12 Months

Retirement

2009-02-02T06:52:00.001-08:00

I think I hinted at this with my last blog post, but now I'm just going to come right out and say it - I'm not cut out to be a writer.

I just don't have the discipline to churn out spec after spec in hopes of getting a sale and a foot in the door. I envy those of you who do.

Perhaps if there was more of a guarantee that I'd 'make it' if i continued to write, I would - but there isn't. I guess I'm not nearly as passionate about screenwriting as I thought I would be a year ago. I'm just not that guy after all.

I'll continue to write in my spare time, but I think, for now, this pipe dream is over and I'm going to go back into my former career. Some interesting opportunities have popped up since the new year, and I'm going to pursue them.

Keep on keeping on, you bastards. I'll see you around.

No More Anal

2009-01-21T00:57:00.001-08:00

Blogs suck.

I feel compelled to update this stupid thing even when I don't have anything going on.

I used to tell stories to plug in the gaps, but let's face it, how many times can one man talk about anal sex before it just becomes weird? I'm betting we crossed that line months ago, anyway.

So instead, I'm telling you guys if I'm eating healthy and whether or not I'm writing anything - I couldn't be more fucking boring if I tried. What comes next? Updates on whether or not I'm eating enough fiber? A live 24/7 colon cam?

I envy guys like Ken Levine who can update their blog every single damn day and have something interesting to say in most of them. I guess that's why he's a working writer and I'm not. I just don't have that kind of fortitude.

Anyway, I think the point is I'm not sure if I'm cut out to be a writer.

Maybe it's time to go back to marketing.

Bored. Bored. Bored.

2009-01-16T19:46:00.000-08:00

I'm bored off my balls, people.

Eating healthy and living the good life is gonna kill me, no doubt about it.

I miss the old me. The old me who didn't pass up opportunities to go out and have a good time.

Twice this week I've snubbed really nice fellow aspiring screenwriters when they asked me to hang out. Sure, I had stuff going on - I've been dealing with a sick Dad (who just got hit by car) for months now - but the old me would have made time.

What's the point of going out if you're not going to end up shit-faced with a strange pair of titties in your face? Hell, what's the point of life without those things?

The flip side to the boredom is should I ever fall back into my old lifestyle, that too would be the death of me. And there's your catch-22 for the day - die of boredom or die of reckless abandon.

How do most people live in the middle? What is the middle?

There are days, much like this one, where I would give it all up for one last year of debauchery.

One last year of copious drugs, innumerable women, and non-stop self-indulgence.

But on most days I'm content with where I'm at.

Today just isn't one of them.

Cerebral Posturing

2009-01-13T02:39:00.000-08:00

I wanted to write an incredibly long rant here today about how much I hate people, and how I'd like to take a flamethrower to the entire human race sometimes - but I just couldn't do it.

Every time I'd start to write about how we're such annoying creatures who do nothing but posture day in and day out, a little voice in the back of my head would ask, "What about you? Are you including yourself in that list?"

And I'd try to answer. Yes, fucko. I'm including me.

But he wouldn't let me. A hostage to my own cerebrum.

It's like being trapped in a prison full of toddlers whose first words are of the ten dollar variety, and they like to use them. A lot.

So, instead of telling you how much joy it'd bring me to watch you get punched in the face seventeen times in a row, I have to sit here and listen to your insufferable discourse about how the Wu Tang Clan was ahead of its time and how incredible it would be for you to see David Lynch tackle the subject of snow.

But what can I do. For better or worse, I'm one of you.

Just another cog desperately trying to find greater meaning in what will almost inevitably be a meager existence.

Managing Expectations

2009-01-12T03:08:00.000-08:00

See this? I'm updating almost regularly again.

Every time I watch a new movie, I want to write something new and different.

I saw RockNRolla the other night, and the only thing I could think of for the next twenty four hours was how much I wanted to write like Guy Ritchie.

When I saw Transformers for the first time, plot holes and movie snobs aside, I wanted to write something as epic as it for like a week.

I'm finding more and more than I need to manage my own expectations when it comes to writing. I'm so stuck on writing something great, that I'm not writing anything at all.

That's not entirely true - I have been writing for an hour each day - but they're all bits and pieces of ideas and scenes, and not so much part of anything whole yet.

I think a lot of people were expecting me to write something better than I did in my freshman debut, and now that I'm writing solo for the first time, I'd really hate to disappoint again.

But then what's the alternative? Not write at all and be stuck in this constant loop of "I can't find my story."

Well, fuck that. No. Motherfuck that.

I'm just going to work on one of the mediocre ideas I have - and if inspiration should strike, then I'll put the trite aside and work on something of substance - but until it does, I'm going to crank out the best piece of shit I possibly can.

Regular Updates. For Realz.

2009-01-08T02:28:00.000-08:00

See this? I'm updating regularly again.

Enjoy it while it lasts.

Still writing an hour a day and eating healthy. I think the stars have aligned in 2009 - for this first week, at least. Don't expect this streak continue for much longer, I can already feel boredom creeping up on me.

I feel like I broke the opening of a script I've been trying to work on, and it feels really good right now.

There are still several sticking points I need to work on until I feel like it works well enough in my head to crank it out, but at least I now have the beginning in place.

At the end of the day, though, the idea I'm developing is still a comedy - and one of the issues I've been struggling with is whether or not I'm cut out for comedy.

I'm not sure if I have what it takes to be funny for 90 pages. I barely think I'm funny as it is - so trying to get someone else to believe it for an entire script might be a stretch.

But if not comedy, then what? I'm terrible when it comes to dealing with reality - so a drama is out. What does that leave me with if not comedy or drama? Action?

I wonder if those films on Skinemax need writers. I could write the fuck out of pseudo porn.

Three-peat!

2009-01-04T02:21:00.000-08:00

Still trying to find my story, but I'm continuing to write for at least an hour a day and eat healthy.

That's three days in a row, gotta be some sort of world record for me.

And I know, I know - I'm totally being a fag when it comes to this whole "I need to find my story" thing. Believe me, I know. It pains me to be such a slobbery vag like this.

There's a little voice on one shoulder, "Just fucking write! Sit down and write, Jesus!"

And I am. I am writing.

Everything I'm churning out is crap in my opinion, but I'm writing. And I think I'll eventually stop dropping pablum nuggets and get to something real, or I'll just throw in the towel.

Maybe I need to go out and have a new adventure, something that'll get the juices flowing - literally and metaphorically.

Back to Back

2009-01-02T23:38:00.000-08:00

That's right, people. Two days in a row of eating healthy and writing for at least one hour.

I feel like Hercu-fucking-les.

Now that we're done with the sunshine and rainbows, let's get to ugly truth.

I have no story to tell.

I think this has been my biggest hurdle all along. While there are ideas floating around in my head that occasionally (and temporarily) tickle my fancy, there's no story I want to tell.

I read a couple of the 2008 Blacklist scripts over the past few days, and no matter how outrageous the premise, it always felt like these people wanted to tell these stories.

Does that make sense?

I want to -want to- tell a story. I don't want to just write. I have a blog for that.

I want to tell a story that's going to inspire you.

And there's the rub. I have no story that I want to tell.

I'm trying to find my story, but in the meantime, I'm sticking to my promise - I'm writing every day. I have stuff on paper, but it's crap. I hate it.

But I'm writing. That's more than I could say last week.

Resolutions, Bright and Early

2009-01-01T09:46:00.000-08:00

Who knew this would be so difficult? This is now my ~~second~~ third page one rewrite on this post.

Maybe it's because I'm not used to trying to form coherent thoughts this early.

I've never been one to get into the whole New Year's Resolution thing, but I'm nothing if not conformist - so here I am, resolutions in hand.

Only two of them:

1 - Write for an hour a day. I've talked about how much I hate to write ad nauseum, so I'm not going to get into this one too much. Suffice it to say that I'm going to try to write for an hour a day - every day. We both know there's no chance in hell I'll actually be able to do this for any length of time, but sometimes it's fun to pretend.

2 - Stop trying to get into shape and actually fucking do it.

There's a lot in my life I don't talk about in this blog - despite it not seeming that way. One of those things is this stupid, lifelong struggle to get into shape. It's such a cliche and something I should have been able to do years ago, but I underachieve like a mother fucker.

I even had surgery, thinking it'd just take care of the problem for me. But life is never that easy, is it?

Fucking life. Full of adversity and contradictions.

I've set up a calender, directly across from my desk - each day has been divided into two halves. There's two highlighters hanging next to the calender. One pink. One yellow. I'm not ashamed of using gay markers.

A day gets filled in with yellow if I actually write for an hour, and with pink if I manage not to stuff my face with that last Cheeto.

So let's do this, people. It's a new year.

Let's get all fucking excited and act like we're going to make huge, sweeping changes in our lives so that we feel like shit in six months when we realize we can't change who we are.

Who's with me?

2009

2008-12-22T02:06:00.000-08:00

I've slacked. Oh, how I've slacked.

I'm good at slacking. It's what I do. It's what I've always done.

When I worked for the man, I could crank out a week's worth of productivity in about six hours. Tops. Then I'd spend the rest of the day listening to everyone tell me how awesome I was, and proceed to spend the rest of the week doing absolutely nothing.

In fact, if attendance wasn't a prerequisite to receiving a paycheck, I would have skipped going into the office entirely.

What I'm trying to say is - I can slack like a mother fucker.

Now this may come as a shock to you, but that's not the greatest skill to have when you're trying to do things at your leisure - like, say, update a blog or write a script. Because you wake up one day, and everything has fast forwarded a year, and all you have to show for it is your cock in your hand.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of my cock - he's an ambitious little fucker. But he can't pay my bills. He can't update this blog. And he sure as shit can't write a script for me.

So now I'm staring into the abyss that is 2009. And I'll be honest with you, it looks scary.

Will I fail again? Will I even try? Will I write an eerily similar blog entry to this next December?

The answer to all of those questions is: Probably.

And that's my promise for 2009. I will probably try again. I will probably fail again. And I will probably be right back here writing this exact same thing a year from now.

Cheers.

Rock and Motherfucking Roll

2008-10-22T22:40:00.000-07:00

In case you haven't heard the big news, Chinese Democracy is finally scheduled to drop, November 25th. Of this year. About fucking time, Axl. About fucking time.

But even with the second coming of Mr. Rose, can we save rock n' roll? Is it even salvageable?

It used to be, you couldn't turn on the news without hearing about Tommy Lee going back to rehab or Axl breaking someone's nose at a concert. Those guys and rock n' roll was the reason most of us turned out the way we did. It was inspiring.

And as ugly as Vince Neil was, you wanted to be his cock, even if just for a day - so you could wake up in the morning, do a line of coke and a shot of whiskey, then wrangle up the groupies and fuck 'til you passed out.

And now? Now Nikki Sixx is writing his memoirs of drug addiction, and Duff McKagan is just a down home dad trying to make ends meet. Now Britney Spears and Amy Whinehouse are the badasses. Now Jonas Brothers are the ones making news.

Amy fucking Whinehouse and the Jonas fucking brothers.

I weep for the music of today. It sucks.

And you suck for not raising your children better, because they're the ones buying this crap.

Chinese Democracy is a great start, and hopefully a step in the right direction - but jesus, people - stop listening to Panic at the Disco and go out and actually buy Chinese Democracy. Drink. Fuck. Break stuff. And play some Paradise City before it's too late.

Motherfuck the Jonas Brothers.

Flying Solo. Maybe.

2008-10-04T21:48:00.001-07:00

I sure hope nobody still reads this blog.

How sad would that be? Checking back day after day long after I've totally abandoned you like a cheap whore. Then again, if that were the case, I just blew your mind.

I'm glad I could do that for you.

Anyway, it's good to know this thing is still here.

I've been kicking around the idea of writing again - don't think I really gave it the ol' college try the first time around.

So who knows.

ʇɹoɥs ɐ ƃuıʞɐɯ

2008-04-01T18:22:00.000-07:00

˙ɐʎ ɹoɟ ,uıɯoɔ ı puɐ ןǝqɐuuɐ ɟo punos ǝɥʇ s,ʇɐɥʇ

¿punos ʇɐɥʇ ɹɐǝɥ noʎ 'ʇınɔɹıɔ ןɐʌıʇsǝɟ

˙ƃuoן sǝʇnuıɯ 02 oʇ 8 ƃuıɥʇǝɯos oʇuı ʇı ǝsuǝpuoɔ puɐ ʎɹʇ puɐ sɐǝpı ǝɹnʇɐǝɟ ɹno ɟo ǝuo ǝsn oʇ ƃuıoƃ ǝɹ,ǝʍ ʞuıɥʇ ı

˙ʇɹoɥs ɐ op oʇ ƃuıʇuɐʍ ʎq sʇʇnq ɹno ɥʇoq ɹǝpun ƃuıoƃ ǝɹıɟ ǝɥʇ uǝʇʇoƃ sɐɥ ןǝqɐuuɐ ʇnq 'ɥɔnɯ uǝʇʇıɹʍ ʇ,uǝʌɐɥ ןןıʇs ı

˙ǝʇɐpdn ʞɔınb ɐ ǝʞɐɯ p,ı ʇɥƃnoɥʇ ı os 'ǝuo ʇsɐן ʎɯ ǝq oʇ ʍoןǝq ʇsod ƃuıʞɔnɟ ƃuıssǝɹdǝp ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ sı pǝʇuɐʍ ı ƃuıɥʇ ʇsɐן ǝɥʇ puɐ 'ƃoןq ɐ pǝʇsod ı ǝɔuıs ǝɯıʇ ƃuoן ɐ uǝǝq s,ʇı ʍouʞ ı

A Letter to Natalie

2008-02-14T01:14:00.001-08:00

I still don't have much to say here on my blog, but I thought I would share the latest letter I sent my ex about our son.

---

Natalie,

I've all but given up hope that I'll hear from you, but I had to try again - for my father's sake.

He turns 69 on Saturday, and he's saying that he feels like it's almost his time to go. I don't want to lose my father without him knowing his only grandchild.

You wouldn't deny your mother that, would you? He doesn't have several children each of whom with grandchildren - he has me. One son, with one grandson.

Please. I don't want to cause trouble, I don't want us to fight - I don't want to take anything away from you or fight you on anything.

I just want my father to meet his grandson before it's too late.

I'm begging you to please just put our past behind us. I'm sure we've both grown a lot as people at this point.

Please.

Daniel

---

I had to try.

Anonymous Douchebaggery and Me!

2008-01-29T09:11:00.000-08:00

I love the smell of pussy in the morning.

And not just the kind with freshly shaven hair, either.

The kind with pent up, latent homosexual rage and a hard on for moi.

