Life is so bsy I only hv time 2 be thnkfl 4 a coupl things:
(inspired by Brian--finally, a post!)
1. I didn't pay to see the movie 2012.
2. I didn't see the movie 2012.
3. I'll never see the movie 2012.
4. The Mayans weren't capable of predicting jack shit, even their own irrelevance.
5. Y2K was way scarier than 2012 (and cooler).
6. Y2K befuddled one crappy watch I never wore (was that IT?).
7. And most importantly: I am blessedly thankful for my family, especially my son who makes me laugh every single day.
Hppy Thnksgving, Evry1! See you all in 2013!
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
Last Night in a Scary Bar
I went to see my friend Rick, whom I hadn't hung out with for years. We drove to a dive bar (his idea) in a town known primarily for its crime rate. The bar (six pool tables, one bartender, wood paneling) contained the kind of crowd that encourages the avoidance of eye contact. There were glowering men waiting out their parole, a woman with a bottomless cigarette and a hairstyle straight outta "GoodFellas", and other extras who had answered the "menacing person needed in dark bar" ad in the paper. I considered leaving immediately.
Did I mention it was karaoke night?
No one was singing, except the lady with the hair and her male companion, a Hispanic Kenny Rogers look-alike who kept to a safe catalogue of dead artists who mainly sang about getting arrested, drinking, and lonesome highways.
The woman running the karaoke looked normal enough, and had a boyfriend or bouncer nearby who eyeballed anyone who got too close to the equipment. When Rick decided he would go sing (Johnny Cash--smart), the bartender waved me over and asked what I was drinking. Prior to that moment my plan was "nothing" but I quickly determined I would stand out less if I had a drink in front of me. So I got one, dirty glass and all. This was also the first time a bartender had summoned me to the bar from across a room. I didn't know they did that, anywhere.
Rick and I started catching up. After a while I realized I hadn't been stabbed yet so I started to relax. Maybe it was the drink. Rick asked me if I was going to sing and I absently thumbed through the song list.
For reasons that still escape me, I wrote down "Come What May," a duet from the musical Moulin Rouge, on the song request slip and went to the karaoke woman.
"Do you know this song?" I asked her. She nodded. "Would you sing it with me?" I tried, knowing that anyone who runs a karaoke gig not only loves to sing but usually sings pretty well. She shrugged and said, "Sure, I'll do it." If she'd been a good person, she would have said, "Go out the back door now." But she didn't. I sat back down with Rick and continued our conversation. More people arrived, but I was no longer watching the front door.
I forgot about the song, until someone said my name. I went over and picked up the mic and looked out at the bar. Holy crap. I was going to croon a love ballad in this place? Thankfully, the karaoke lady had presumably survived more than one evening in this establishment so her standing next to me would presumably prevent All Hell from breaking loose. As the music began, I had a moment to search inward and try to find the reason I'd picked this song. I ceased my search and settled for cursing myself.
I sang the first line. If you don't know the song, you should listen to it, just to fully understand my predicament. And it was about to get worse.
The karaoke lady, still seated behind her bullet-proof equipment, looked over at me and said, "I don't know this song at all." She made no move for the mic, nor did she stand, nor indicate that she would do anything while I sang alone.
I suppose I could have run for it, but I would have been leaving Rick behind. You never leave a man behind. The only thing left to do was sing.
Then the karaoke lady keys her mic and asks the bar, "Can anyone out there sing this duet with him?" I realized that she was trying to get me killed. A guy with a Tombstone mustache and a cowboy hat with too many feathers on it shook his head in disbelief.
Suddenly a woman raised her hand from the corner and hurried through the crowd: a pretty redhead, maybe 23 years old, vivacious, like a 40's pin-up girl. She joined me, flashed a dazzling smile, and picked up the other mic. What Higher Power of Goodness had sent her?
I finished my opening, and she began her part. She had a voice like honey mead: sweet and powerful. And she knew the song. She was beautiful. She saved my life, man.
We sang the duet, feeding off each other's energy, lost in the music. There was no more scary bar, no more threat of death by pool cue, only the rising crescendo of the song as it ended with its promise of hope and the power of music and two people who don't care about consequences, only love.
The bar was dead silent. Scattered applause, then more, then cheering. I thanked the pretty girl, who laughed with genuine and sudden shyness as she returned to her companions. I made my way back across the bar, and the guy in the cowboy hat--now revealed to be staggeringly drunk--said, "You got a voice from Hell, friend."
