 5 months at The Argyle. The last crazy night I spent out, my friend was “dating Lindsay Lohan.” To anyone who reads tabloid magazines, understand that I put heavy quotes around that for a reason. If you’re ever in a major city, struggling to get into a club…struggling to get a drink…struggling to get a table, try dropping that line. I’m dating Lindsay Lohan. Of course, it helps to have photos and headlines to back you up.
In La La land, drop a line like that and you get magically whisked away. But that’s what makes Los Angeles what it is. And let’s make one thing very clear…that’s not something you stake your pride on. It is what it is.
But I stayed in, opting not to re-live round two of such an adventure. That’s another thing about LA. You get over things real quick. At least this Thundercat seems to.
Motherfuck! I’m not feelin' it.
The problem is…I’m completely content. I’m not pissed off, not wound up, not want to serve roundhouse dick kicks to the unsuspecting public. Do I use that a lot…dick kicks? It just rolls off the tongue.
Hold on I have to run out. Cocktails…
Alright. Three hours later and 10 Jacks deeper, I’m feeling a little bit different. And don’t expect me to rant now. I don’t do that. I’m inspired enough without needing assistance from an outside source.
But I set out to write to something tonight…and have somewhat lost my way. Well, not really. It’s just that I wasn’t planning on a bar hopping-cocktail Sunday.
But do you ever get the feeling…at some point when life feels as if it has hit this stalemate…that something is going to happen. And it’s either going to be great or terrible. I’ve got that right now…and I’ve gotten that before. And what scares me is that it always comes true.
I’m not trying to spice up a post…that’s just what I’m feeling.
When one happens, don’t say I didn’t tell you so…
November 09, 2005
L.A. Rain and Anonomous Members of the Heavenly Host...
I don’t remember ever writing one of these while there was still daylight, so we’ll just have to wait and see how it goes.
Sorry I’ve neglected you…my readership of eight and a half. I’ve been away for a while. Been through a lot. Like a slave finally crossing into Yankee soil after an endless stretch on the Underground Railroad. Free at last, free at last…oh God almighty…free at last.
If you think that’s a terribly insensitive analogy…what a waste of energy.
It’s raining in LA. I just came back from spin class. Our teacher said she could feel the heaviness in the room. The depression. Live in So-Cal long enough, and you get used to such banter. Everything turns into a meditation.
Heaviness? Is that even a word? I know it is, but it certainly shouldn’t be. Especially because the words uttered from her mouth…the negative connotation that blew in with the rain was anything but. I wake up and hear the pattering on my air conditioner and smile. I feel the drops break against my face and soak them up. I sit here, speaking to you…surrounded by this bleak day and own nothing but my own content.
It’s a combination of a number of things. Floating things. The prospect of success…love…life unbound. The need to be overthrown by all. Only freedom liberates such feeling. So what’s next? I don’t know. Any number of good or terrible things.
But for you, I’m dry. And no abbreviation for the state of Kentucky is going to change that. Dry because I’m spending my currency elsewhere. That little project I talked shit about for so long. The one I claimed would launch me out of anonymity. Let’s break down my post Tower Bar life schedule…Monday thru Friday…on average…per 24 hours.
7 hours – Bizarre Dreams
2 hours – Internet tangents
1.5 hours – Shaping my girlish figure at the neighborhood Equinox
2 hours – Grove or Netflix
1.5 hours – 3 semi square, shower, ducking phone calls, masturbation, the occasional returned call
10 hours – Me and my computer. Me and my thoughts. Me and the same music playing over and over in the background. Snapping out of a trance every 54 minutes or after a scene, wondering who the hell I am…where the hell I was.
Where does that leave you, me…us? I’m just really focused on my career right now, and I don’t think it would be fair to try this. You don’t deserve anything less than an honest shot. I mean, come on…look at you. You’re amazing. In every way a guy could ever hope. And I hate to use this because it’s such a cliché…but it’s not you…it’s me. There are just parts of me that…haven’t healed. Parts of me that may never heal…and that’s not fair. So for now…I think it would be best if we just…you know.
Sucker.
I’m not breaking up. Isn’t it funny though…how we all use the same lines. Like there’s some instinctual rule governing the exact procedure in hurting someone. I guess funny depends on which side you’re on.