That's quite alright, though. It gives them some purpose in life - and who am I to deny them that? Hate on, little fella. Hate on.

My friendly neighborhood cockbag who's been leaving the comments does have a point, however.

I haven't been accomplishing very much lately.

In fact, I haven't written a word in months.

The fact that Annabel still puts up with me is a testament to her patience, because I can't even bring myself to put a single word down on paper. Even the thought of blogging makes me cringe.

They say writer's write. And if that's the case, maybe I'm not a writer after all.

I've made a promise to finish the current script we're working on. And whatever it takes, I'll finish it.

But beyond that? I don't know.

Eyes Wide Shut

2008-01-23T10:47:00.000-08:00

I kept wondering what would be an appropriate comeback post after such a long hiatus, and I think I've finally figured out.

Ejaculation.

See, about a year or so ago, something really strange started happening to my body. Something that had never happened before, and something that defied explanation.

Whenever my champagne cork pops, my eyes squeeze shut. You know how you do when you taste something sour or when your eye stings? Yeah. Like that.

During climax.

This isn't such a big deal when you're with a steady girlfriend, because let's face it, she already knows I'm crazy and do weird shit - so she hasn't even asked what's going on.

But I started wondering what would happen when I finally break up with Ruth and start dating someone new?

That's gonna be a really awkward sexing.

Is she going to wonder if I hated it? Is she going to think something got in my eye?

I'm going to scar the poor girl into thinking she's got a sour pussy.

It wouldn't be the first time.

No More Movies

2007-11-11T09:14:00.000-08:00

I hadn't planned on writing about the strike.

To somehow discuss the impact it's having on my plans to break into the industry, when professional writers are out there making real sacrifices to their livelihood would have been self-absorbed, in my opinion.

And while I usually have no qualms with putting myself above others, I genuinely respect a lot of these guys.

I did do some thinking, however - about how I could make a difference.

That's when I decided to write this blog.

While I can't refuse to write another word until the strike is over, I can refuse to buy another DVD. I can refuse to go to a movie theater.

I can withhold the one bit of leverage I have in this situation - my wallet.

So from this day forward, until the strike ends - no more movies.

No more box sets of television shows, no Christmas DVD purchases, and no date nights that include movies.

As our friends out there walk the picket line, and refuse pay for God knows how long this strike might last, I think this is the least we could do for them.

I did struggle with this decision, as a lot of people I respect have movies coming out in short order.

Derek Haas' wonderful 3:10 to Yuma was recently released, and his next smash Wanted is set to premier in March of 2008.

Jeff Lowell's directorial debut Over Her Dead Body premiers in February of 2008.

Tim Talbott's The Stanford Prison Experiment comes out next year as well.

Along with many others.

So I struggled with whether I was making the right decision here, because I would love nothing more than to support these men and women and their movies.

But at the end of the day, I decided that they do have my support.

And while I'll buy their DVDs once this strike is over - for now, until the moguls start listening - my pledge is simple:

No More Movies.

Hollywood Bound Opening

2007-11-10T12:40:00.000-08:00

Just a quick note to let you guys know we have an opening in our online screenwriting group.

I already have a couple people in mind that would be a good fit with the group, but wanted to mention it in case some of you wanted to apply to be in the running.

Just drop me an email over the next couple days with a writing sample if you do.

Tomorrow: The Ex Files, Episode 2

The Ex Files - Volume 1

2007-11-03T23:28:00.000-07:00

I've already told you a little about this certain ex-girlfriend in the past, but as with any story worth telling, there was a lot I just couldn't squeeze in the first time around.

Now if you know me at all, you know I hate night clubs. Hate them. They're like the Whole Foods of pussy - crowded and overpriced.

I'm more of a Costco kind of guy. I buy in bulk.

Anyway, my ex is out here visiting, when she gets the bright idea that I should take her to one of those posh Hollywood night clubs. Places with names like Libido and Panther Club.

Normally, I would have said no - but at the time, I was under the spell of New Tail Phenomenon - a perplexing loss of rational thought that takes place in men during the first three months of a relationship.

So we get to the club and I can already tell I'm going to hate it. There's a line a mile long outside, even though they're nowhere near capacity. And I ain't waiting in no line.

I grab her by the hand and drag her to the front of the line and slip the bouncer a twenty spot. He looks at it, looks at his clipboard - and still makes us stand there for about five minutes before finally letting us in.

At least we didn't have to wait in line.

Now in case you didn't know - the secret to any outdoor drinking is to tip the bartender really well for your first few drinks. Don't start a tab, just pay for the first few drinks with cash or charge them and pull out immediately. Tip at least 50%.

The rest of the night we drank for free.

In fact, our new best friend bartender gave us so much free alcohol, that by the time we left - neither one of us could see straight.

But eager to get to our hotel room and will my dick into functioning, I decided to throw caution to the wind and drive. Unfortunately, this is what happens when you combine New Tail Phenomenon with Drunk Man Syndrome. Kids, don't try this at home.

So I wave to the cop guiding traffic just outside the club, and off we go down Santa Monica Blvd.

Now a funny thing would happen to my ex when she drank - she'd either get really horny, or she'd get really crazy. Sometimes both at the same time - and that, my friends, was the golden ticket to the chocolate factory.

Much to my disappointment, she picked crazy over horny on the drive home.

While stopped at a red light, she decided she hated me and jumped out of the car and barged off. If not for the likelihood of some great sex that night, I would have let her keep going.

After some A-Team-like maneuvers through traffic, I caught up to her on a side street a block away. Where we fought. Loud.

If it weren't for a concerned citizen who redirected our rage by opening her window to yell at us, we would have never forgotten how much we hated each other and made it to the hotel room.

It was finally time for the sexing to begin.

We did things that even R. Kelly wouldn't do. Filthy things.

No foreplay, no beating around the bush. Just dirty, nasty sex.

We should have gone to night clubs more often.

Alive and Well

2007-11-01T11:08:00.000-07:00

Just a quick note to let you all know I'm home from surgery and all is well.

We'll be returning to your regularly update schedule shortly.

Hope you enjoyed the hiatus, because it's back to fucking and punching now.

Edited to Include:

Post-Op Boredom... I think I was put on this earth to find bad YouTube videos and put them to better music. See below. I rule.

Off To Surgery

2007-10-22T05:00:00.001-07:00

See you folks in a week.

Hope I don't die. :)

When it Rains

2007-10-16T17:22:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of updates, but I've been incredibly busy the last couple weeks.

I don't really want to get into it all right now, but it hasn't been fun.

Anyway, I have surgery scheduled next week, so that's been on my mind as well (not to mention I obviously will not be blogging from the hospital, so expect another week-long radio silence). Expect the blogging to return to normal when I return from the hospital from surgery.

I've never broken a bone let alone had surgery before, so this is new ground for me.

I keep having dreams that a hot latina nurse is giving me head when I wake up from anesthesia.

That would be nice.

Trannys and Fornication

2007-10-01T01:30:00.000-07:00

My month of work is finally coming to a close, and I'm once again free to regale you with tales of debauchery and mayhem.

But that's later.

Today I want to talk about television.

First, let's get the chicks with dicks out of the way.

Hot Shots and Dirty Sexy Money, both which premiered this week, featured a transsexual cast member.

Now I'm not really interested in discussing the merits of these shows, but I am fascinated by their decision to finally recognize vaginoplasty in the credits.

Did someone send out a memo that the new taboo, edgy thing to have on network television was a shemale?

Are Neo-Vaginas the new black?

More importantly, were these the best looking shemales they could find? Because I can assure you, a quick drive down Santa Monica Blvd (or Western, if you're on a budget) at night would yield you better results.

I hate to be a tranny snob here, but get your transgendered act together, network television - give me some eye candy if you're gonna include a hulking cock under that dress.

Now onto my favorite new show on television - Californication.

When I originally watched Californication, I couldn't wait to blog about it. It was as if Showtime had reached into my psyche, plucked out my innermost thoughts and handed them to David Duchovny with a pair of brads.

The show is, without a doubt, brilliantly written. The casting is phenomenal, and the acting is superb.

Every week I'm humbled by how well-written it is.

That said, I feel the need to point out that I feel a little bait & switched by it.

The first few episodes gave promise of a show that not only had assloads of gratuitous sex, but interweaved above said fornication with brilliant writing.

Sadly, this was not the case.

After only the second episode, the fornication in Californication dropped drastically. Plummeted, in fact.

And while the show is still amazing, and something everyone should watch - if for nothing else than its writing - I still can't help but feel a little robbed by this vaginal vanishing act.

Like Barry Bonds, Californication is going to have a little asterisk next to its name for eternity unless the boobs return.

Bring back the boobs, Showtime.

Even if they come with a cock.

Screenwriting Group

2007-09-25T01:44:00.000-07:00

The last time we talked, I mentioned setting up an invite-only online screenwriting group.

I'm happy to report that things have gone off without a hitch.

All but one person accepted the invitation to join the group - and we just had our first meeting this past Sunday.

We're starting as a small group, only ten people - so that we have a solid foundation to build upon. There were a few others I wanted to invite, and several people emailed me to join - but I think starting small is the way to go for something like this. Any bigger and we'd be risking a chaotic start.

The group is really, really solid - and everyone involved is quite talented and a go-getter.

We'll be reviewing scripts every other week, and on alternate weeks I'm going to be asking special guests to join us (readers, pros, and so on), so we'll see how that goes.

I really think it's going to be a fun and fruitful experience for everyone involved.

Anyway, that's about it - tonight was the season premier of Heroes, How I Met Your Mother, Two and a Half Men, not to mention episodes of Californication and Weeds - so I have a lot of Tivo to watch.

Big News

2007-09-14T17:51:00.001-07:00

While I'm still busy with the work, I thought I'd take a moment to talk about something that's been brewing.

I'm putting together an online screenwriting group.

Annabel and I are working on the domain, website, forums, and so on as we speak - and they should be done in a few weeks.

As for the group itself, it's going to be invite-only. I'm beginning to send out emails to the people we have in mind this week, and we only have a limited amount of space and most slots filled out.

For the time-being, it's people we already know (whether through various blogs, forums, or in person) and all the slots have been allocated.

But in the off-chance you think I may have forgotten you, or would like to throw your name in the hat for future consideration - drop me a line and let me know.

That's about it for now - I'll have more info on the group, the website, and all that at a later date.

For now, I need to get back to slaving over some ad buys.

Still Alive

2007-09-13T01:24:00.001-07:00

Just a quick note that I'm still alive.

Been working lots with the client I took on for the month - they're riding me. Hard.

Haven't written, sadly - but enjoying the time off from thinking about writing.

I do have some stuff to talk about - so stay tuned this week as we explore the awesome that is David Duchovny in the new series Californication.

Ladybugs & Vomit

2007-09-05T03:34:00.000-07:00

It's getting fucking depressing around here.

At first, I was bummed about turning 30 (which you've heard me bitch enough about by now). Then, I was bummed because both my parents and my girlfriend had planned vacations over the long weekend.

That's right. The woman whose vagina I came out of, and the woman whose vagina I go into - BOTH decided to be out of town. On my fucking birthday.

Needless to say, I was one heroin addiction from going all Owen Wilson on myself.

But a funny thing happened as I posted my depressing six month recap...

At four in the morning, on a day of what can only be described as smoldering weather here in Los Angeles - in my smoke-filled office - as I clicked "Publish Post" to put up my recap... a ladybug started walking across the top of my monitor.

I shit you not.

Right on top of my monitor, when I was feeling my worst - a little bit of happiness walked across my screen.

Now I'm not really one to believe in signs or superstitions. I never wore the same underwear because they were my lucky pair, and I never not washed my jock strap just because we won a football game while I had it on.

Still, this was a nice surprise. I couldn't help but be a little touched.

So, I decided to suck it up and go out with some friends and celebrate my birthday. After all, it would be downright morose of me to still be depressed after that touching little moment with an insect.

If nothing else, I could drink until I puked all over myself.

And out we went. To the wonderful world of Oz.

And by Oz, I mean a strip club.

Not a nice strip club, either. The kind of strip club where you wouldn't be surprised if a roach climbed out of the strippers hooch and did a pole dance as part of her act. The kind of dirty, stinky, seedy strip club that you actually have to drive out of your way to find.

It was like being home again.

Up to my old shenanigans, I felt like a kid again. A kid with a huge boner.

The night wouldn't have been complete, though - unless right in the middle of a lap dance, as a dirty, dirty naked woman is grinding all over my crotch - my girlfriend calls to tell me that she cut her trip short to surprise me. The only way this call could have come at a more inopportune time was if I were balls deep in this dirty, dirty woman.

With one hand cupping a slice of silicon heaven, I answered the phone anyway to let her know where we'd be in half an hour.

"You don't want me to just meet you at the strip club?"

What the fuck? Did she have a nanny cam installed in this chick's nipple? I inspected the nipple further.

"Where else would they be playing Motley Crue, dickhead?"

She had a point.

You haven't lived until you've had your girlfriend walk into one of the dirtiest, nastiest strip clubs in town - take one look at the place - and ask for a paper towel to put on the seat before she sits down on it.

"I am not fucking you tonight if you get a lap dance from her," was heard several times throughout the evening.

Overall, it was a really great time. We drank until the wee hours of the morning, I remembered what it was like to not be such a whiny bitch, and I managed to squeeze in a few lap dances from women the girlfriend wasn't totally repulsed by.

And I did end up puking, but it wasn't all over myself.

It's all about the small victories.

Six Month Recap

2007-09-03T04:04:00.000-07:00

Here we are, six months into my little plan. That means time for another recap.

I've got to be honest with you - these last three months have gone by a lot quicker than the first three did, and I was a lot less productive with my time.

Here is the recap.

Not A Prodigy

If you remember, at the tail end of my first three months, Annabel and I had finished our first spec and were getting feedback from various friends. I honestly thought we would hit it out of the park on our first try.

Turns out, that didn't happen. I wasn't a prodigy after all.

The good news was that it wasn't a complete failure. I made some great contacts, and learned a lot during the process. Lessons we would hopefully incorporate into the next script.

Wrote a Short

I was having a bit of writer's block and thought that perhaps a small exercise would help get me back into the groove of writing.

It did.

I set up a short exercise on the Artful Writer Forums, and my entry (Fly Ball) received quite a bit of praise. While very flattering, more than anything, the feedback served more to remind me that maybe I can write after all.

The Query Letter Game

Before I came to the realization that I wasn't, in fact, a prodigy - I sent out over 200 query letters to various agents and managers to get them to read our first spec.

I got a whopping two read requests. Neither of whom I ever heard back from.

In retrospect, this was a good thing. The script wasn't ready, and we were better off not getting the reads. Still, the indifference was shocking. I was beginning to yearn for some sort acknowledgment that I existed - even if it was rejection.