I would survive the night. I was untouchable; I was the guy who made the pretty redhead materialize out of the wood paneling and sing like an angel. And the real kind of angel, not the Hell's kind.
Rick was chuckling when I reached him. "I remember why we quit hanging out," he said. "You're completely out of you're mind."
EDIT: Based on a few salacious emails I have received since this post, I feel I should point out that the pretty redhead left the bar with her male friends about an hour after this incident occurred. Thank you for your concern. For an alternate (and fabricated) ending, please visit mindsinthegutter.com.
Did I mention it was karaoke night?
No one was singing, except the lady with the hair and her male companion, a Hispanic Kenny Rogers look-alike who kept to a safe catalogue of dead artists who mainly sang about getting arrested, drinking, and lonesome highways.
The woman running the karaoke looked normal enough, and had a boyfriend or bouncer nearby who eyeballed anyone who got too close to the equipment. When Rick decided he would go sing (Johnny Cash--smart), the bartender waved me over and asked what I was drinking. Prior to that moment my plan was "nothing" but I quickly determined I would stand out less if I had a drink in front of me. So I got one, dirty glass and all. This was also the first time a bartender had summoned me to the bar from across a room. I didn't know they did that, anywhere.
Rick and I started catching up. After a while I realized I hadn't been stabbed yet so I started to relax. Maybe it was the drink. Rick asked me if I was going to sing and I absently thumbed through the song list.
For reasons that still escape me, I wrote down "Come What May," a duet from the musical Moulin Rouge, on the song request slip and went to the karaoke woman.
"Do you know this song?" I asked her. She nodded. "Would you sing it with me?" I tried, knowing that anyone who runs a karaoke gig not only loves to sing but usually sings pretty well. She shrugged and said, "Sure, I'll do it." If she'd been a good person, she would have said, "Go out the back door now." But she didn't. I sat back down with Rick and continued our conversation. More people arrived, but I was no longer watching the front door.
I forgot about the song, until someone said my name. I went over and picked up the mic and looked out at the bar. Holy crap. I was going to croon a love ballad in this place? Thankfully, the karaoke lady had presumably survived more than one evening in this establishment so her standing next to me would presumably prevent All Hell from breaking loose. As the music began, I had a moment to search inward and try to find the reason I'd picked this song. I ceased my search and settled for cursing myself.
I sang the first line. If you don't know the song, you should listen to it, just to fully understand my predicament. And it was about to get worse.
The karaoke lady, still seated behind her bullet-proof equipment, looked over at me and said, "I don't know this song at all." She made no move for the mic, nor did she stand, nor indicate that she would do anything while I sang alone.
I suppose I could have run for it, but I would have been leaving Rick behind. You never leave a man behind. The only thing left to do was sing.
Then the karaoke lady keys her mic and asks the bar, "Can anyone out there sing this duet with him?" I realized that she was trying to get me killed. A guy with a Tombstone mustache and a cowboy hat with too many feathers on it shook his head in disbelief.
Suddenly a woman raised her hand from the corner and hurried through the crowd: a pretty redhead, maybe 23 years old, vivacious, like a 40's pin-up girl. She joined me, flashed a dazzling smile, and picked up the other mic. What Higher Power of Goodness had sent her?
I finished my opening, and she began her part. She had a voice like honey mead: sweet and powerful. And she knew the song. She was beautiful. She saved my life, man.
We sang the duet, feeding off each other's energy, lost in the music. There was no more scary bar, no more threat of death by pool cue, only the rising crescendo of the song as it ended with its promise of hope and the power of music and two people who don't care about consequences, only love.
The bar was dead silent. Scattered applause, then more, then cheering. I thanked the pretty girl, who laughed with genuine and sudden shyness as she returned to her companions. I made my way back across the bar, and the guy in the cowboy hat--now revealed to be staggeringly drunk--said, "You got a voice from Hell, friend."
I would survive the night. I was untouchable; I was the guy who made the pretty redhead materialize out of the wood paneling and sing like an angel. And the real kind of angel, not the Hell's kind.
Rick was chuckling when I reached him. "I remember why we quit hanging out," he said. "You're completely out of you're mind."
EDIT: Based on a few salacious emails I have received since this post, I feel I should point out that the pretty redhead left the bar with her male friends about an hour after this incident occurred. Thank you for your concern. For an alternate (and fabricated) ending, please visit mindsinthegutter.com.
Friday, November 13, 2009
For Example...