I’ve just got to get back into the swing of you and me. It’s been too long. Hopefully, you’ve noticed.
I’ll leave you with something…not because it’s exemplary…but because where else do you start but page 1???
**********
INT. NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
An old and LONELY MAN, 64, sits at an empty booth, finishing Moby Dick. He’s wearing an old white suit over a yellow shirt. There’s a faint coffee stain on his lapel. It’s possible he’s senile.
He closes the book and walks out.
EXT. NEW YORK CITY - BROADWAY & 34TH - DAY
Late Summer, the Lonely Man walks down Broadway.
Blaring engines roar. A wave of police cars speed North. Just as they pass, a wave of ambulances head South. The Lonely Man stops in the middle, watching as they both cut waves through the traffic.
EXT. WEST 4TH STREET COURTS - DAY
An intense pick up basketball game. A large crowd is gathered. The Lonely Man stands to watch, his face pressed against the chain link fence.
Top of the key, the star of the court surveys the lane. An amazing talent, talking it up as fast as his first step. Your mom, your wife, my kids.
He beats his man with a blinding step. Just as he goes into the air, the defender catches up, slamming him to the ground with a hard, cheap foul.
The teams, the stands...all erupt into a terrible brawl at half-court. The Lonely Man departs.
EXT. WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK - DAY
The Lonely Man paces through the park, slowing beside an outlandish PREACHER who stumbles gallantly through a speech.
Few listen. Most pass through without notice.
PREACHER
Steer clear the darkness of temptation. For I have seen the dawning of a poison horizon. We are strong and must now and forever remain unwavering against the destruction of eev-ill.
The Lonely Man continues on.
EXT. NEW YORK CITY - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY
The Lonely Man walks past the stock exchange.
He comes to a watching stop at a newspaper vendor, where a WOMAN with a Stroller waits in line. A twenty dollar bill falls from her purse and to the ground. A MAN waiting behind her tactfully slides his shoe over the bill. When she leaves, he picks up the bill and puts it into his pocket.
The Lonely Man looks on with a heartbreaking disappointment before his glare fixes to the cover of the New York Post: Is Our City Lost?
We draw close on his face as he’s carried into a trance.
FLASHBACK - SATURATED GRAY - SERIES OF RANDOM SCENES
Conveinance store robbery and gunfire...
A crooked landlord burning down a low income highrise...
Crowds of people. No one speaks. No one Smiles. No one stops to help. This is New York City. This is our world. This is Now...
**********
It needs a bit of smoothing, which will come in time. And speaking of been done before…eventually, that Preacher has got to go. It’s tough to be sexy the second time through. I want to put the open up now to show you what it will look like in 50 days…when it’s finished.
And it’s not quite as sincere as I let on.
Guess the Lonely Man and win a prize…really. I’ll think of something.
Sorry I’ve neglected you…my readership of eight and a half. I’ve been away for a while. Been through a lot. Like a slave finally crossing into Yankee soil after an endless stretch on the Underground Railroad. Free at last, free at last…oh God almighty…free at last.
If you think that’s a terribly insensitive analogy…what a waste of energy.
It’s raining in LA. I just came back from spin class. Our teacher said she could feel the heaviness in the room. The depression. Live in So-Cal long enough, and you get used to such banter. Everything turns into a meditation.
Heaviness? Is that even a word? I know it is, but it certainly shouldn’t be. Especially because the words uttered from her mouth…the negative connotation that blew in with the rain was anything but. I wake up and hear the pattering on my air conditioner and smile. I feel the drops break against my face and soak them up. I sit here, speaking to you…surrounded by this bleak day and own nothing but my own content.
It’s a combination of a number of things. Floating things. The prospect of success…love…life unbound. The need to be overthrown by all. Only freedom liberates such feeling. So what’s next? I don’t know. Any number of good or terrible things.
But for you, I’m dry. And no abbreviation for the state of Kentucky is going to change that. Dry because I’m spending my currency elsewhere. That little project I talked shit about for so long. The one I claimed would launch me out of anonymity. Let’s break down my post Tower Bar life schedule…Monday thru Friday…on average…per 24 hours.