My First Contest

Just before I dove head-first into query letters, I sent off our script to the Austin Film Festival. I may have missed the Nicholl deadline, but fame and glory would be mine in Texas.

We received our rejection letter from Austin just this past Friday. We didn't even make the second round.

I never liked Texas anyway.

The New Spec

This one would be much better than our first attempt. Guaranteed.

We had a killer idea for our second spec, but were having trouble finding the story. It was like having a word on the tip of your tongue, but not being able to say it.

After several weeks of brainstorming, we finally hit the nail on the head. We had our story.

And it was great. We started outlining like madmen, and loved every second of it.

I'm an Undisciplined Primadonna

Annabel turned in her first draft to me several weeks ago, but I've been dragging my feet getting my part of the work done.

It's a really great concept and deserves more of my attention, but between the realization that I wasn't God's gift to screenwriting and my looming 30th birthday, I couldn't focus on the task at hand.

So more than anything, the last three months have taught me that I can't always just sit around and wait for inspiration - and that even when I can't seem to focus or am uninspired, I just need to sit down in my chair and force myself to write.

Turning 30

Today, September 3rd, is my 30th birthday. I'm officially old.

It's been a tough three months with this birthday looming over my head. Beyond just being an immature fuck who never saw himself turning 30, there's been a lot of internal pressures associated with this birthday.

I never thought I'd be taking a year off to pursue a new career at this age. I thought I'd already have one that I loved.

I never thought I'd be breaking up with yet another girlfriend at this age. I thought I'd be married with children.

No house. No white picket fence. No American Dream.

The reality of all this has sat pretty heavily with me.

I'm dealing with it.

Looking Forward

As you can see, the last three months haven't been as productive as the first three were.

Such is life. I can only learn from my mistakes and work harder from here on forward.

But on Friday I got a call from a former advertising client of mine, asking for my help with a new product launch they have coming up. It would only be for one month.

Taking into consideration how out of sorts I've been and the extra financial cushion this would provide me, I've decided to take a month off from writing and agree to help them with their launch. Who knows, doing a quick bit of advertising work might help me remember why I decided to pursue this career change in the first place.

I'll still be blogging, and it's only a month. So no big deal in the grand scheme of things.

More than anything, I hope I clear my head.

Dream Interpretation

2007-09-01T03:18:00.000-07:00

Jesus. What a fucked up dream I just woke up from.

I'm at a Creative Screenwriting Q&A after the screening of the current script I'm working on. Not only was it optioned and produced, but the movie itself - the finished product - was met with raving success too.

A dream come true.

So, there sit Annabel and I, answering questions after the audience has just finished watching the movie. It's going really well.

And in the middle of the Q&A session, just as I have the crowd roaring with applause and laughter...

I cough up blood and die.

Right there on stage. No warning or nothing.

But here's the best part.

Seconds before I die, as I'm lying on the floor after having just coughed up blood - I utter the words, "I knew this would happen."

Boom. Dead.

And of course, that's when I wake up.

Now I know most of you reading this are way smarter than I am, so maybe you have some opinions on what the hell that means.

And while you come up with theories on that dream, stay tuned this weekend as I have my six month recap to do, and a small announcement to make.

The Stages of Grief

2007-08-30T14:59:00.000-07:00

This has got to be one of the funniest bits from Robot Chicken that I've ever seen.

Heartbreak

2007-08-28T01:32:00.000-07:00

Falling in love is a pretty spectacular thing.

The butterflies in your stomach when she calls. The way she smiles at your bad jokes. The wink she gives for your good ones. How her hair falls just so over her shoulder.

Tomes have been written about the subject.

But a very close second to falling in love is a broken heart.

To grieve over lost love is so uniquely human, that it can't help but be romantic.

To love is one thing - everyone can do that. Even a moron can fall in love. But to mourn lost love - to embrace the emptiness that comes with unrequited love - that, I think, is what separates some of us from the rest.

I remember one night in particular. And one particular girl.

We called ourselves Red Team, while my roommate and his girlfriend were Blue Team. The four of us had some great adventures together and were inseparable. For months on end, it seemed like Red Team and Blue Team were unstoppable.

Until, that is, Red Team decided to sleep with someone else.

"I think I want to stay here," she said, as I tried to leave the party.

And stay she did.

The next day, after I'd sobered up, I was in agony. I felt devastated. Annihilated. I sat at the pool all day, just staring off into the distance - smoking cigarettes. Writing.

It was beautiful.

You can't get that sort of inspiration on your own.

An amputated soul can move mountains.

So now, as an inevitable breakup with my on-again off-again girlfriend of two years grows closer and closer, I can't help but be a little disappointed that there's no real chance of any sort of heartbreak once it's finally over. Which is a shame.

Because sometimes I think I don't miss falling in love so much as I miss having a broken heart.

Coming to Terms

2007-08-22T22:44:00.000-07:00

I'm still struggling with finishing the first draft of our next spec.

Annabel turned in her first draft to me like two weeks ago, but I haven't been able to finish my rewrites quite yet. Thankfully, being mother to what must be several hundred children, has given her the patience of a saint. Because she definitely puts up with a lot of shit from me.

I miss the old days where I would do my work, come home, and all I'd need was some booze, tits, and maybe some hot wings - and I'd be happier than a pig in shit. I even started to write with this mindset - and it was easy. At first.

Now days, you put in me in front of Final Draft, and I turn into an artsy fartsy type - all indecisive and emotional.

I think a lot of it has to do with coming to terms with failure.

I guess part of me wanted to hit it out of the park with our first spec. I would go as far as to say I kind of expected to. Unrealistic? Sure - but when aren't I unreasonable? It's part of my charm.

So a lot of what I've been going through with this spec is coming to terms with the fact that I didn't hit it out of the park on my first go-around. And even though I feel our current concept is much stronger and much more marketable, I might very well fail this time too.

I hope not, but the probability is that I will.

And a lot of the time I've been taking to finish this first draft has had to do with building up my ability to cope with that probable failure.

See what I mean about being emotional when I try to write? Any minute now a giant beer can is going to fall out of the sky and crush me to death.

Slowly but surely I'm getting over this artsy fartsy shit, and I'm jumping back into writing with cock in hand. And pretty soon the first draft of the new spec will be done - and a whole new batch of feedback will be given.

And the process will repeat itself.

God, writing sucks.

My First (Not So) Gay Experience

2007-08-18T12:40:00.000-07:00

Growing up in a city like Los Angeles, one usually becomes acclimated to different cultures and lifestyles at an early age. Your friends and neighbors tend to be people from all walks of life.

I think that's why I find myself comfortable and at home regardless of my surroundings. I joke with and tease anyone as if I were a part of their culture, and they of mine. Most people seem to respect that sort of candor.

Life is only socially awkward if you allow it to be.

I remember the first time I had to come to terms with a weird situation.

I had two really good friends growing up - they were brothers. The older one, sixteen, happened to be gay. The younger one, thirteen, while a lot more meek and girly, was not.

Their parents were the owners of a chain of restaurants, while mine were not - so, naturally, we hung out at their posh estate in the Hollywood Hills a lot more than my tiny little apartment in Hollywood.

We had some great times there. Adventuring through the brush and hunting lizards like we were Crocodile fucking Dundee. Swimming in their football field sized pool. Playing every video game ever made. It was like hanging out at Disneyland.

One day in particular stands out for me.

I should have known something was going to happen because we kicked off the day by shooting the gardener. No, you didn't read that wrong.

The poor guy was minding his own business, plucking the weeds and trimming the bushes on the hill across the street. Unfortunately for him, we were bored teenagers with a fully pumped and loaded air rifle. And he bent over a lot.

Yes. We shot him in the ass.

After we got yelled at by our parents, we found ourselves bored again - and this time with no air rifle.

We had a good two hours to kill until we were scheduled to attend a house party down the street, so we decided to try on some clothes and see what we looked best in.

I had just come out in my spiffy new party clothes when the older brother exclaimed, "Someone looks good!" If only he'd stopped there...

"The girls are gonna be like, Ooooh Dan," he shouted.

And that's when he went to grab my balls.

My ninja-like reflexes kicked in - I zigged to the left, and zagged to the back - but I was too slow for his superior homosexual agility.

He managed to firmly grasp a hold of a single testicle. It was the first time anyone, let alone a man, had touched one of my jubilees.

I think he realized what was happening, because he quickly let go of it and apologized. Either that, or he saw the terror in my eyes as his jaws of life clenched onto my little kiwi.

I didn't know what to do.

Part of me wanted to panic. Was he hitting on me? Did this mean I was gay? Was my Dad going to disown me now? All these things rushed through my head as we stood around in awkward silence for a good three seconds.

Until I said the two magic words, "You fag." And we all broke out into laughter.

Needless to say, the moment passed just as quickly as it came, and what could have been a weird situation ended up being a funny story we told for months afterwards.

While it wasn't a life-changing moment, I think it was one of the many good lessons I learned at that young age. No, I wasn't gay. Yes, he still was. No, he wasn't hitting on me.

Sometimes a grabbing of the balls is just a grabbing of the balls.

Head versus Heart

2007-08-15T05:00:00.000-07:00

The toughest obstacle when it comes to writing, for me, is the battle between my head and my heart.

In most areas of life, I follow my heart. It's the one true barometer I have. You usually can't go wrong following your heart - It tells you when to persist, even if the odds are stacked against you. It tells you when to admit defeat, even if you want to cling on to hope. Karate here.

Writing, on the other hand, seems to be counter-intuitive from the rest of my life. It seems to call upon my head for a lot of the decisions my heart should be making. Your head is a dangerous place to be stuck inside of - It makes you overthink things, long after they've lost their flavor. It causes you second-guess yourself, even when you have no reason to. Karate not here.

I should have been done with the first draft of my new comedy this past Sunday, but I've been stuck inside my head for longer than I care to admit.

What if I fail? What if I can't do this?

My heart tells me I'm doing the right thing, and this is a great script.

My head tells me I'm crazy, and taking a year off from my career is suicide.

I don't like failing. I've never failed at anything I've put my ~~mind~~ heart to. I've screwed up a lot of things after I've after succeeded at them, but I've never failed.

So my heart and my brain continue to duke this out, while I'm caught in the middle - paralyzed from writing. I'm not completely stalled, but slow enough to where I need to kick this puppy into gear before it's too late.

My heart says this script is the one.

If only I can stop listening to my head.

The Great Bambino

2007-08-10T02:49:00.000-07:00

The Sultan of Swat.

The King of Crash.
The Colossus of Clout.
The Great Bambino.

Also known as Babe Ruth - the man who called out his home run to center field.

"What do you think of the nerve of that big monkey. Imagine the guy calling his shot and getting away with it." - Lou Gehrig

No, this blog isn't really about Babe Ruth - but there's a reason I bring him up.

We're almost done with the first draft of our latest feature spec, and I'm feeling pretty damn good about it. Really good. I think this may be the one, ladies and gentlemen.

A high concept comedy with all the makings of my first spec sale.

Never the one to shy away from putting my foot in my mouth - I'm going to go ahead and call it out now. This spec is going to be my ticket into an illustrious screenwriting career.

Other than that, I really don't have much to say, unfortunately. I'm knee-deep in this first draft, which should be done by this weekend.

I'm excited.

This is the one.

Bad Internet. Bad.

2007-08-08T02:59:00.000-07:00

One thing I haven't really gotten the hang of yet is forcing myself to write.

Just sitting myself down at the keyboard and pretending someone is holding a gun to my head. And writing.

I can procrastinate 'til the cows come home, so this is a skill I'm going to have to teach myself at some point or another. But with the interwebs so readily available, how can I ever even start?

The internet is such a huge time suck, it almost seems like I'm going to have to go someplace with my laptop and no network card. Some sort of parallel universe where the tubes have become clogged with porn, and the internet is not even an option.

I can't tell you how many hours a day I lose into the black holes of Wikipedia and YouTube. Or the various podcasts, blogs, and message boards. The internet is one giant time suck - and its evil purpose is to stop me from writing.

Is disconnecting myself the answer? I sure as fuck don't have the willpower to not click just one more link.

All I know is I need a system free of distractions where I can just force myself to write.

Any suggestions?

The Lawn Gnome Incident

2007-08-06T05:26:00.000-07:00

When I lived in North Carolina, I would always notice an abundance of lawn gnomes during my drive to work. It seemed as if everyone had one. Staring at you with those glassy eyes as they stood guard. Bearded, porcelain gods.

Something had to be done to stop them.

It started like any other night, with drinking and games of pool at our local watering hole. Nothing terribly out of the ordinary. Until, that is, someone showed up with some acid.

Acid in and of itself makes for interesting times as it is - but combine it with boredom, and you have a recipe for disaster.

Or one hell of an adventure.

After the bar had shut down, we were relegated to take our debauchery home with us. Unless, of course, someone came up with a better idea along the way. And that they did.

"Dude, I think that lawn gnome just flipped me off."

"Yeah, I fucking hate lawn gnomes."

"Tell me about it."

"We should steal them..."

We should steal them. It sure sounded like a good idea at the time.

So now we have a trunk full of nearly two dozen kidnapped lawn gnomes, and the sun is going to start coming up at any minute. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea.

Someone thinks they heard them talking in the trunk. While under normal circumstances this person would have been dubbed a moron, this wasn't one of those times.

We pulled over to try and listen to what they were saying in the back. One person confirmed they could hear them - plotting.

And that's when it happened.

"Dude, we pulled over right in front of their leader. Don't look, don't look."

We all looked.

Sure enough. There he was, in all his glory. The King Gnome. How did we know he was the King Gnome? He had a pitchfork.

He stared at us. Motionless. Judging us.

"I think he wants them back."

"He totally does. I can tell."

"We should just do it, this is getting weird."

It sounded like a good idea at the time.

Quietly, and very suspiciously - four strangers slinked out of the car that morning to drop off twenty-five lawn gnomes on a poor, unsuspecting persons front lawn.

When we finished, we couldn't help but stand back and revel at our creation.

Separate, they were just lawn furnishings. Decoration. But now. Together. They had purpose.

They were an army.

An army of lawn gnomes.

They were our minions. And while we had to go home and pass out, we would not forget about them. In fact, we promised we'd return to check up on them the following night.

But when we got there the next day, they were gone. Even the King Gnome had disappeared.

Some might say their owners came and picked them up the next morning, or that the owner of the house relocated them - or maybe that they were confiscated in some sort of investigation.

But I like to think they're still out there somewhere. United.

An army of gnomes. Marching as one.

Movie Moments

2007-08-03T04:14:00.001-07:00

You ever find yourself with a group of friends making lists of your favorite movies, or best lays, or greatest fights? That's your High Fidelity Moment.