This is arguably steampunk. Not a lot of science fictional elements on the surface, but the supernatural undertones are there. Guy Ritchie says he wanted the movie to be "accessible." Hopefully that doesn't translate across the pond into "shitty."
It doesn't matter anyway, because a true gentleman wouldn't miss a movie featuring Rachel McAdams. Even if it featured her doing laundry for 120 minutes.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Steampunker
The project is spiraling out of control, like Alice growing inside the white rabbit's cottage until her arms and legs crash out through the windows and her huge eyes blink from beneath the thatched roof.
Sometimes a script takes on a life of its own, decides it's going to be much larger than originally planned. What was supposed to be a light-hearted, Victorian adventure has now become one of the more ambitious projects I've invented. Life. Death. Friendship. Love. Adventure. Mathematics.
Yes, mathematics. I hate math (as does much of the population, I think), which means I would normally shy away from it as a plot device. But for some reason, it works.
I'm fifty pages deep. While reading through my notes, I realized that this idea was born years ago, and was merely waiting until I was brave (or foolish) enough to take it on.
I don't yet know how my Alice will grow. Exponentially, I imagine.
Sometimes a script takes on a life of its own, decides it's going to be much larger than originally planned. What was supposed to be a light-hearted, Victorian adventure has now become one of the more ambitious projects I've invented. Life. Death. Friendship. Love. Adventure. Mathematics.
Yes, mathematics. I hate math (as does much of the population, I think), which means I would normally shy away from it as a plot device. But for some reason, it works.
I'm fifty pages deep. While reading through my notes, I realized that this idea was born years ago, and was merely waiting until I was brave (or foolish) enough to take it on.
I don't yet know how my Alice will grow. Exponentially, I imagine.
Monday, November 2, 2009
We Are Live on The Air
Last night a crew of actors, wags, and scoundrels came to my place for a live reading of THE WOLD, recorded as a 40's radio show. I've held readings of scripts in the past, but none so far have matched the energy of this group.
The plan was to use hi-tec equipment in lo-tec fashion to capture the genuine, often hilarious, effect of a live radio performance.
Mission accomplished. Thanks to all of you who poured your talent and mojo into the best party we've had in a long time!
DOPPELGANGERRRR!!!!
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
This Joe's for You
Yesterday I swaggered into one of my favorite coffee haunts and demanded my usual from the joekeep. "Step back here and make it yourself," he countered, meaning it.
I was rendered mute. How many latte's had I seen created? Hundreds? Thousands? I realized I had never really paid much attention to the process.
Humbled, I stepped behind the gleaming machinery and--under expert instruction--made my first latte. I took a sip and deemed it...satisfactory. I even learned a few secret moves: the Breach, the Slam, and the Bump, each of them necessary for a quality coffee drink.
The Point of this Story? Life is not meant to be merely observed, as if through glass. We are supposed to act, to interact, to learn. It took an 18-year-old barista to remind me of that.
Thanks, kid.
I was rendered mute. How many latte's had I seen created? Hundreds? Thousands? I realized I had never really paid much attention to the process.
Humbled, I stepped behind the gleaming machinery and--under expert instruction--made my first latte. I took a sip and deemed it...satisfactory. I even learned a few secret moves: the Breach, the Slam, and the Bump, each of them necessary for a quality coffee drink.
The Point of this Story? Life is not meant to be merely observed, as if through glass. We are supposed to act, to interact, to learn. It took an 18-year-old barista to remind me of that.
Thanks, kid.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Relief Pitcher
Frank, my writing partner on LEGION, outdid himself this week, pitching the project to several production companies. Lin Pictures (TERMINATOR: SALVATION) and Beacon Pictures (THE GUARDIAN) asked for the script. Sounds easy, right?
Not only no, but Hell No. Here's how the pitch often goes:
(After waiting in the fashionable waiting area and sipping at your water the assistant brought out, you are invited inside the studio exec's office. On one wall: the poster for a movie that made 1.2 billion dollars. This studio exec produced that movie.)
Exec: "We wanted to meet you (he's the only one in the room, other than you--hidden camera?) because we liked "Attack of the Weed People" so much and thought it was brilliant. We're in development on "Assault of the Crabgrass Folk" so your script is not an option for us right now, but we'd (still no one else there) love to hear what else you're working on."
Writer: "Okay, well, I've got a script you'll love."
(Exec leans back, smiling, and folds his hands in front of him. You are now pitching.)