7 hours – Bizarre Dreams
2 hours – Internet tangents
1.5 hours – Shaping my girlish figure at the neighborhood Equinox
2 hours – Grove or Netflix
1.5 hours – 3 semi square, shower, ducking phone calls, masturbation, the occasional returned call
10 hours – Me and my computer. Me and my thoughts. Me and the same music playing over and over in the background. Snapping out of a trance every 54 minutes or after a scene, wondering who the hell I am…where the hell I was.
Where does that leave you, me…us? I’m just really focused on my career right now, and I don’t think it would be fair to try this. You don’t deserve anything less than an honest shot. I mean, come on…look at you. You’re amazing. In every way a guy could ever hope. And I hate to use this because it’s such a cliché…but it’s not you…it’s me. There are just parts of me that…haven’t healed. Parts of me that may never heal…and that’s not fair. So for now…I think it would be best if we just…you know.
Sucker.
I’m not breaking up. Isn’t it funny though…how we all use the same lines. Like there’s some instinctual rule governing the exact procedure in hurting someone. I guess funny depends on which side you’re on.
I’ve just got to get back into the swing of you and me. It’s been too long. Hopefully, you’ve noticed.
I’ll leave you with something…not because it’s exemplary…but because where else do you start but page 1???
**********
INT. NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
An old and LONELY MAN, 64, sits at an empty booth, finishing Moby Dick. He’s wearing an old white suit over a yellow shirt. There’s a faint coffee stain on his lapel. It’s possible he’s senile.
He closes the book and walks out.
EXT. NEW YORK CITY - BROADWAY & 34TH - DAY
Late Summer, the Lonely Man walks down Broadway.
Blaring engines roar. A wave of police cars speed North. Just as they pass, a wave of ambulances head South. The Lonely Man stops in the middle, watching as they both cut waves through the traffic.
EXT. WEST 4TH STREET COURTS - DAY
An intense pick up basketball game. A large crowd is gathered. The Lonely Man stands to watch, his face pressed against the chain link fence.
Top of the key, the star of the court surveys the lane. An amazing talent, talking it up as fast as his first step. Your mom, your wife, my kids.
He beats his man with a blinding step. Just as he goes into the air, the defender catches up, slamming him to the ground with a hard, cheap foul.
The teams, the stands...all erupt into a terrible brawl at half-court. The Lonely Man departs.
EXT. WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK - DAY
The Lonely Man paces through the park, slowing beside an outlandish PREACHER who stumbles gallantly through a speech.
Few listen. Most pass through without notice.
PREACHER
Steer clear the darkness of temptation. For I have seen the dawning of a poison horizon. We are strong and must now and forever remain unwavering against the destruction of eev-ill.
The Lonely Man continues on.
EXT. NEW YORK CITY - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY
The Lonely Man walks past the stock exchange.
He comes to a watching stop at a newspaper vendor, where a WOMAN with a Stroller waits in line. A twenty dollar bill falls from her purse and to the ground. A MAN waiting behind her tactfully slides his shoe over the bill. When she leaves, he picks up the bill and puts it into his pocket.
The Lonely Man looks on with a heartbreaking disappointment before his glare fixes to the cover of the New York Post: Is Our City Lost?
We draw close on his face as he’s carried into a trance.
FLASHBACK - SATURATED GRAY - SERIES OF RANDOM SCENES
Conveinance store robbery and gunfire...
A crooked landlord burning down a low income highrise...
Crowds of people. No one speaks. No one Smiles. No one stops to help. This is New York City. This is our world. This is Now...
**********
It needs a bit of smoothing, which will come in time. And speaking of been done before…eventually, that Preacher has got to go. It’s tough to be sexy the second time through. I want to put the open up now to show you what it will look like in 50 days…when it’s finished.
And it’s not quite as sincere as I let on.
Guess the Lonely Man and win a prize…really. I’ll think of something.
October 31, 2005
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.
Not tonight. I have no fucking clue. But I’m wound up like you wouldn’t believe.
It’s been a while. A long, long time. Too fucking long. I could make up an excuse. Coming back from a drug bender with a life altering epiphany? No. That would be stretching the truth. I love you all too much to mislead. Fuck!
And let me preface with a confession. If I drop an arsenal of F Bombs, it’s only because I lack the necessary blend of talent and dedication that would otherwise masquerade my state of mood…through ingenious wordsmithing…in an intelligent fashion. My somewhat sincere apologies.