Do you remember the first time you heard a song or band that was so perfect, you felt like they were speaking to you? That was your Almost Famous Moment.

Or your Office Space Moment - to find that perfect opportunity to slip in "two chicks at the same time" during casual conversation.

Life is a lot more interesting if you view it as a series of movie moments.

Anyway, the last couple weeks have sucked. Not very many movie moments to speak of.

I've been full of self-doubt when it comes to my writing, and have been avoiding working on my latest feature spec at all costs. There's a lot of pressure in writing as it is, and a looming 12 month deadline doesn't make things any easier.

I needed a movie moment to get me out of my rut.

I wanted a Taxi Driver Moment.

Unfortunately, I've already been shaving my head every morning since I was 19 - so I couldn't exactly sport a mohawk to fulfill that moment.

So I did the next best thing. I shaved my goatee.

That might not seem very significant to you if you have a full head of hair - but believe me, when it's the only hair on your entire head with the exception of your eyebrows - it's a big fucking deal.

Don't judge me, bitch.

And a funny thing happened when I shaved it... I started writing. And writing.

Not only did I feel reinvigorated and was writing again, but I came up with a much-needed climax to the current project I'm working on. And it works.

I gotta tell you, though - the life of a writer sucks. It's a sick roller coaster of emotions. One day you're feeling confident and on top of the world, and the next you're wondering who you're tying to kid by thinking you can do this for a living.

But, we need to work through those rough times in order to get to the good ones - because there's nothing more satisfying than writing something you're proud of.

So, the next time you're having some self-doubt or are in a rut when it comes to your writing - give yourself a cool movie moment.

You never know, it might just work.

And speaking of work you're proud of - if you remember, last month I talked about a small exercise we did on the Artful Writer forums. We had to write a five page short on the theme of dealing with a bully.

Here's mine - FLY BALL

Nicholl Fallout

2007-08-01T01:22:00.001-07:00

This is a strange week in the screenwriting world.

People are finding out whether or not they made the Quarterfinals of the Nicholl Fellowship.

Since I didn't finish my first spec in time to submit to Nicholl, I get to watch as an outsider at the developments. And I'm of two minds about it.

First, there's part of me that feels both disappointment and joy for friends of mine who did or did not make the cut. I really feel bad for those who didn't, and genuinely congratulatory for those who did. Natch.

But that's not why I'm blogging about it.

I'm blogging about it because my evil side has decided to come out and play this week.

This isn't a pretty side of me. It's definitely not one I'm proud of. But it's a part of me, for better or worse.

So, here I am, embracing my evil for the world to see.

I know we're supposed to all be happy and hand-holding and shit, and for the most part we are - but I've gotta admit, there's a couple of you out there that I just can't stand. And when you got your rejection letters this week, I couldn't help but grin a little bit.

Sorry.

Some people just rub you the wrong way. I'm sure there's lots of people who read my blog and walk away thinking, "What a self-promoting blowhard." And really, they wouldn't be too far from the truth.

But I'm okay with that. I'm an acquired taste.

Most people are.

So, for those of you who didn't make the quarterfinals - Better luck next time, and keep your chin up.

For those who did - Congratulations. You deserve it.

And for those few of you I wish testicular cancer upon - Well...

Television Roundup

2007-07-31T02:20:00.000-07:00

I love me some TV.

So I thought I would do a quick roundup of some of the shows I'm currently watching.

Entourage: The mother of all shows. It really is my favorite. Ari Gold has got to be the best character ever created - kudos to Jeremy Piven for bringing him to life. I love that I don't need to turn on my brain to watch it, and that these cats act just like I do with my friends. VICTORY!

House MD: Gregory House. How I love thee - let me count the ways. House is me, but with a bum leg. He has some of the best one-liners on television. "Maybe Ashton Kutcher did it." I really hope he hooks up with Cuddy soon - that shit has been a long time coming.

Kyle XY: It's true, I also love me some Kyle XY. Just something about that kids adorable dimples that gets me every time. Yes, Kyle - this is how you pee. And that confused look on his face - "So this is how you pee." Exactly, Kyle. This is how we pee.

Greek: A newcomer to the Tivo Season Pass. And it's awesome. Spitter is such a great nickname. And the guy who plays Cappie is just fantastic in the role. Being a new show that I'm not having to catch up on, unfortunately means that I have to wait an entire week between episodes.

The Riches: Eddie Izzard. They really didn't need to say any more to get me to watch the show. But they did a really good job of keeping me watching it. It does lull occasionally, but I loved the season finale and am quite disappointed I have to wait forever for season two to start.

Heroes: Everyone knows it, everyone loves it. The Zero to Hero concept done literally. I love this show so much - it appeals to my inner (and outer) geek like none other. I want to be Peter Patrelli. I want to kick some Sylar ass. Season two can't start soon enough.

There's more on the list, but I think that's quite enough for one day.

What are you watching?

A Foiled Plan

2007-07-28T02:02:00.000-07:00

Every group of friends usually has that one guy nobody likes.

Ours was named Gary.

Gary had been my arch-nemesis ever since the sixth grade when he ratted me out to a teacher.

I had vowed my revenge upon him from that young age, and needed only wait for the perfect opportunity to exact it upon him. Like a ninja.

Such an opportunity presented itself when we were sixteen. Revenge was to be mine.

See, we had a fellow in our group named Mike. Everybody liked Mike. He was flamboyant and funny. A real riot. He was also very gay.

Mike would insist on teaching us the intricacies of the gay scene, even though none of us were particularly interested. We listened, mostly because Mike was in the closet and I'm sure it was nice for him to have a group of friends who knew and didn't care.

One day, Mike taught us about the homosexual romps that took place in Griffith Park.

It was truly fascinating.

He even showed us the places.

Guys would hang out in certain areas of the park, and just randomly hook up to go do naughty things in the bushes. If I were ever teetering on being gay, this facet of the lifestyle would surely have pushed me over the edge. Purely anonymous, no-attachment frolicking.

If only women were into such things.

Anyway, the day Mike showed us these places - the idea came to me. It was brilliant.

We'd strand Gary there.

Oh, the joy we would have watching a clueless Gary try and thwart off sexual advances from strange, eager men. It would be one for the record books. And I'd have my revenge.

Now don't feel bad for Gary - I assure you, he deserved it. Plus, we were teenagers. I can barely justify the shit I pull now, let alone the stuff I pulled over ten years ago.

So, the day came and the plan went off without a hitch.

Gary stood around, alone, waiting for us to get back from our quick fifteen minute run. Men circled him like vultures. Mike pouted that he was in hiding with us instead of being out there.

Then, it happened. The first man approached him...

We giggled in the shadows. What would happen next? What if Gary was into it? How long until he caught on? This was going to be great.

Except it wasn't great.

Gary made himself a fucking friend.

For twenty minutes we watched as Gary and this strange man just talked. Nothing more. Just talking. No angry fist-waving, no being dragged into the bushes - nothing. Just conversation.

How could our plan have gone so wrong? We had to go see.

We pulled up just in time to catch Gary and the guy exchanging numbers - and he hopped into the car. All smiles.

"Hey guys, that was Ted."

That was Ted?

"Yeah. We talked while you guys went to the store."

And he gave you his number?

"He was a really cool guy. We should call him to hang out with us some time."

He had foiled my brilliant plan with the cunning use of stupid.

I fucking hated Gary.

Why I Write What I Write

2007-07-25T13:10:00.000-07:00

Time for a quick break from my usual crass antics.

Underneath all the boorish stories and in between all the crude jokes, I live with two constant struggles in my life.

The first is staying clean.

I have to turn my head anytime a scene involving drug use comes on during a movie or television show, because no matter how gruesome they may be trying to portray the act as - I can only see the romance in it.

That gentle dance between your mind and the drug.

It's like the most intimate, whirlwind relationship you've ever experienced. Love, hate - empowerment, failure. All wrapped into one.

There are nights I have trouble falling asleep because it's all I can think about.

But, I manage.

I know if I ever fall off the wagon it'll be the death of me. And I'm not quite ready to die yet.

The second, is my son.

I dream about him constantly.

Sometimes it's that he's sick, other times it's that his mother has given up on raising him and dropped him off at my doorstep, and sometimes it's her calling me to tell me he's dead.

Last night I dreamt he was sitting next to me on the bed while I slept.

Nothing more. Just him sitting next to me on the bed, playing and smiling in his blue jammies, as I quietly slept through the night.

I try to manage with this struggle as well, but I can't help but tear up a little whenever I see a beautiful baby with pudgy little legs run across the television.

So, maybe these are the reasons why I am the way I am. Why I write what I write.

I've seen enough serious times and dark alleys to last me a lifetime. I don't need to write about it too.

I'd rather use the time I have left to talk about things that are mundane and obscene.

Whip out your dicks, fellas. Fuck while you can.

Life's too short.

8 Random Facts

2007-07-24T02:25:00.000-07:00

Nick, the world's greatest writerist, has tagged me to list eight random facts about myself.

Here goes.

I'll only have seven of these.

I couldn't come up with an eighth answer. So I decided to come back up here and add this in as my first entry. There will only be seven random facts.

Shit happens.

I wish I were smarter.

I'm not exactly a ten dollar word kind of guy, never have been. Give me a good looking girl and a vice or two - and I'm pretty much a happy man.

But there are days when I look upon those who use words like esoteric and ubiquitous in regular conversation with envy. Would I be a better writer if I were smarter? I've always been a life-experiencing type over a book-learning one, so I guess we'll never know.

I'm not black.

Much to the surprise and chagrin of people who try to bum a cigarette off me, I smoke menthols. Kools, to be exact. Most smokers who read this blog are making an uneasy face right now. Menthols just aren't very popular. Unless you're black. Then you smoke Newports or Kool. But contrary to what my smoking habits may tell you - I'm not black.

I used to be a Republican.

It's true. I was a South Park Republican - fiscally conservative, socially liberal. I used to vote party line every single year until the last presidential election - at which point I abstained from voting for the first time since I turned 18. Now days, I don't have a political party.

I fuck in strange places.

My first experience with this strange habit was on the log ride at Six Flags Magic Mountain. You know the one, right? A big log with a bench in the middle that twists and turns through water. Well, I fucked on that once. Before I knew they had installed those spiffy little cameras that take your picture on one of the drops. Needless to say, neither the guy operating the booth nor the parents in line waiting to buy said pictures were very pleased with what they saw on the screen above.

It did trigger a long line of weird sexual escapades, though - encompassing such interesting locales as a hotel balcony facing a busy city street, the parking lot outside the gym, and multiple public bathrooms - to name a few.

My jokes sometimes lead to uncomfortable situations.

I talk a lot of shit. You know this. One of my long-standing schticks is to go on and on about getting a hummer from a tranny. Don't ask me to explain why I do these things, I barely understand it myself.

So one day we're with a group of friends and I jump right into my tranny routine when one of the guys in the group says, "Are you serious? Because I found a bunch of shemale porn on my dad's computer when I was a kid and I'd love to hear your thoughts on it."

Nobody really picked on him for being a 30 year old virgin after that.

A tattoo on your dick is as good as spanish fly.

Nothing makes a woman want to pull out and see your schmeckel more than telling her you have a tattoo on it. It's literally a carte blanche to sleep with whomever you want - because, well, once it's out you gotta do something with it, right?

My only regret is not having discovered this phenomena sooner - because I would have gotten it done ages ago.

I got my sex-ed from the 80's.

The first bush I ever saw was in the movie Revenge of the Nerds. Where they install cameras in the girls dormitory and Booger shouts, "We've got bush!" We've got bush, indeed, Booger.

The first movie I ever rubbed one out to was Hamburger: The Motion Picture. It was a teen sex flick like Porky's, except at Hamburger University. Don't look at me, I just tugged one out to it - I didn't write it.

My first Playboy was given to me by my father. It was the Suzanne Somers issue. Thank you, Chrissy Snow.

Thank you for everything.

I'm a Potty Mouth

2007-07-22T19:58:00.000-07:00

Everyone seems to be doing this blog rating thing now, so who am I to argue with the mob. The mob is Rome.

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:

asshole (14x)
fuck (13x)
shit (8x)
cock (7x)
suck (6x)
sex (4x)
grope (3x)
piss (2x)
rape (1x)

Who knew?

I knew.

Stressed Out

2007-07-20T12:01:00.000-07:00

Been a pretty ugly couple days.

The script was coming along great - and I mean really great - and then when we started the scene-by-scene outline, suddenly an end of Act 1 problem cropped up.

Acts 2 and 3 are great. The concept drove both acts home. But this end of Act 1 problem has had me frustrated for a couple days now.

I compromised on a solution that isn't perfect, which I think has me even more stressed out.

Everything else came together so nicely, that maybe I'm just expecting too much.

Or maybe it's because writing is hard.

Or maybe it's because the concept is flawed.

I don't know, and I'm trying to figure it out.

In the meantime, I'm stressed over it. And while I'm usually the most easy-going guy you'll ever meet, I've been a bit on edge the last couple days worrying about it.

I hate being stressed.

The Pitfalls of Boredom

2007-07-17T12:01:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I've mentioned this before or not, but I have ADD pretty bad.

Like really bad.

And thanks to my history with amphetamines, I can't really risk taking my medicine for it anymore.

If I happen to get into "the zone" then I'm golden. Nothing can stop me, and I can crank through pages and pages of writing without breaking a sweat.

Unfortunately, these "zones" don't come very often.

What this basically means is that I go through various stages of absolute boredom throughout any given day.

When it's mild, I can just turn on some music and keep writing.

When it's bad, I can watch a movie or turn on the music really loud and read a script.

But when it's abysmal, I get sucked into doing god knows what.

Sometimes I find myself lost on Wikipedia for hours and hours. Other days I lose myself in YouTube. If I'm lucky, I use my distraction for something positive.

Like making a video.

One day I got bored and made a House video. Another time, I made a Taxi Driver video.

This morning, I made this:

And I'm pretty sure it means I'm a racist.

Breaking The Story

2007-07-17T05:59:00.000-07:00

If you remember, on July 6th I had a breakthrough.

I was being haunted by two simple little words for weeks: High Concept.

Then it came to me.

An idea that I not only loved, but genuinely felt was high concept. I was rock hard to jump into characters, arcs, plot, and outlining. I was stoked.

But that excitement was short-lived.

For the past ten days I've been struggling with a new demon - breaking the story.

I had a great concept, a great theme, a great title - and nowhere to go with it. I can't even begin to tell you how frustrating this was.

The first outline felt contrived. Forced.

So much so, that I tried to move on to outlining another idea that had been on the back burner.

As much as I tried, though - I kept circling back to the high concept one.