Writer: "Imagine a world where...blah blah blah...but here's the hook: blah blah blah...and the twist is...blah blah blah."
(Exec's smile has changed, becoming less animated, almost mannequin-like. His eyes focus on a spot just above and to the left of your head, approximately 117 miles behind you.)
Writer: (just trying to get to the end...where's the F-ing end??) "And the last image is of the flying monkey spiraling up into the sky, free at last."
(The only sound is the copier down the hall.)
Exec: "Sounds interesting." (translation: "That was the most uninteresting thing I've heard today, other than the urine-inducing small talk in the urinal area of the men's restroom.")
(The meeting adjourns with handshakes and "great to meet you" exchanged three or four times. You have just screwed a pitch. You leave, nodding at the assistant as if everything went well, when you both know by the length of the meeting that you beaned the umpire with a wild throw. That clammy coolness on your forehead is flopsweat.)
On the opposite end of the spectrum, the successful pitch ends with the exec happily demanding to see the script, leaving you with the same feeling you got when ET made the bicycle fly, or when Sauron's tower toppled over, or when Lucy broke off her engagement to Cecil (hey, it's from A ROOM WITH A VIEW...I'm trying to hit all the genres).
Frank, well done. I hereby elect you as official Pitchman. It's a four-year term. Enjoy.
Not only no, but Hell No. Here's how the pitch often goes:
(After waiting in the fashionable waiting area and sipping at your water the assistant brought out, you are invited inside the studio exec's office. On one wall: the poster for a movie that made 1.2 billion dollars. This studio exec produced that movie.)
Exec: "We wanted to meet you (he's the only one in the room, other than you--hidden camera?) because we liked "Attack of the Weed People" so much and thought it was brilliant. We're in development on "Assault of the Crabgrass Folk" so your script is not an option for us right now, but we'd (still no one else there) love to hear what else you're working on."
Writer: "Okay, well, I've got a script you'll love."
(Exec leans back, smiling, and folds his hands in front of him. You are now pitching.)
Writer: "Imagine a world where...blah blah blah...but here's the hook: blah blah blah...and the twist is...blah blah blah."
(Exec's smile has changed, becoming less animated, almost mannequin-like. His eyes focus on a spot just above and to the left of your head, approximately 117 miles behind you.)
Writer: (just trying to get to the end...where's the F-ing end??) "And the last image is of the flying monkey spiraling up into the sky, free at last."
(The only sound is the copier down the hall.)
Exec: "Sounds interesting." (translation: "That was the most uninteresting thing I've heard today, other than the urine-inducing small talk in the urinal area of the men's restroom.")
(The meeting adjourns with handshakes and "great to meet you" exchanged three or four times. You have just screwed a pitch. You leave, nodding at the assistant as if everything went well, when you both know by the length of the meeting that you beaned the umpire with a wild throw. That clammy coolness on your forehead is flopsweat.)
On the opposite end of the spectrum, the successful pitch ends with the exec happily demanding to see the script, leaving you with the same feeling you got when ET made the bicycle fly, or when Sauron's tower toppled over, or when Lucy broke off her engagement to Cecil (hey, it's from A ROOM WITH A VIEW...I'm trying to hit all the genres).
Frank, well done. I hereby elect you as official Pitchman. It's a four-year term. Enjoy.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The Results Are In
Kristin, a holiday-savvy friend, has shared with me the good things about Columbus Day:
1. The tourists have gone home.
2. It is celebrated with lots of top quality tequila. Because I said so.
3. No need to invite unwanted extended family members over for a barbecue.
She also mentioned something about genitalia and a Vietnamese masseuse but you'll have to let your imagination run with that one. Clearly Kristin has a...grasp...on the holiday that I lack.
Next year I will bust out my papier-mache' Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria, and we'll see who is REALLY into the spirit of the day!
1. The tourists have gone home.
2. It is celebrated with lots of top quality tequila. Because I said so.
3. No need to invite unwanted extended family members over for a barbecue.
She also mentioned something about genitalia and a Vietnamese masseuse but you'll have to let your imagination run with that one. Clearly Kristin has a...grasp...on the holiday that I lack.
Next year I will bust out my papier-mache' Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria, and we'll see who is REALLY into the spirit of the day!
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
As The Wold Turns
Another Wold sketch. I chose this one because it represents how Jefferson draws the energy of a scene out of a written script, even when that script is translated from a foreign tongue (in this case, English).