And we’ll both pretend you didn’t just sludge your way through a marsh of brilliance.
Where should I begin? If you read these often, I wonder if I have repetitive themes…if I seem to come back to the same place over and over. I don’t re-read once I’m through. Okay, that’s a small stretch. I rarely recall what I put here from one day to the next. That much is true.
I did something bizarre tonight…looking back. Something I did a while ago. This little thing called 20th Mile. I put the trailer…meaning not the short in its entirety…up for sake of reference…
http://homepage.mac.com/winburnsmith/iMovieTheater9.html
It was my second short film. I haven’t seen it in…I don’t know, closing in on 2 years now. If you’ve seen me, read me…you might think what I’m about to spout is a hack. I have a very, very hard time watching myself. I made another short, Harmony Battle in January. And that trailer…
http://homepage.mac.com/winburnsmith/harmonybattle/iMovieTheater4.html
I sent it out to friends, family…whatever. The day I finished editing in January was the last time I saw it. Strange…someone with as much self love as I do having a tough time taking a peek. It’s true. I watched them both tonight. I was stirred up before…but like crazy now.
20th Mile did it.
And I’ll be very forward. I understand that in life, everything is sweeter looking back. Adventures painted immortal. Star-crossed, overthrowing love. Laughter that sheds tears…
Actually, fuck understanding. The grass isn’t always greener. It WAS greener. I had all that and more. And I still have that…it just needs to be found, not sought. Don’t spit because you feel like you have to.
Where was I? Right. 20th Mile. It was a snapshot of times where heart absolutely ruled. And watching it brought me back. I’ll never admit a “golden time” in my life. I don’t believe in it. Actually, it’s fucking wrong…maybe even sinful. Every day, every year…take it for what it’s worth.
But my guts were out that last semester…hit by shots on so many sides. I can’t even begin to explain. So many great…and equally horrible. It’s all inside this 30-minute quickie. And not just that last semester, but all four years. And by all four years, I mean my life.
That’s not saying I let all of this go, but right now, I wonder…where the fuck is it hiding out here? In Los Angeles?
Champaign, Illinois. This safe little thing in the middle of nowhere…cold, flat, dead. I can only recollect my life through feeling…and it was good.
…
I used to go to bed and lie there…two hours after I turned off the lights. My stomach running too hard to go to sleep. This heart pumping something more than blood. Thicker, stronger.
Awfully heart on the sleeve, is it? Do I sound like a flake spouting like that…to you?
Then get fucked. I mean that, sincerely. I’m off…beat…or something. I don’t ache for that need to be cute…or secretive…or subtle. You know, the kind of thing you can only speak when you’re drunk or high. Or like the moment before you are about to lose something that you were too fucking blind to see coming. Something you can’t live without?
You relate? How sad. And what a terrible trick…to lead you on a sinking ship, right before it hits that iceberg.
Shit like that doesn’t occur here. Waiting to speak? Not here, not ever.
Fuck Los Angeles…
Fuck the 405, the 10 and the 101.
Fuck the cancer in the air, the cancer waiting in my lungs.
Fuck the fake starlet whores.
Fuck LA smiles.
Fuck LA “souls.”
Fuck headshots.
Fuck meetings.
Fuck lunches.
Fuck promises.
Fuck fake tits.
Fuck those above me who forget they WERE me.
Fuck you. You never were.
Fuck the coke blowers.
Fuck the cross dressers.
Fuck the Hills.
Fuck the Valleys.
Fuck LAX.
Fuck 360 days of sun.
Fuck the 5 of rain.
Fuck this heartless city and the people in it.
Fuck self-absorbed.
Fuck everyone that has turned me down.
Fuck everyone that will hand me the reigns.
No. Fuck me. A 24 year old who thinks he knows everything…who thinks he has a key to it all and that anyone cares. A stranger, lost. Fucked, fucked, fucked.
Fuck me. This last year…for smiling, laughing, humoring when I didn’t mean it. For tiptoeing…playing it safe. For leaning towards the safety of apologetic. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.
No sleeping tonight. This…shit. This good, fucking shit. Where have I been? Too sweet, too kind...too safe? Where the fuck has it been? Where the fuck have I been?
What do you do when all of a sudden, something hits you and you want to throw a fist through a brick wall. Who do you tell? Who do you talk to? This shit…this shit you’re reading. It’s foolish, it’s irresponsible. It’s sometimes telling too much. Giving too much.