I knew there was a story there - a great story - I just had to find it.

Once again, I took a couple days off to let my brain cool off and watched movies and read scripts.

Then all of a sudden, last night, it happened.

We broke the story.

You should have seen it. It was amazing.

"This this happens. Oh god, then this! What about this? That's hilarious! Jesus, this is great..."

Until yesterday, the phrase "the comedy should come from the concept" didn't really mean anything to me. It was just a mantra used by the professionals.

I was wrong.

Something special happens when that light bulb flickers on, and concept starts driving your story. That inherent comedy that comes from a concept is one you just can't reproduce with gags and characters.

Concept is king.

Anyway, I don't want to get too ahead of myself here - and risk incurring the wrath of the Hubris gods - but I really feel like this is the one.

The script that's going to bring me to my goal ahead of schedule.

I really hope I'm right.

Movie Snobs

2007-07-14T12:49:00.000-07:00

I've never understood movie snobs.

People who seem to find faults with almost every movie ever made, and couldn't suspend their disbelief if their life depended on it.

But, some of the most intelligent and funniest people I've ever met happen to be movie snobs - so I've learned to just agree to disagree with them on the issue.

Aspiring screenwriters who happen to be movie snobs, though?

That's just suicide.

MovieQuill recently brought it up, and I wanted to expand on the subject.

For someone to say they want to write movies for a living, then turn around and publicly criticize working screenwriters and produced movies baffles the living fuck out of me.

Coincidentally, most of these same guys who are aspiring screenwriters/movie snobs have been writing specs for over ten years and all they have to show for it, if they're lucky, is making the quarterfinals in Nicholl.

Don't be that guy.

I'm not saying blindly follow and love every film ever made, but instead of looking for all the bad in movies, try and look for the good. Every movie usually has at least one redeeming quality - even if you have to try real hard to find it.

You're supposed to be doing this because you love movies - or at least that's why you should be doing it.

Leave the bashing to the critics, that's their job. Your job is to love film and absorb all they have to offer.

If you can't turn on your television, or pop in a DVD, and immediately be transported into a different world, where things don't always have to make sense - then maybe you should rethink this whole screenwriting thing.

Oh, and if you haven't seen Transformers yet - go buy your ticket now. It's the best action movie to hit the big screen in years.

This blog entry brought to you by Michael Bay and General Motors.

My First MILF

2007-07-11T06:34:00.000-07:00

Every young man should go through a MILF phase.

Right around when a guy is in his late teens and a woman is in her mid-thirties - something magical happens. This period is what I like to call The Sweet Spot™.

It's when the sex drive of a guy is directly proportional to that of a womans.

It's a magical time, indeed. It's also one of mutual benefit, for the MILF is our teacher.

You may think I'm kidding, but this period determines what sort of lover a guy ends up being for the rest of his life. Not an opportunity you want to squander.

Not to mention, the sex is great.

You'll have plenty of time to fuck clueless young girls later when you're rich and successful (and usually even if you become a complete fuck-up, but that's a blog for a different day).

Ladies, if you're in your thirties, find yourself a young man to ride. Do it for the sisterhood. They're going to end up dating and marrying these guys one day.

I remember my first MILF fondly.

I was 17, she was 36. And married.

A firecracker of a redhead that rocked my world like no woman had before her.

Of course, I wasn't armed with the knowledge I'm giving you here today, so I just thought I was in love. Very, very in love.

I also had no idea she was married.

One day we're in the middle of a 12 hour marathon session when my phone rings. It's a man - demanding to speak to his wife.

His wife?

So I hand her the phone, and she takes the call outside. I didn't really think much of it - I just wanted her to come back inside so we could finish. Blue balls suck.

Anyway, she comes back inside and gives me some business about it being her ex-husband, and how the divorce wasn't final yet. I believed her - mostly because I really wanted to get back to fucking.

We dated for about three months, until one night she invited me over to her house.

I'd never been there before.

So there we are, going at it on the couch - when I start looking around her living room. I start to notice pictures of a happy family everywhere. And I mean everywhere.

I was in the Brady Bunch's living room.

I fling her off me mid-stroke to go and take a closer look at the pictures.

She starts crying.

I'm rock hard, staring at pictures of a happy family, while the chick I was just fucking is balling behind me.

She starts to let it all out...

She's not divorced.

Her husband's at work.

She has three kids.

They're asleep upstairs.

Up-fucking-stairs.

So, I did the only honorable thing someone could do in that situation.

I made sure I got off, and I never spoke to her again.

The moral of the story is, guys, if you're under 21 - find yourself a hot MILF - every woman you fuck later in life will thank you for it.

And if she's married, top her off and move on to the next.

Turning Thirty

2007-07-07T07:18:00.000-07:00

How did this happen to me?

When did this happen?

One minute I'm a jubilant youth without a care in the world, and before I know it, I'm getting old.

Really fucking old.

I've briefly mentioned my fear of turning thirty in previous blogs, but now that the big day looms closer and closer - my fear is blossoming into a full-on panic.

I never thought I'd be thirty.

Even now, I consider thirty to be old.

I still feel the same way I did when I was eighteen. Most days, I act like it too.

There's something charming about the reckless abandon of youth. I don't want to lose that. That carefree attitude, that feeling of invincibility - that's who I am, it's who I've always been.

Goonies Never Say Die. Thirty year olds do.

I was still screwing up my life just a couple years ago - how can I be a thirty year old yet?

Hell, some would say I'm still screwing my life up now by giving up my career to take a shot at screenwriting.

I see people all around me, friends of mine, who have their act together. Wife, kids, a job they love - things that I don't even really think about most days.

Responsibility is just a word to me.

I'm not ready to be thirty.

Don't Call It A Comeback

2007-07-06T04:58:00.000-07:00

Mother fuck me have I been blocked for like two weeks now.

And I mean seriously blocked.

I couldn't complete a thought if my life depended on it. And when a couple people approached me to possibly work with them on a cool idea, I was bound by other obligations and couldn't do it.

I was seriously doubting myself.

So, I decided to do something about it.

First, I went out and picked up the game Overlord. Before I found out how much I liked getting laid, I used to really enjoy gaming (so much so that I made a career out of it for many years) - so I thought what better way to clear my mind than to pick up an old friend and forget about writing for a while.

This did wonders for me.

Then, I decided to hold a small exercise on the Artful Writer forums. I'd never written a short before, and I thought it'd be fun (and distracting) to write one for the first time with a group of others and let the community offer some anonymous feedback.

So as I was sitting at my desk practically jerking off to the really flattering feedback I was getting over my short - I had a breakthrough.

A real, honest to goodness breakthrough.

When I finished writing my first feature, I was fortunate enough to have a few professional screenwriters offer to read it for me. It was quite flattering, especially considering they made a living doing this - and I was just some guy who in February decided to write for a living.

One of these wise, awesome individuals (yes, I'm kissing your ass right now) said something to me in his feedback that has stuck with me. It was just one sentence, but it has haunted me.

He said, while he thought my script was well-written, confident, and funny...

"I think it's missing that twist that makes it high concept."

And even though he suggested it was good enough to shop, that one comment has been on the back of my mind ever since.

But today. Oh glorious day.

I had my breakthrough.

I came up with the high concept story I'm going to love telling.

It's a beautiful thing, and I'm balls out excited to get working on it.

Let's get to work.

Feedback Vs Criticism

2007-07-05T05:26:00.000-07:00

There's a distinct difference between feedback and criticism.

Some people know how to give feedback. Others, well, they just criticize.

Sadly, I think I'm one of the people who dishes out criticism instead of feedback.

Over the past few months, I've learned that you need to look for someone who can offer you feedback on your work, and not criticism.

It's a very fine line, and most people are unable to differentiate between the two - so it's up to you to decide which one you're getting, and to make sure to have the right people read your work.

Let me make it clear that feedback does not mean someone who will just give you positive notes - feedback can also be negative, but it serves a purpose - to elevate your work.

Criticism, on the other hand - never elevates your work. It only serves to tear you down and build on your insecurities (of which most writers have many).

So don't mistake my suggestion of seeking feedback to mean only let those who cup your balls and blow in your ear read your work.

Go through the notes you've gotten from your friends on some of your past work. Read them again. See which notes made you feel positive and ready to jump into rewrites, and which ones made you feel like seeing how many licks it takes to slip into a Tylenol coma.

I think you'll be able to separate the feedback from the criticism pretty easily.

Those are the people you want to read your future work.

Those are the ones you should build a relationship with - offering to read their work whenever they have something for you to look at.

The ones who criticize, on the other hand, you should probably excuse from reading your work again. They're not helping you get better.

And like I said, most people don't even know which camp they fall into - but you should be able to distinguish between the two.

Know the difference.

screenwriting

Where's My Hook?

2007-07-02T04:03:00.000-07:00

This is like the third or fourth screenwriting entry in a row. I don't know about you guys - but I, for one, will not tolerate this sort of bullshit out of this blog for much longer.

I object to my own blog.

Now that I have that out of the way - I want to let you all know that I'm washed up.

Creatively bankrupt.

Not even relegated to the life of a has-been.

I'm a never-was.

I've been outlining several story ideas for a couple weeks now, and I hadn't been able to find a hook I loved - until last night.

It seemed as if I'd done it - cracked the case. Finally stumbled upon the hook I needed for on one of my stories.

I was excited.

Then, I got up this morning.

I hated my hook.

Hate is too strong. I liked it - it was funny - but I didn't love it. You know?

I don't know what I want to write next, and I feel like every day I don't find a story I love, is a day wasted. Especially with my short schedule.

I'm washed up.

Hookless.

Sans Hook.

What I'm trying to say is--

Someone find me a hook(er).

Disney Fellowship

2007-06-29T18:59:00.001-07:00

We're off to the races.

Today I finally got around to notarizing and mailing off my application for the Disney Fellowship.

The instructions weren't very clear on what exactly they wanted out of the Statement of Intent and Autobiographical Summary, but I managed, I think.

Showed them a gentler, more touching me.

Here's my Statement of Intent.

Dear Disney*ABC Fellowship Committee,

In 1978, when I was only a year old, my parents decided to flee from the civil war taking place in Beirut, Lebanon.

Only my mother and I were able to get a Visa, so we went ahead and came to the United States without my father. We would not see him for five years.

Without higher education and limited resources, my parents always worked long hours at mediocre jobs – but they always did it proudly. After making sure we had a roof over our heads and food on the table, their next main priority was my education.

They spent every penny they made putting me through private school.

When it came time to graduate high school, all my classmates went on to UCLA or USC, and eventually became doctors or lawyers. I know it would have made my parents proud had I done the same.

My destiny, however, was elsewhere. I was to be a writer.

Until now, I’ve maintained a career in advertising in order to make ends meet. My parents always taught me to put my heart and soul into everything I did, so I followed that career with all my passion for as long as I could.

Although I wasn’t a doctor or a lawyer, my parents were still proud of me.

As I come to another crossroad in my life this year – turning 30 – I’ve decided to finally put my heart and soul into becoming a writer.

I know a fellowship with an entity as prestigious as Disney would finally give my parents something to truly brag about.

I could become something bigger than myself, something bigger than a doctor or a lawyer – someone who touches people’s lives through their writing.

This is what I’ve always been destined to become.

A writer.

Please allow me the opportunity to make not just my parents proud – but Disney as well – by allowing me into your fellowship.

I wonder what they'll think when they go from reading that letter to seeing Ari Gold tell Lloyd that Eric wants to ragefuck him in my submitted spec?

I'm guessing diversity. Range.

Because I've got layers.

Like an onion.

Reject Me. Please, Reject Me.

2007-06-29T04:23:00.000-07:00

You know what's the toughest part about trying to become a professional screenwriter?

Indifference.

After having gone through my first attempt at query letters, I find myself in the precarious position of yearning for rejection. Some sort of acknowledgment that I exist, even if it's negative.

Tell me I suck. Tell me you hate everything about me.

Tell me your anal fissure can write better pablum than I can.

Just tell me something.

It's a lot like trying to pick up a girl. You learn that rejection is just a part of the process, but when you're downright invisible, that's a whole different story.

It's one thing for the girl to think you're fat, or short, or hate your sense of humor - but if she doesn't even recognize you exist? That's the rub.

Now, don't get me wrong, I understand why Hollywood has to have such a closed-door stance on things. Over the past few months, I've been witness to how fucking batshit crazy a lot of so-called aspiring screenwriters are - so it's not like I can blame Hollywood for wanting to keep as much of a distance from these people as possible.

Hell, they scare me - and they're not even trying to get me to read their shitty script.

The unfortunate consequence of these wackjobs vying for the same ultimate goal as the rest of us, is that the barrier to entry has become almost insurmountable.

Almost. It's not impossible - but it's definitely not easy either.

So, we keep trying. Hoping we come up with a concept that gets us a read - then hoping we wrote a script strong enough to get us an option, or a sale, or an assignment.

It'll happen.

Oh, and to all you fucking lunatics out there making our life more difficult, here's a big hardy fuck you.

Or maybe I'm just bitter that I got one read request out of two hundred queries.

Today's Song of the Day - Loco, by Coal Chamber.

screenwriting

Here I Go Again On My Own

2007-06-26T10:10:00.000-07:00

Going down the only road I've ever known.

That's right. As of a couple days ago, I'm officially writing solo again.

Me. Sans writing partner.

While I'd love to regale you with a sordid tale of betrayal and violence, the truth is simply that Annabel is a mother of at least three dozen children (if not hundreds more) with a whole lot of responsibilities.

My biggest decision of the day is what cereal to have for breakfast.

We'd have enjoyed continuing to write together - and I'm sure we will again - but, for now, I'm on a pretty tight schedule if I'm going to give this 12 month thing a real shot.

That means that I need to be pushing forward at full steam.

Even if it is alone.

With all its flaws, we cranked out a really great script together in record time. From inception to three full drafts in under a month. That's pretty awesome.

The sad part is, I really enjoyed writing with a partner. Having someone readily available to bounce ideas off of - who also happens to be equally invested in the project - is so huge that I can't even begin to describe it.

Oh well. C'est la vie.

So, here I am. Outlining my new masterpiece and about to get cranking on it.

Disney Fellowship application goes out tomorrow - so wish me luck with that as well.

Other than that, stay tuned as I have a blog or two to throw up here in short order.

Coming up: My First MILF

And it's only fitting that today's Song of the Day is - Whitesnake. Here I Go Again.

5 Seconds Of Hilarity

2007-06-23T23:22:00.001-07:00

First Indiana Jones 4 Picture

2007-06-23T04:20:00.000-07:00

Is it just me, or does the picture above make you feel like a kid again?

INDIANA FUCKING JONES.

And today's Song of the Day...