Columbus De-bunked
I just got home late and realized my outgoing snail mail is still sitting in my mailbox because of Columbus Day. I don't mind a good day off (see blog posts, below), but the man didn't discover anything: there were people already living in the Americas. Imagine walking into a crowded room and announcing, "This room has now been discovered!"
As long as we're pretending indiginous people don't count, didn't Leif Ericson beat Columbus by about...say...five-hundred years? Next year let's all stay home for Leif Ericson Day. Viking helmets! Drinking horns brimming with beer! Burning longships at the beach! Beards!
In the meantime, enjoy the good things about Columbus Day.
Someone please email me the list of good things about Columbus Day.
As long as we're pretending indiginous people don't count, didn't Leif Ericson beat Columbus by about...say...five-hundred years? Next year let's all stay home for Leif Ericson Day. Viking helmets! Drinking horns brimming with beer! Burning longships at the beach! Beards!
In the meantime, enjoy the good things about Columbus Day.
Someone please email me the list of good things about Columbus Day.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Tempus Fugit
I created this blog one year ago today, with the simple intention of chronicling the rise and fall (and rise again!) of some of my writing projects. My intention was never to try and "connect" with people, professional or otherwise, nor to include much in the way of personal information.
How wrong I was. Thanks to those who've stopped by, left me a comment, ribbed me about something they read or saw, or just took a moment to check in on me. I've made new friends, found new respect for artists and other writers (especially those who wear both hats!), and adopted a new attitude about this mysterious place called cyberspace. It's good to stay connected.
Here's hoping you all have a great year.
How wrong I was. Thanks to those who've stopped by, left me a comment, ribbed me about something they read or saw, or just took a moment to check in on me. I've made new friends, found new respect for artists and other writers (especially those who wear both hats!), and adopted a new attitude about this mysterious place called cyberspace. It's good to stay connected.
Here's hoping you all have a great year.
Monday, October 5, 2009
All Right Already
Today someone asked me, "Who are you reading right now?" Unable to spit out the lie "Goethe" around a mouthful of latte, I swallowed and mumbled, "Novik." Blank stare. "Obscure novelist," I added, knowing I was caught.
The book's title is "His Majesty's Dragon," about a British officer who flies around on a dragon during the Napoleonic Wars. Now, I dislike dragon books; they belong in the same bin as unicorn and elf books. But this novel--so far--is pretty good. And I just found out that Peter Jackson bought the movie rights. And Stephen King likes it. And the New York Times. And a bunch of ladies who drive around with stuffed animals displayed inside their rear windshields.
I'm reading a dragon book, okay? Happy now, Internet?
The book's title is "His Majesty's Dragon," about a British officer who flies around on a dragon during the Napoleonic Wars. Now, I dislike dragon books; they belong in the same bin as unicorn and elf books. But this novel--so far--is pretty good. And I just found out that Peter Jackson bought the movie rights. And Stephen King likes it. And the New York Times. And a bunch of ladies who drive around with stuffed animals displayed inside their rear windshields.
I'm reading a dragon book, okay? Happy now, Internet?
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Today's Lesson
This is Jerry Cantrell from ALICE IN CHAINS. Jerry rocks. Hard. How hard does Jerry rock, you ask? Eddie Van Halen came to the show last night to watch Jerry play.
Also, my ears are not working today. I am reluctant to use the term "deaf" because it sounds so final.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Incredibly Important Things
I'm on "vacation" again. That's right, suckers. I'll be in Hollywood tomorrow night (and very likely deep into the wee hours of the following day) for an album-release concert and party for the one and only ALICE IN CHAINS. If you don't know who they are, I cannot help you.
Until then, I've got Incredibly Important Things to do, such as...getting coffee with people with advanced degrees in sarcasm, going for a long run or ride all afternoon, lighting an outdoor fire with my son, and finally opening that bottle of double-matured Lagavulin. If I can get one of those advanced-degree-in-sarcasm people to join me for a slug of it by the fire, I will have checked off everything on my list for the day.
Yep, it's going to feel good to finally get some things done around here.
Until then, I've got Incredibly Important Things to do, such as...getting coffee with people with advanced degrees in sarcasm, going for a long run or ride all afternoon, lighting an outdoor fire with my son, and finally opening that bottle of double-matured Lagavulin. If I can get one of those advanced-degree-in-sarcasm people to join me for a slug of it by the fire, I will have checked off everything on my list for the day.
Yep, it's going to feel good to finally get some things done around here.
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