So where are we going today boys and girls? I think it’s coming, no need to write an opus tonight.
I watched that little fucking short. You know what I did when I finished…originally? I sent it out. I showed it around with a stamp. This is me. This is my love. This is everything I can wrap my heart around at this moment in my life. No apologies. Never an apology.
I’m not sure at what point it surfaced out here, but I’ve been afraid. Afraid that every meeting will be my last. That every pitch will be mocked. That my words will be picked apart and chewed up. In short, that everything I aim to do will be a complete misfire. I suppose it’s natural. It’s a dangerous business, putting yourself out there. Some of the offices I was in, and that quick were…intimidating. Or, could be considered as such. I guess I can justify how even a strong state of mind could waver. How even my mind…the mind I tote and strut about these pages can at moments become weak.
And again, fuck me for that. No excuses. I don’t mean to be angry. I don’t mean to be anything other than what I am…and all of a sudden, guilt. Fucking guilt like I did something wrong.
And maybe I am guilty. Guilty of doubting my invincibility. It doesn’t happen often, but still…
Still.
Here we come, full circle. Why the ill-temper? I can’t stand growing up…to learn something every day that I pray I could have known the day before. The world’s greatest tragedy occurs the moment you’re content with yourself, your knowledge, your trip…tragic because it only occurs the moment you die. We hit our stride as our last breath escapes. The last drop of understanding. I want it all…I want it now and forever. Fuck me, but it hurts.
And I think for a little while there, I was in danger of growing out of “this phase.” I was in danger of going into a trance that lasts forever…with no one to snap me out of it.
One of these days, I’ll never say another word. But not today...and no time soon. There’s just too much.
October 28, 2005
Lend Me Your Ears and I'll Sing You A Song...
Fred Savage came into the restaurant tonight. Ah, Wonder Years. Remember? I do. Want to know what else I remember…exactly?
Third grade. I don’t know why all of my childhood references seem to trace back to that same year, but they do. Must have been one of the criticals. When Freddie walked in, I could think only of square dancing.
Yes, SD. The forecast is doubtful that SD infused curriculums span elementary schools across the country, but for two weeks, every third grader that passes the realm of Sheridan School in Lake Forest, Illinois learns the ins and outs. And wouldn’t you know…a memorable episode of Wonder Years aired the night before we were going to start. Allow me to lend precious insight to that fateful day.
Getting your partner is everything. Everything. How do I put this…delicately? In third grade, square dancing is sex. Sex is square dancing. Hot, relentless, glorious. The rare, knock me back sort that comes along once every…let’s not delve.
The touch, the spin, the dose-e-doe. Oh, blow me spell check. Nobody knows dose-e-doe.
I landed my girl. As far as I was concerned in my “Wonder Years,” she was THE GIRL. Allison Martinet. No fictitious names here boys and girls. Possibly mis-spelled, but not fictitious. I was sweet on her. I think she was sweet on me. Cheers Miss Norman. That day, you made my life. Anyone else and I’d likely be mining indistinctive ore in southern Wyoming.
I think we were good. Who remembers anyway? Or more important…who the fuck cares?
But I do remember the doors that opened after our fateful pairing. I remember when second base was kissing with a bit more than lips. Bizarre…but I do remember…the back hallway at Hawthorn theater. I wonder what Allison is up to.
And I wonder if my readers are connected enough where Allison lends a response. Was it Hawthorn Theater? 4th Grade? Or am I way off? I’m pretty sure we haven’t spoken in years.
We’ll see….
All because Fred Savage came in tonight.
Sometimes…I wander.
Guess what’s gone to holy hell? Or am I getting redundant? I don’t remember how long ago it was that you could quote me as saying I had a good job. Nothing like working 28 nights in October to bleed the soul.
We caught our managers cooking the books. Last Monday, 450 dollars disappeared from the tip pool. Someone’s been taking our money. And by taking, I mean stealing. And by stealing…that ain’t cool.
So anyway, it’s time to go. I’m miserable, only working to build a cushion. And yes, I realize how badly that screams hypocrite. How does that not go against everything that I am…that I preach? Exactly.