While out at lunch with a group of friends this afternoon, I was shocked to learn that none of them had heard the Devo cover of Nine Inch Nail's Head Like a Hole.

Shocked, I tell you.

This is arguably one of the best covers ever.

In order to save some of you the embarrassment of having me look at you the way I did this group today, I present you with Song of the Day: Devo, Head Like a Hole.

Bask in its glory.

My First Blowjob

2007-06-22T00:26:00.000-07:00

When most people remember their first sexual encounter, it's usually a fond memory. A little nostalgia, a bit of unease, and some curiosity.

I think of prison and my parents.

The year is 1993. All the other jagoffs in my private school have gotten a Beamer or Mercedes for their sixteenth birthday, while I've had to work all summer for my car. I've busted my ass, though, and made just enough to buy myself a 1972 Mustang - blue with white racing stripes.

The kind of car I'm hoping will be, as they say, a pussy magnet.

As you can probably tell, I haven't changed much since my teenage years.

The car is a hit with the girls. Within my first week of owning it, I've hooked up with some ridiculously cute hottie from Pasadena. I ditch school and pick her up every day, and bring her back to my house in Hollywood while my parents are at work.

We make out all day long.

This continues on for several weeks, but all we're doing is making out. Maybe a little second base action. I'm sixteen, with a car, dammit - I demand action. So, I stop making the trek to Pasadena in hopes of finding someone a little more adventurous closer to home.

One day I'm visiting my grandmother when out of the corner of my eye, I spot this curvaceous brunette making her way over to us. I puff out my chest and try to look as suave as a sixteen year old can.

She's the daughter of my grandmother's landlord. Almost 18 and about to head off to U C Berkeley.

As worldly as I may be now, due to my experiences with the girl from Pasadena, I'm still not so comfortable around the ladies. But she's sure got huge boobs...

I honestly don't know what came over me. As she's walking out, I stop her and without even thinking about it - I ask her out. More importantly - She. Says. Yes.

The next thing I know, we have plans for that Friday. I have a date with a college student - and she's got big boobs. This must be what Corey Haim felt like.

Friday rolls around and I'm totally excited. I've washed and waxed my Mustang so many times my hands are permanently pruned. I've got on my Dad's best Drakkar Noir, and I have a condom in my wallet that hasn't even had a chance to form a ring in the leather yet.

I'm fucking ready.

Better still? She's ready too.

She tells me to drive to Griffith Park. I do it. We park in a row of cars and without even a hint of conversation, begin to make out. When did I become such a pimp? I don't know. I'm not going to ask. This is the awesomest thing that's ever happened to me.

I knew buying this car was a good idea.

A good half hour goes by, and my suave self hasn't even made a move yet - but that doesn't stop her. Before I even know what's happening, my jeans are unzipped and she's lowering her head onto my lap.

I wish my friends were around to see this.

And wow, did it feel good. Just as I'm shutting my eyes to get into it--

There's a loud banging on my window, and a flashlight pointed right at the top of her head.

Fuck. Me.

Apparently getting head in a public park is not such a good idea, because not only do they make us stop - but they take us into the police station. In handcuffs.

Oh. And now I know what blue balls feel like.

So there I am, handcuffed to a bench in a police station with my balls in pure agony. And worse yet, both our parents have been called to pick us up.

I don't think they told our parents why we were there, because her father wasn't nearly as furious at me until he had a moment to talk to the officer. That's when his face turned bright red and his fists tightened. He rushed his daughter out of there so quick, I didn't have a chance to say goodbye. Let alone make a second date.

My Dad, on the other hand, was only furious until he talked to the officer. From then on, he just tried to hide his grin from my mother.

He even gave me a wink in the rear view mirror as he drove me to pick up my pussy magnet - waiting patiently for me at the park.

Father's Day

2007-06-20T00:05:00.000-07:00

I'm not very good with true emotions.

I shoot from the hip and run off at the mouth. I'm great at a party and can captivate an audience, but when it comes to anything deep or meaningful, I run for the hills.

When I found out I had a son the November before last, it broke my heart.

Not a day goes by I don't think about him.

I wrote him a letter this weekend.

Dear Son,

You will likely never get this.

You don't know my name, and I don't know yours - but I write this letter in the hopes that maybe one day it will find its way to you.

By now you've given your first smile, taken your first steps and said your first words - I wish I could have been there to see them.

I also won't be there to let you ride the pony outside the supermarket as many times as you want. To play your first game of catch with you, no matter how busy I am with work. To take you to your first concert, even if the band sucks. To help you study for your first big exam. To get you ready for your first date. To tell you how proud of you I am, no matter what trouble you've gotten yourself into.

I won't be there for any of that.

But you'll be fine, son.

You will grow up to be brilliant and excel at anything you put your mind to.

You will have a way with girls that will make the other boys jealous.

You will run the world one day.

I will miss you and think about you until the day I die.

Love,

Dad

Progress Bars

2007-06-19T00:08:00.000-07:00

It only took me three months, but I've finally gotten around to adding those nifty little progress widgets to my sidebar. I added one for the overall progress as well. Now you can keep up with how badly I fail at my 12 month goal in real time.

Neato.

Today's Song of the Day is from one of my favorite movies - Empire Records.

It's Sugarhigh by Coyote Shivers.

While I'm sure Coyote would rather we love the original version of Sugarhigh, there's just something sexy about Renee Zellweger's scratchy vocals from the actual movie.

Unfortunately, there is no studio version of the track, so this had to be ripped directly from the DVD - in other words, don't expect fantastic quality - just an awesome version of an awesome song.

I've oftened fantasized about a Renee Zellweger & Joey Lauren Adams threesome - but would that be sexy, scratchy voice overload? I guess I'll only know once I try it.

Enjoy.

Song of the Day - Watch Your Back

2007-06-18T13:05:00.000-07:00

As I've mentioned before, music is a huge a part of my life. If I'm not watching a movie, I'm listening to music. I listen to music when I write - all kinds of music. My iPod goes everywhere with me. Movies and music - really, is there anything better in the world? Well, besides sex.

If you've noticed, for the most part, I try not to talk about actual movies too often on the blog. It's because I think it's a bit unwise for an aspiring screenwriter to critique films when they're just barely trying to break into the business. If for no other reason than not to burn bridges.

However.

I would love to talk about music more. So I thought maybe I would do a little semi-regular feature called Song of the Day where I would share some of my favorite songs with you guys in between my ramblings about cock blocking and douchecunts.

Without further ado, here is today's Song of the Day.

Benny Cassette - Watch Your Back

Before LA became a haven for scenesters with bad hair cuts, before emo guys started cutting themselves because they wanted to kiss other emo guys, there was Benny Cassette.

Benny's music will make you wanna rock out with your cock out, chill out with your drill out, and hang out with your wang out. The kid can appreciate the old school along with the new. Plus, he's got a cool name, and that makes him A-Okay in my book.

Check out the song here.

Writer's Cock Block

2007-06-16T23:19:00.000-07:00

It's bad enough to be cock blocked in the first place, but to have said cock blockage perpetrated by a fellow writer is enough to send a guy spiraling into a life of alcoholism and bad porn with unshaven bush.

Let me explain.

So, we're out doing guy stuff the other day. Nothing of consequence, mind you - just an irrational request from a friend who is about to get married, demanding the boys spend a day together doing guy stuff.

Where I come from, the aforementioned "guy stuff" usually just meant naked women, brass poles, and hard liquor.

This was not the case.

Apparently, the new definition of guy stuff is shopping, lunch, and bowling. In other words, shit that begs the question, "Why did I even leave the house today?"

But, I'm a good friend. And as a good friend, it's my responsibility - nay, my duty - to make the last days of one of my brethren as comfortable as possible.

Six weeks from now, when that poor sap realizes he's just signed away half his belongings and income in exchange for dwindling sexual return, I want him to at least have the fond memories of our escapades together to cling to.

Experiences he'll never be able to duplicate now that he's about to get married.

Anyway, that's not the point of this story.

We're out at a bowling alley of all places when out of nowhere this absolutely stunning girl and a little boy take the lane next to ours. She's 18. She's dumb. She's gorgeous.

In other words, she's perfect.

Without much prodding, she tells us how frustrated she is because she's stuck babysitting her little brother when, and I quote, "she can be out getting wasted and having fun."

Blood in the fucking water.

I slide over next to her and start chatting her up - completely forgetting about my friends. She's dumber than I ever imagined. She's even more perfect.

We talk for about a good half hour and compare tattoos. I'm in heaven.

Just when I'm about to contribute to the delinquency of a minor or whatever it's called and buy her a beer, she asks me what I do for a living. So I figure - why not, I'll try pulling the screenwriter card for my very first time ever.

If anyone's going to be impressed by it, it's this girl.

Before the words even finish coming out of mouth, my annoyed and soon to be married friend says, "Yeah, ask him how many actual movies he's written."

Cock blocking son of a bitch.

This, of course, leads to a series of questions that eventually ends with her asking, "So, you don't really do anything right now?"

Not really, no.

I try to defend myself and point out that he's never sold shit either, and he's been doing it for more years than she's been alive - while I've only been pursuing it since February.

But it's too late.

Instead of being the cool older guy with tattoos who was going to show her a good time once she ditched her little brother, I'm now the creepy old guy trying to scam on her.

I fucking hate my friends sometimes.

At least he'll get what's coming to him soon enough.

Marriage.

Light Reading

2007-06-13T09:32:00.000-07:00

There seems to have been an influx of new readers to the blog over the past week, so I thought now might be a good time to point out some of my favorite entries of the past.

Change - The story to end all stories. My journey into self-destruction that has led me to where I am today. For better or worse, it's good to still be around and following my dream.

Goonies Never Say Die - Karma is not without a sense of irony. Stumbling is good for the soul - as long as you pick yourself back up and keep going.

The Half Elvis - One of my favorite stories from my time in advertising. Nothing says a good time like a co-worker passed out on a toilet.

Fuck Like A Republican - Say what you will about the Grand Old Party - those old bastards can get you laid.

The Little Things - Revenge is dish best served cold. Especially when the guy is your boss.

Los Angeles is Burning - You never know who you're going to meet when you party with squatters.

There's a few more I wanted to include in this list - but I think this should suffice for now.

Enjoy.

Douchecunts

2007-06-11T21:43:00.000-07:00

Douchecunts. They're everywhere.

People that you absolutely loathe from the moment you set eyes on them. The kind of mother fuckers you just want to eviscerate, before you've even learned their name. The sort of people you would travel back in time for - just to make sure they choked on their god damn umbilical cords.

We've all known douchecunts in our lives.

We all know a douchecunt right now.

Unfortunately, society dictates we be political. Whether in an office environment, or an online community - the burden is upon us to be the bigger person. We can't simply call a spade a spade and be done with it. We're forced to ignore their antics and suppress our dislike of these individuals.

Thus, allowing the douchecunt to operate with impunity.

I'm reminded of several of these people I've had to endure over the years.

One guy, I had to fire because he was downloading gigs of porn and watching them - in the office, during work hours. He had the nerve to throw a tantrum and kick desks as he packed up his shit and headed for the unemployment line.

Another cat, so ugly he could only date chicks the rest of us wouldn't even fuck for practice - would incessantly jabber on about his latest and greatest money making scheme and try and get us to "invest" in his idea, long after we'd tried to change the subject. Mother fucker wasn't even part of our circle of friends, yet he'd just fucking show up wherever we were at.

Last but not least, the bitch with a forehead the size of Europe. Constantly second-guessing and going over my head to our superiors when I was just starting out in my old business. I hope she dies in a car fire.

The only reason I can mention these people now, is because they're ancient history and no longer a part of my world, or even my career at this point.

So a big fuck you to you douchecunts of the past. May you get the crotch rot.

As for the recent spike in douchecunt activity that prompted this blog, I really can't really talk about it.

But I will. One day.

Blogging is Hard

2007-06-10T18:00:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of updates. I've been contemplating suicide and watching porn.

At the same time.

I call it Snuff Masturbation.

We've actually been working hard on rewrites and ideas for the next spec - so I've been pretty drained of any sort of creative energy. Blogging is hard work, man.

I did go see Knocked Up & Ocean's 13 this weekend - they were both quality flicks.

Anyway, that's it for today.

Tune in tomorrow for some hard core Snuff Masturbation talk.

Snuffbation?

Vegas, Baby. Vegas.

2007-06-05T07:30:00.000-07:00

I occasionally have the need to play cards.

Sometimes this leads to problems.

Not long ago, my ex and I were at Commerce Casino here in Los Angeles playing some poker. Well, I was playing - she watched.

She also happened to be the only non-asian girl there at the time.

It's about four hours into my night at Commerce and I'm up about two buy-ins and complaining to Ruth (the ex) about the fact that I hate having to pay for drinks while I gamble.

She says, "Well, let's go to Vegas, then."

I laugh it off, because a twenty minute drive to Commerce is one thing, but a three hour drive to Vegas is another. Just as she's being all cute with her let's go to Vegas comment, a relatively attractive but very annoyed looking asian girl passes by and gives Ruth the evil-eye.

Ruth snarls at her, and I immediately respond with, "You should totally kick her ass."

And without thinking much of it, I go back to looking at what hand I've been dealt.

Now, I say those sorts of things all the time. They just come out of my mouth.

I rarely think before I speak.

Ruth, having had a few drinks in her, jumps out of her seat and shouts, "Game on!"

Instantly, I realize what I have done.

"No, no, honey. I'm only kidding," I try to get out. But it's too late.
She's already pointing at the asian girl and yelling, "What's your problem, bitch?"

I love me a feisty woman, sure - but not when I'm playing cards, dammit.

I reach around behind Ruth, and give an "ignore her and just keep going" wave to the asian girl as I try to commandeer her attention.

"Hey, you know what, baby? Screw it, let's go to Vegas!" I announce.
She immediately turns around beaming, "Really?"
"Yeah, let's roll." I say as I pick up my chips.

I'll take a three hour drive over dealing with the thirty Jackie Chan's the other girl came with any day.

We cruise into Las Vegas around 3:00am and I decide to not bother finding a comped room on the strip and go to the one place I know will give me a room any day of the week - The Fiesta in Henderson. It's a bit of a drive to any real poker action, but who cares, it's free.

We check into our room and go downstairs to continue drinking.

I had planned on putting Ruth to bed and heading over to play some cards at the Bellagio or Wynn, but she was feeling frisky and I'd been drinking far too much to even consider real poker at that point.

We ended up meeting a really gorgeous cocktail waitress, though - and just as luck would have it, she had the next day off and wanted to "hang out" with us.

Hang out. That's code for "What happens in Vegas, will get posted on my blog."

So we exchange numbers and head up to the room and start fooling around. We fall asleep a couple hours later.

Seven in the god damn morning the hotel room phone rings.

"Who the hell knows we're here?" I grumble groggily.

Ruth doesn't respond. She's not a morning person.

Immediately, my imagination starts running wild. That asian girl's boyfriend had to be Yakuza and they tracked us down. I'm going to have to move to the midwest and live under an assumed identity. I have a small panic attack but eventually pick up the phone.

"Morning, sunshine!" says the voice on the other end.
"Uh, hi." I respond, confused.

It was the cocktail waitress from the night before. Does she know what time it is?

"Hey, we barely got to bed like two hours ago." I grumble at her.
"I figured," she continues on like I hadn't even said it. "Listen I can't meet you guys at the hotel since I work there, but I figured you can come over here and we can head to Sunset Station or something together?"
"Yeah, sure. Later." I mumble as I hang up the phone.
"Who was that?" Ruth asks, but I'm already asleep again.

Just as I'm slipping into some really fantastic dreams involving an entire college cheerleading team, there's a knock at the door. I look at the clock and it's 10:00am, so I figure it's the housekeeping people. Don't they see the Do Not Disturb thingamajig on the door?

"We're sleeping!" I belt out.

There's another knock.

"I'm gonna stab this housekeeping person in the neck," I mumble as I get up to answer the door.
"Hey cutie!" What the fuck? It's the cocktail waitress from last night.
"Whoa," is about all I got out.
"I snuck in!" she says, as she invites herself into the room.

At this point, I'm a little freaked out. This chick is going to start boiling rabbits or something any minute now. But, I have morning wood and new tail is new tail, so I shrug and wake Ruth up and point to the strange woman in our room.

I don't remember her name, I hope Ruth does.

"Hey..." Ruth pauses, she doesn't remember the name either.
"Julie!" says the cocktail waitress as she kicks off her heels and puts her purse down on the dresser.

"Right, hey Julie." Ruth pats the spot on the bed next to her and smiles.

Apparently, we all had morning wood.

Hardest Working Man In Show Business

2007-06-03T21:52:00.000-07:00

I know I promised I'd blog some this weekend - but, wow, was it nice to just lounge around and do absolutely nothing for a couple days. I'm a big fan of doing nothing.

Well, technically I did do some work.

For example, I spent most of today compiling the names and contact information for the first batch of Literary Agents we'll be hitting up with query letters come tomorrow. This was a pretty exhausting task - mostly because I wasn't quite willing to dish out the $200+ dollars for the Hollywood Creative Directory just yet.

I'm sure I'll eventually have to bite the bullet and subscribe to it, but for now, I'll stick to the poor man's route. I'll let you know guys know if and when we get some bites from the query letters - we'll be sending out a batch a week. Exciting and scary all at the same time.

Time for me to go watch some Sopranos and Entourage. Tune in tomorrow - who knows, I might have a story involving boobs for you.

Off To The Races

2007-06-01T01:00:00.000-07:00

The first spec was shipped out to Austin Film Festival today. It's a pretty interesting combination of emotions. I'm not exactly sure how I feel right now, so this blog won't be overly long.

Other than that, looks like I'm also about ready to schmooze agents and producers and get reactions on the first spec while getting started on a second.

I'm pretty exhausted - we've been writing non-stop for the last month on this one spec, so I think both Writing Partner and I are taking the weekend off.

My plan is to scratch myself, watch some movies, and get a couple hummers.

Oh, and I might blog some too.

Fear Mongering

2007-05-30T04:06:00.000-07:00

"However young,

The seeker who sets out upon the way
Shines bright over the world."

I touched on this subject once before in my Confessions of an Asshole entry, but I wanted to elaborate on the topic a bit. It's something that I've been witnessing first-hand over the past few weeks, and I feel the need to address it some more.

Before I get into the bad, though - let's talk about the good.

The online screenwriting community, without fail, has got to be the most helpful group of people I've ever come across in my life. From the working screenwriter who has penned a dozen blockbusters, down to the amateur working on her first script - it's a community of genuine people looking out for one another.

Every single working screenwriter I've had the honor to chat with has been open and honest with his advice - going out of the way to offer bits of wisdom from personal experience. And I've never had a fellow amateur decline to take time out of their day to read something and give feedback on it.

Without getting too gay on you - I just want to say I'm truly impressed by everyone I've met so far.

Now let's get to the bad.

There's one major difference, that I've found, between the working screenwriter and the amateur - and that's fear. Fear of failure. Fear of rejection. And a perpetuation of this fear.

A professional will tell you not to be scared. To put your balls out there. To give it a shot.

A fellow non-professional will tell you to tread carefully. To not lose your "one chance."

Now say what you will about me, but I've never been one to not take chances. I've never been the type of guy who is afraid to hit on the prettiest girl at the bar, I've never been afraid to just pick up the phone and cold call a potential client, and I've sure as shit never been afraid to take risks.

"All glory comes from daring to begin."

So why is everyone so afraid to fail? I've seen it so often now that I've become baffled by it. This cycle of fear that goes from one new screenwriter to the next, like a plague. It's as if no one is willing to take a chance until they achieve some sort of perfection.

Perfection is a myth.

For every person that likes your screenplay, two people will dislike it. It's the same anywhere else in life. Except this is the only world where people are so afraid of rejection and failure, that they're not willing to take that extra step forward. To make a leap of faith - that yes, I might fail, but I'm going to try.

"Simplicity before understanding is simplistic; simplicity after understanding is simple."

Don't buy into the fear mongering. Understand that it's a tough business to break into - and understand that you very well might fail - but don't let that stop you from trying. Go into it knowing the risks, but go into it anyway.

Failure will only help you improve. Rejection will make you stronger.

Put your fucking balls out there.

screenwriting

The Pitch

2007-05-28T02:10:00.000-07:00

Coming from a background in Advertising, I'm not unfamiliar with pitching - something I hear I'll be required to do once I make it in this business. I'm curious to see how a "Hollywood" pitch differs from some of the most outrageous ones I've been a part of.

Here is one of my more memorable ones.

I had just started my own firm, and was hungry for clients - any clients. I was willing to take meetings and work with people I normally wouldn't have. But that's okay - you gotta do what you gotta do to survive sometimes. Bring it on.

One such meeting was with a group of individuals so sleezy - they made even my womanizing, crass self flinch. Our first meeting was in a strip club.

This in and of itself wasn't so shocking. It definitely wasn't the first time I'd had a meeting in a strip club, and it wouldn't be the last. There was something about the group of guys, though, that made me feel dirty.

You know the type, right? Greasy, slicked back hair. Expensive suits that look cheap. And always trying to get shit free or at a discount. Including drinks and lapdances.

I wasn't impressed.

Didn't matter, though. They had lots of money, and I wanted some of it. Our original meeting went great, and they were eager to get started. After three weeks of their "eagerness" to get started, I'd had enough. I called up the CEO of the company who invited me to their offices for a second pitch.

At the time, I was sleeping with my assistant-slash-girlfriend who would accompany me to my meetings. She wasn't that well versed in the business, but she was good eye candy and smart enough to answer questions intelligently.

Unfortunately, we were fighting at the time.

We showed up 10 minutes early, and were immediately pulled into the meeting.

Here's how it went down.

CEO
Good to see you again.

Me
Likewise. So, how're we doing this?

CEO
Well, see, this other firm wants to go in a different direction with the campaign - and I think maybe we agree with them.

Me
Let me guess. They want to do something darker. Something a little more risque--

CEO
That's right...

Me
Typical. That's the direction every other firm would want to go with a product like yours. I'll admit, we even considered it at first. But I think you'd get far better reach with the campaign we proposed. I mean, sure, we can go in that direction and do something like--

At this point my assistant-slash-girlfriend kicks me in the leg.

I'm not exactly sure what she's trying to tell me, so I try to finish my sentence and give him an example of the direction we could go if they really wanted to - but letting him know it wouldn't be prudent to do so.

She kicks me in the leg again. This time, they take notice of it. Whatever it was she was trying to get me to say, or not to say, she should have just said herself. Instead, I'm stuck there being kicked in the middle of a meeting - with no idea of what the fuck she wants.

And they've seen it.

Now I know I haven't mentioned the product, but hopefully I've done an adequate job of describing the types of individuals I was pitching to - because my response to the situation was tailored specifically for them. In most other professional circumstances, I'd have either lost any chance I had even before I could speak - or this would have definitely sealed the deal:

Me
Sweetheart. I have no idea what the hell you're trying to tell me. Either say it, or stop kicking me in the leg.

To make matters worse, this set her off. Big time.

She stormed out of the office, and I was left with a bit of an uncomfortable situation.

So I do the only thing you can do - I smirk, and continue with my pitch - just as their secretary, almost as if on cue, walks into the office with our coffees.

I stop her before she leaves.

Me
Do me a favor and sit down next to me. I think better with a female nearby.

They're eating it up at this point. They tell her it's okay and she sits down next to me and I go into my close. They love the pitch. More importantly - they love me.

And now, it was time for the finale.

The assistant-slash-girlfriend has composed herself and walks back into the conference room to rejoin the meeting - except now there's another girl in her seat.

Me
Sorry, babe. You've been replaced.

I give her a wink, and a furious girl who would never again play hide the salami with me exits the room.

The CEO looks at me be with a big shit-eating grin on his face.

CEO
You have got the be the biggest asshole we've ever met.

Me
Does that mean I get the job?

He looks over at his COO and President and they give him the nod.

CEO
Let's sign.

Now if I ended this blog here, I would have just called it "Confessions of an Asshole, Redux." Because let's face it - I was a huge asshole in that meeting. Gigantic asshole.

But that wasn't the point - you guys already know I'm an asshole. No need to start repeating myself just yet.

What I was trying to say, is that if Hollywood pitches are anything like the ones I'm familar with - then you need to be malleable. You need to constantly be aware of your surroundings.

You have to know who you're selling to, just as much as what you're selling.

The Three Month Recap

2007-05-25T05:20:00.001-07:00

Three months sure goes by quickly.

The end of May officially marks the end of the first quarter of my journey. It's been an interesting ride so far, so I thought I would recap all that's happened.

Wrote An Entourage Spec

The very first thing I thought I would do, was write a TV spec. They're short, but still allowed me to get the hang of the "craft." And that's exactly what it was - a great, short writing excercise. It was fun to do, and I'm pretty happy with the outcome.

I blew through it pretty quickly - it took me maybe two weeks to go through a couple drafts and settle on one that I was happy with. I'll probably go back to it eventually, but I had keep moving forward.

If you haven't had a chance to see it, you can find it here at Simply Scripts.

Missed My First Deadline

That's right. If there was any doubt that I was destined to become a screenwriter - this second bullet point should squash that in its tracks. I missed my first deadline - The Nicholl Fellowship.

Through a combination of procrastination, learning curve, and failure - I managed to miss the biggest screenwriting competition of the year. Such is life.

At least I got the procrastinating down. I'm ready.

Shelved My First Feature Screenplay

It wasn't making any real progress, and I hated every word of it. But that didn't bother me too much - I appreciated the fact that I could look at something I had written, and be objective enough to notice its weaknesses.

Still, it was disappointing to have to backburner my very first attempt. Especially since it was a story that was very near and dear to me.

High Concept Inspiration

The day after I shelved my original feature spec, inspiration struck - in the form of a high concept gem. My second attempt would not follow in the footsteps of my first.

I was genuinely excited about this one.

Found A Writing Partner

Just as I was starting to gain steam on my second feature, I found a potential writing partner. I've already talked at length about her on the blog, but I will say that we work well together.

She loved the high concept spec I was working on, and we got along famously. It didn't take much deliberation to see that we should write together.

Since then we've had our ups and downs, and have definitely wanted to kill one another - but at the end of the day, I think we write well together and our writing has benefited from the relationship.

First Draft In Two Weeks

We knocked out a first draft of the feature spec in two weeks. No easy task, to be sure.

We really loved the idea, and were pretty happy with our first draft. We knew it was rough around the edges - but what first draft isn't. Did I mention we cranked it out in two weeks?

First Round Of Feedback

We sent out the first draft to five trusted friends, and waited patiently for the feedback.

It was an excruciating few days. We couldn't wait to hear what people thought - good or bad.

Finally, word got back to us - and it was positive. We had some issues with tone and such, but overall, people liked what they saw. Especially considering this was my very first draft of my very first feature script, I was quite happy with the feedback. On to the rewrites.

Writing Is Rewriting

I fucking hate cliches. Mostly because they're usually right.

The rewriting process was painful. Writing Partner and I almost came to blows a few times over differences of opinions on which way to go with the script - based on the feedback we'd gotten.

We both came out of it alive, though - and we'll have our second draft completed by tonight.

Go team.

More Feedback

I don't think we'll have enough time to get a second round of feedback - unless a couple of you are kind enough to be willing to turn around some feedback for us in 24 hours?

We'll be sending this second draft to the Austin Film Festival. It'll be my first competition.

As always, I'll let you know how it goes.

We'll of course continue to get feedback and revise the script, but Austin will get the second draft.

Looking Forward

That's where we're at - not as optimal a position as I had originally hoped to be in after three months, but definitely worthwhile progress in the journey. I'm not unhappy, for sure.

Next, along with the continued revisions to the first spec, we'll start working on a second feature. I also plan to start sending out query letters to agents and producers once we have a draft of the script we're both happy with.

We'll see how that goes.

Special Thanks

Most of all - I wanted to thank all of you who have been nothing but great during this entire process. Whether through email or blog comments, I appreciate every single one of you - from my writing partner down to the Mr. Anonymous Commenter who insists on correcting my horrendous grammar.

You've all been awesome.

Thanks for sticking around and reading my boob stories.

The Google Diaries

2007-05-23T07:14:00.000-07:00

It's time once again to address the random people finding their way to this blog through various, odd keywords. So without further ado, here are just a few of the search terms that have somehow directed some of you here.

"on my lap" our ankles tied together tits

Hello, fetish boy. I'm almost certain you were disappointed with what you found here. If it's any consolation, I appreciated the fact that you seemingly threw in "tits" for no reason at the end of your search.

male forced to grow breasts

Really. Really?

Who the hell is forcing you to grow breasts? And more importantly, why the heck are you Googling about it instead of calling the cops.

big biodomes boobs

What?

sister fucked hot tub

I think I've seen that DVD.

forced grope boobs

Please don't force a grope on the boobs, sir. If the boobs don't come willingly, the grope is much less satisfying.

stranger grabbing boobs

I seriously write about boobs way too much.

ahhh, she'd like this

Yes. Yes, she would.

boobie connoisseur

Yes. Yes, I am.

How can I be of assistance?

super enhanced boobs

Jesus. Do you people search about anything else?

marine dudes+morning erection

I'm sorry I asked.