We all could have walked tonight…and the notion was circulating. For whatever reason, it didn’t happen. It’s that guilt…that hesitation where no matter the certainty of deception, you give someone the benefit of the doubt. The terrible weakness of being kind. That little bitch of a pestering voice…
What if I’m wrong?
We called a meeting. My opening argument went along the lines of, “We have a serious problem with the tip pool. I’m an instinctual man and I trust my instincts. They tell me that we’re being deceived…that you’re backpedaling, making up stories…and we’re being lied to.”
If you’re the manager…or better yet, a world renowned Matre’D and one of your minions accuses you of lying…and stealing, what’s your response? Yes, I’m asking.
Here’s how it went…and how it goes if you are lying through your teeth:
- Where’s (insert our GM’s name)? Could you please find him? He handles tips.
- He said you handle tips. (Insert uncomfortable silence).
Enter our GM…who’s been hiding his head in the sand the last two days.
- So here’s the problem I think you’re talking about. Monday’s party. You see. There was a service charge of 20% because of the size of the party. You see. And they tipped on top of that. Okay. So…wait, what was I saying? Sorry. I had to just like climb up like three flights of stairs. Hold on. Let me catch my breath.
Shit you not…on with the show.
- So, you guys get the tip and the service charge (which is a...tip) goes to the house.
They knew we were coming and that’s all the sparkle we got. At least dance a dance. Coat that shit sugary sweet.
If these accusations were completely unfounded, and everyone could look down at clean hands, here’s how it should have gone:
-What did you just say? Are you serious? You’re questioning me? My dignity, my character? Who are you? Who the fuck are you? Get out of my restaurant. Your last check will be mailed with a, “Go fistfuck yourself and don’t ever come back.” I never, ever want to see you again.
Or maybe that was exactly what I was crossing fingers for…to stage some dramatic, have fun running it without us walk out. It didn’t happen. If they were to oust me, I could at least collect severance. The only problem is that my job security is limitless. I can call my bosses liars and cheats, go in the next day, and they’ll kiss my ass and cross their fingers that I don’t walk out…that none of us walk out. If you ever find yourself in a managerial situation such as previously mentioned…you don’t exactly own the high ground…in case that’s not blatantly obvious.
I’m pretty sure I mentioned the same cliché characteristics in my initial interview.
- Hard worker, dedicated, reliable, personable…
And didn’t mention that when the luster wears off, I become the most rabid fucking revolutionist against authority in all its forms. And more dangerous yet…my words inspire…and will lead to an overthrow in the ballpark of 98%.
Fuck with me and I will fuck you. That’s a terrible thing to say, is it not? I completely agree. But I can say such things. I have the right. Why? Because I can also say show me love and you will be my Queen. You will be my King. You will be whatever you ever wanted to be. Sometimes, I find it troubling how this pendulum of mine swings. More often than not, though…I end up giving thanks.
There’s tragedy behind this…and on so many levels. I can’t even get into it. For the past 5 months, I’ve lived my life with these people. And in some fucked up way, it’s going to be sad to leave. It’s just the way I am…like waving goodbye to a vacation spot you see once a year even though you’re dying to get back home. Obscure references, I know…but if you get it, you get it.
It’s just that…this isn’t how I want to go out. It’s not my style.
This place suffocates, robs away the foolish. The foolish that gets me by in a manner that…how do I explain? I’m just…such a dreamer. And I want more of it back.
I’m just…there are bits and pieces of life out there…things that make me so heavy I have to fill up, blow out and smile just to breathe. And I don’t recall ever finding one at the Argyle Hotel.
Bits and pieces like the one riding #15 in spin. Bits and pieces like what’s starting to flow on my sheets the second time through. Bits and pieces that will rain from the sky as I wonder through the years that come.
What a cheat, to tie it back with a line like that.
Believe me…I know.
Third grade. I don’t know why all of my childhood references seem to trace back to that same year, but they do. Must have been one of the criticals. When Freddie walked in, I could think only of square dancing.
Yes, SD. The forecast is doubtful that SD infused curriculums span elementary schools across the country, but for two weeks, every third grader that passes the realm of Sheridan School in Lake Forest, Illinois learns the ins and outs. And wouldn’t you know…a memorable episode of Wonder Years aired the night before we were going to start. Allow me to lend precious insight to that fateful day.
Getting your partner is everything. Everything. How do I put this…delicately? In third grade, square dancing is sex. Sex is square dancing. Hot, relentless, glorious. The rare, knock me back sort that comes along once every…let’s not delve.
The touch, the spin, the dose-e-doe. Oh, blow me spell check. Nobody knows dose-e-doe.
I landed my girl. As far as I was concerned in my “Wonder Years,” she was THE GIRL. Allison Martinet. No fictitious names here boys and girls. Possibly mis-spelled, but not fictitious. I was sweet on her. I think she was sweet on me. Cheers Miss Norman. That day, you made my life. Anyone else and I’d likely be mining indistinctive ore in southern Wyoming.
I think we were good. Who remembers anyway? Or more important…who the fuck cares?
But I do remember the doors that opened after our fateful pairing. I remember when second base was kissing with a bit more than lips. Bizarre…but I do remember…the back hallway at Hawthorn theater. I wonder what Allison is up to.
And I wonder if my readers are connected enough where Allison lends a response. Was it Hawthorn Theater? 4th Grade? Or am I way off? I’m pretty sure we haven’t spoken in years.
We’ll see….
All because Fred Savage came in tonight.
Sometimes…I wander.
Guess what’s gone to holy hell? Or am I getting redundant? I don’t remember how long ago it was that you could quote me as saying I had a good job. Nothing like working 28 nights in October to bleed the soul.
We caught our managers cooking the books. Last Monday, 450 dollars disappeared from the tip pool. Someone’s been taking our money. And by taking, I mean stealing. And by stealing…that ain’t cool.
So anyway, it’s time to go. I’m miserable, only working to build a cushion. And yes, I realize how badly that screams hypocrite. How does that not go against everything that I am…that I preach? Exactly.
We all could have walked tonight…and the notion was circulating. For whatever reason, it didn’t happen. It’s that guilt…that hesitation where no matter the certainty of deception, you give someone the benefit of the doubt. The terrible weakness of being kind. That little bitch of a pestering voice…
What if I’m wrong?
We called a meeting. My opening argument went along the lines of, “We have a serious problem with the tip pool. I’m an instinctual man and I trust my instincts. They tell me that we’re being deceived…that you’re backpedaling, making up stories…and we’re being lied to.”
If you’re the manager…or better yet, a world renowned Matre’D and one of your minions accuses you of lying…and stealing, what’s your response? Yes, I’m asking.
Here’s how it went…and how it goes if you are lying through your teeth:
- Where’s (insert our GM’s name)? Could you please find him? He handles tips.
- He said you handle tips. (Insert uncomfortable silence).
Enter our GM…who’s been hiding his head in the sand the last two days.
- So here’s the problem I think you’re talking about. Monday’s party. You see. There was a service charge of 20% because of the size of the party. You see. And they tipped on top of that. Okay. So…wait, what was I saying? Sorry. I had to just like climb up like three flights of stairs. Hold on. Let me catch my breath.
Shit you not…on with the show.
- So, you guys get the tip and the service charge (which is a...tip) goes to the house.
They knew we were coming and that’s all the sparkle we got. At least dance a dance. Coat that shit sugary sweet.
If these accusations were completely unfounded, and everyone could look down at clean hands, here’s how it should have gone:
-What did you just say? Are you serious? You’re questioning me? My dignity, my character? Who are you? Who the fuck are you? Get out of my restaurant. Your last check will be mailed with a, “Go fistfuck yourself and don’t ever come back.” I never, ever want to see you again.
Or maybe that was exactly what I was crossing fingers for…to stage some dramatic, have fun running it without us walk out. It didn’t happen. If they were to oust me, I could at least collect severance. The only problem is that my job security is limitless. I can call my bosses liars and cheats, go in the next day, and they’ll kiss my ass and cross their fingers that I don’t walk out…that none of us walk out. If you ever find yourself in a managerial situation such as previously mentioned…you don’t exactly own the high ground…in case that’s not blatantly obvious.
I’m pretty sure I mentioned the same cliché characteristics in my initial interview.
- Hard worker, dedicated, reliable, personable…
And didn’t mention that when the luster wears off, I become the most rabid fucking revolutionist against authority in all its forms. And more dangerous yet…my words inspire…and will lead to an overthrow in the ballpark of 98%.
Fuck with me and I will fuck you. That’s a terrible thing to say, is it not? I completely agree. But I can say such things. I have the right. Why? Because I can also say show me love and you will be my Queen. You will be my King. You will be whatever you ever wanted to be. Sometimes, I find it troubling how this pendulum of mine swings. More often than not, though…I end up giving thanks.
There’s tragedy behind this…and on so many levels. I can’t even get into it. For the past 5 months, I’ve lived my life with these people. And in some fucked up way, it’s going to be sad to leave. It’s just the way I am…like waving goodbye to a vacation spot you see once a year even though you’re dying to get back home. Obscure references, I know…but if you get it, you get it.
It’s just that…this isn’t how I want to go out. It’s not my style.
This place suffocates, robs away the foolish. The foolish that gets me by in a manner that…how do I explain? I’m just…such a dreamer. And I want more of it back.
I’m just…there are bits and pieces of life out there…things that make me so heavy I have to fill up, blow out and smile just to breathe. And I don’t recall ever finding one at the Argyle Hotel.
Bits and pieces like the one riding #15 in spin. Bits and pieces like what’s starting to flow on my sheets the second time through. Bits and pieces that will rain from the sky as I wonder through the years that come.
What a cheat, to tie it back with a line like that.
Believe me…I know.
October 19, 2005
Fall Mix...
For me, it’s like this. You hear a great song…one you crave to hear over and over, and it turns into your soundtrack. It becomes part of your life, always riding shotgun until another takes its place. Sound like a Time-Life infomercial???
Go fuck yourself.
Anyway…years down the road, when an old song comes out of nowhere…it hits you with something. Some kind of happiness. Some kind of hurt. It reminds you of someone that was in your life. Something you were battling…whatever. But it’s one hell of a connection.
So…for both you and me, I am going to bookmark NOW with the songs of my life. Slap a label on top. Late Fall, 2006. Five, ten, twenty years down the road…when I hear these songs, I will remember THIS exact time in my life. All that I am…all that I was…all that I wanted to be.
No explanation necessary, but the order was carefully selected. I Tunes has got em all…I believe. Not too few, not too many. Just right.
May every song I ever list remind me of how foolish I was…for always and ever.
1. All These Things I’ve Done – The Killers
2. Fix You – Coldplay
3. Come Pick Me Up – Ryan Adams
4. Heysatan – Sigur Ros
5. My Father’s Gun – Elton John
6. Jesus Walks – Kanye West
7. Io (This Time Around) – Helen Stellar
8. Hide and Seek – Imogen Heap
9. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over – Jeff Buckley
How bout you? The silent congregation. What am I, your lit whore? You come for a quickie that ALWAYS ends up all over my face…then you throw a 20 on the tussled sheets before slamming the door on your way out. Where’s the respect? Give me a song. I don’t even care if you say Mariah Carey. Yes, I hate that bitch…but that first single…guilty.
Go fuck yourself.
Anyway…years down the road, when an old song comes out of nowhere…it hits you with something. Some kind of happiness. Some kind of hurt. It reminds you of someone that was in your life. Something you were battling…whatever. But it’s one hell of a connection.
So…for both you and me, I am going to bookmark NOW with the songs of my life. Slap a label on top. Late Fall, 2006. Five, ten, twenty years down the road…when I hear these songs, I will remember THIS exact time in my life. All that I am…all that I was…all that I wanted to be.
No explanation necessary, but the order was carefully selected. I Tunes has got em all…I believe. Not too few, not too many. Just right.
May every song I ever list remind me of how foolish I was…for always and ever.
1. All These Things I’ve Done – The Killers
2. Fix You – Coldplay
3. Come Pick Me Up – Ryan Adams
4. Heysatan – Sigur Ros
5. My Father’s Gun – Elton John
6. Jesus Walks – Kanye West
7. Io (This Time Around) – Helen Stellar
8. Hide and Seek – Imogen Heap
9. Lover, You Should’ve Come Over – Jeff Buckley
How bout you? The silent congregation. What am I, your lit whore? You come for a quickie that ALWAYS ends up all over my face…then you throw a 20 on the tussled sheets before slamming the door on your way out. Where’s the respect? Give me a song. I don’t even care if you say Mariah Carey. Yes, I hate that bitch…but that first single…guilty.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