You took a wrong turn somewhere on the internets, Mr. Marine Dude Morning Erection.

You've come to the wrong place. I write about boobs.

Confessions of a Chauvinist

2007-05-22T06:03:00.000-07:00

I am officially no longer sick - and it's a good thing, too. With only 8 days left until the Austin deadline, my body picked a really bad time to render itself unproductive. So, hurray - we're well again. And in celebration of my full recovery, I have a story.

An ex of mine and I used to enjoy reading together. It was something we did pretty regularly. I would be sitting up on the couch and she'd come and lay her head on my lap and we'd both sit quietly and read.

There was a problem, though.

I had this weird thing about it. Anytime she was in that position on my lap and we were reading together, in order for my right arm to be comfortable, I had to be cupping her boob. I know, I didn't get it either.

As with most quirks, they're only cute during the beginning of the relationship. Eventually it started to annoy her, and she'd try and move my arm. I'd move it back. She'd turn a little, I'd turn a little. It was physically impossible for me to sit with her like that if I wasn't cupping her boob. Next she tried sitting up next to me.

That didn't work either.

Now my hand had to be on the inside of her thigh. It wasn't only confined to when we read, either. We both realized that anytime we'd be sitting next to each other on a couch, my hand would be on her thigh. I'd never noticed these quirks of mine before.

So I thought back to every relationship I'd ever had - and sure enough, in just about every instance where the seating positions were similar - my hand would either be cupping the boob or on the thigh. It was really perplexing.

Then years later, as I'm breaking up with a completely different girl, it came to me.

I was just territorial.

The chick was insisting that we remain friends, and as usual, I wasn't having any of it. I gave her my patented "I'm a dog" speech. It goes something like this...

Chickie
We should stay friends.

Me
No. Sorry. That'll never work.

Chickie
Why the hell not?

Me
Because I'm like a dog--

Chickie
Well, I already knew that--

Me
Let me finish. I'm like a dog, see. Once I've pissed on a tree, I don't ever want to think about another dog pissing on my tree again. Even if I'm sick of that tree. Even if I never want to piss on that tree again in my life - just the thought of another dog pissing on my tree would drive me fucking crazy. I'm sorry, I just can't handle that.

Chickie
You didn't really just compare me and our relationship to a dog pissing on a tree.

Me
I'm afraid I did. Goodbye.

So as I'm walking away after giving this same speech for the who knows how-manyeth time, it all came to me. I was simply territorial. I enjoy cupping the boob and putting my hand on the thigh because, in my eyes, those are my boobs and my thighs. That's just how I'm wired.

If you don't like it, don't sit so close.

A Gentle Giant

2007-05-20T23:45:00.000-07:00

That's me on the right.

It's official: I say some fucked up shit when I'm drunk.

As I woke up from my NyQuil enduced coma earlier, the strangest thing happened - I remembered something I said during a blackout. Out of the blue, as I'm waking up, I get back a little memory from a night I can barely remember.

Picture it. I'm passed out in front of an apartment - not my own - and the cops pull up and flash their bright lights on my face. As I'm wobbling up to my feet to greet the fine officers come to haul me away, I utter six magical words: "Don't worry, I'm a gentle giant."

Let me say that again.

"Don't worry, I'm a gentle giant."

What the fuck? Now I've said some weird shit while drunk in the past - like, "This is the new me. The old me? That was a beta version. This is me 2.0." I've even pissed in places no housebroken human being should ever urinate. But to look a police officer square in the eyes and reassure him with, "Don't worry, I'm a gentle giant?"

I couldn't make that up if I tried.

And why that memory? Out of everything my brain could have grabbed from the tangled web that is my memory of that blackout - why would it pick the one that would make me cringe the most?

I'm being picked on by my own subconscious.

I mean, granted, I am a giant. But you don't just come right out and say something like that.

Go easy on a brother.

Screenwriting Challenge

2007-05-19T15:38:00.000-07:00

Inspiration can come from the strangest of places.

Your challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to come up with a logline and spec idea based on the picture above.

Good luck.

screenwriting

My Brain Hurts

2007-05-19T04:57:00.000-07:00

Today's entry comes at you bullet point style.

My sleep schedule has gone to shit.

Not like it was great to begin with, but now it's just all kinds of fucked up. I need to fix this.

I hated homework when I was in school, and I still hate it today.

Partner and I have been doing homework since we got our first round of feedback; (re)watching movies and reading scripts from within our genre before jumping into rewrites.

Homework sucks.

My balls may become wind chimes.

Boy did I piss off my writing partner something wicked the other day. I'm kind of flakey sometimes, and she didn't appreciate that very much.

She's since forgiven me, I think, but I'm not letting my guard down. I think she wants to stab me in the balls.

We continue to write.

At some point today, now that we've done our homework, looks like we'll be getting started on our rewrites. It's overwhelming to think about. So I try not to.

I'm sick.

Yesterday, out of the blue, I got hellaciously sick. Nothing terrible, mind you - just the shivers and light-headedness. But I don't get sick very often - so when I do, look out - I'm a huge fucking baby.

Expect much more complaining should I not get better in short order.

Confessions of an Asshole

2007-05-17T00:10:00.000-07:00

Last week a friend of mine snapped and unleashed on me out of nowhere. Literally in mid-conversation, he drops a bomb on me: You're an asshole. There was a lot more to it, and other words were thrown around - but that was the one that stuck with me most.

You're an asshole.

That night, I thought long and hard about what that word meant - both to him and to me.

To him, I was an asshole because I would poke fun at the ridiculous things I'd come across in this online screenwriting world of ours. Stuff like that "Genuine Insanity" post below. This guy is so nice that it gives me a toothache most days, so it didn't surprise me that my aggressive, cynical nature would eventually get to him.

What did surprise me was the fact I was comfortable with it.

I am an asshole.

The screenwriting world seems to be built around a foundation of fear and self-doubt - one that isn't very conducive to success. The moment you even start to think about this as a career choice, you're inundated with so many cliches and mantras that your head spins.

Your first screenplay will suck.

Your first ten screenplays will suck.

It can take years for you to break in.

And we buy into it. Not only do we buy into it, but we take it to heart. We become self-conscious about our writing. Then that opens the door for these vultures who offer "script analysis" and "consulting" services with barely a credit to their name - because of the fact that we're being conditioned, right from the start, to fail.

Don't get me wrong. I don't reject these things outright.

For example, there are genuine people out there willing to read your script and give you honest feedback for a fair fee - like Scott the Reader.

I also don't deny that my first screenplay needs a lot of work. Because it does. I don't even deny that my second screenplay will need a lot of work. Or my third.

What I do reject is this notion that it's somehow foolhardy for us to go into this expecting to succeed. That is bullshit. If you don't think that you can write, and write well, then you shouldn't be doing this in the first place. If you're not going into this thinking you'll be great - you're doing yourself a disservice.

Believe that you can write something outstanding. Believe that you will sell the very first thing you write. Believe that you can succeed at this if you just put yourself out there and try.

Believe in yourself.

Don't expect your first screenplay to suck. If it does suck, figure out why, and do it better the next time. But don't go into this expecting to fail. Go into it thinking you're bringing in a fresh point of view. If it takes you twenty tries to get it right, so be it - but don't expect it to.

If it makes me an asshole to be confident and expect to succeed, then I proudly admit to being one.

And you should too.

Now my friend and I have long since kissed and made up.

But I'm still an asshole.

screenwriting

It's Done! It's Done! It's Done!

2007-05-15T01:14:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gentleman,

I am so unbelievably proud to announce that Annabel (my writing partner) and I have just finished the first draft of our new feature spec.

This is such a great feeling.

We've sent it to a very select few people for a first round of feedback.

I pray it goes well.

Genuine Insanity

2007-05-12T16:52:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry I've neglected my blog for a few days. We're wrapping up the first spec this weekend, and I've been caught up in avoiding doing the work.

That being said, I had to take a few minutes today and write about the first genuinely insane person I've ever come across. He is, without question, the most fascinating person I've ever seen on the internet. And that's saying a lot.

Come on, I'll give you a tour of his strange world.

I first stumbled across his post on the MySpace Film Classifieds.

Subject: selling comedy script to anybody with the money

click the green at screenplayp.tripod.com

it's a comedy script that i wrote, that has been promoted on LATE NIGHT by Andy Richter, a while back.

i'm a java genius, and i can make it look like the audience is in the film.

--bulbo fish, that you've been looking for
Xxx Xxxxxx
xxxxxxxxx@xxxxxxxx.xxx

currently i'm leading 4 mafias--should you need to know my background--Helios mafia is running your sun and the sky, the way i wrote it in java, i should hope to get some respect for my hard work

$50,000 for me, should be good enough for this script

That would get your attention too, right? The man effortlessly transitioned from his comedy script, to Andy Richter, and finally to being a java genius who runs four mafias. Oh, and he wanted $50,000 for his script.

Immediately, I was hooked. I wanted to find out more about this person.

So I checked his MySpace blog. This was the only entry:

just incase you, like myself, have discovered "ions" to be related to anger, do not run (ions--) this is the wrong thing to do. i'm a physicist that knows that the term "power" is with the large variety of atomic structure and to be low on this is to gain a problem from everybody not experimenting of talking ones voices, to fix this problem you should probably start of with "suck ions to tongue"

contact me if you need any medical advise, i can cure depression, i can fix hyper active nerves, i can rebuild brain, i can increase memory, i am the only variety of jackass, sorry, doctor, that is willing to do it for free for anyone of you, the brain is good when it is without air, air in the body is meant to disrupt clotage and evacuate parial matter (the weaker variety of matter)

i believe i've heard nothing smart from all variety of pyschiatrist i've talked with

list your problems in response, i''ll try to figure something out to fix things

What. The. Fuck.

I was momentarily stunned, but quickly hungry for more.

If his classified ad and one blog entry were this awesome - his script had to be the tits.

What I came to find in his 53 page script would change me forever. A glimpse into the mind of a madman. I would like to live inside this persons brain, even if only for five minutes. It's got to be fucking fascinating in there.

I picture it as a tangled web of jungle plants and overactors.

So I read his script.

Jim Carrey: I have a problem
Steve Buschemi: Give me the overview
Jim Carrey: My sister once groped my mom; I still hate her
Steve Buschemi: Hmm…what’s the matter, can’t share?
Jim Carrey: I rubbed your belly and farted; I wonder how you rubbing my belly helped you release that nasty aroma; it bubbled out in rainbow colors, does that help?
Street2: Yes, it’s funny you should say that... I'm so happy for you
Jim Carrey: Well, I’m not happy. …I’m going to go to a shrink
Steve Buschemi: Poor shrink

I needed more.

Jack Black: Ah, everybody likes a zinger… I’ve got one… how do you clean a vagina in a can?
Jim Carrey: I don’t know. How do you clean a bottled vagina?
Jack Black: I give it to your father
Jim Carrey: Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…
Jack Black: Perch hats, perch hats, perch hats, get that fish off your head!
Jim Carrey: Yes, well, since I will no longer be hacking you or anyone else, I think I’ll have an ice cream and we can be on our separate ways
Jack Black: Nope. Ever skydive into a pool of blood?
Jim Carrey: Never

Holy vagina's in a can, Batman.

Just as I was getting into it - Tom Cruise and Faith Hill appeared.

A new scene appears at the beach with a bikini blonde

Faith Hill: Blonde…? No sharks on this end of the coast
Tom Cruise: Delightful. Hey, did you know I’m in a movie?
Faith Hill: Sure. And so am I, the camera is right there

If that weren't enough, our own Exquisite Emily made an appearance in the script.

Emily: I’m hungry
Jim Carrey: Join the club
Emily: Done, now what?
Jim Carrey: Pay me your dues
Emily: How about I pay you in doo-doos?
Jim Carrey: Whenever I think of feces, I think of monkeys throwing it
Emily: Is this normal?
Jim Carrey: You should think about poop. That's what my doctor tells me anyway. Saying random words isn't as good as saying synonyms in the word association game. Tube of meat?
Emily: Like salami?
Jim Carrey: Of course I do, that’s what I’d bring. I hope you have bread, I’ll spread mayo and meat between the pieces
Emily: Party hardy
Jim Carrey: You’ve got a party what? I wasn’t planning for anything social until you called
Emily: That’s OK. I’ll bring the party, you bring the hardy
Jim Carrey: Oooh-la-la

Oh, and apparently she's horny.

Bitch gets in his car, pulls out of the space, gets on the freeway, gets off at a seven-eleven, makes himself a (white) pina colada slurpee, pays, and leaves for home, then he gets a phone call from Emily, hangs up and looks down to put the cell phone away while pulling a u-turn, he slams the breaks, then hits the corner of a traffic light post

Emily: Hi, what is this word we call “sex?”
Jim Carrey: Word? Do you mean word like werd? As in hello?
Emily: Of course
Jim Carrey: I see. Werd
Emily: “I” like “eye?”
Jim Carrey: You damn well do!
Emily: No, what’s another word for sex?
Jim Carrey: Hmm… you want a “fuck?”
Emily: Yes, thanks, i want an orgasm
Jim Carrey: I’ll give you five
Emily: Could you imagine having five at once?
Jim Carrey: No, but I could imagine having a Supersoaker penis
Emily: You pump it then you fire?
Jim Carrey: I do. I have to refill the tank too
Emily: Hose in the ass?

In the words of Keanu Reeves. Whoa.

I couldn't put the fucker down.

I think he ran out of famous names towards the end, though - because by then everyone was just named Actor...

Actor: i got other large balls of ice if you want a cone
Actor: DUNCE!
Actor: "It's not an act of God," said Carlos Javage, whose son's car was wrecked by the mystery ice. "This came off an airplane."
Actor: acting good, the icicle looked much larger than a falic sculputure for it was not yet in the bat cave for
Actor: humungus humiliated spell checker
Actor: dead car, screamed the bat
Actor: smack dat
Actor: homer
Actor: doh

Wow.

Writing With A Partner

2007-05-09T00:44:00.000-07:00

When I shelved my first spec, I began toying with the idea of working with a partner. I'd entertained the thought before, but this time I was set on actually trying it. And like with any big decision, the first thing I did was talk to a couple of people who work with writing partners (one of whom was the piquant Emily).

They basically told me what I should have realized on my own: writing is a lot like having sex. Sure it's fun to do on your own, but so much more pleasant when company is present.

They were right.

We're about a week away from finishing the first draft of our screenplay - and neither one of us can contain our excitement. We're literally itching to have a select few of our friends read it and get our first round of feedback. Whatever happens, I think I can speak for both of us when I say that we've both thoroughly enjoyed the process.

The back and forth of a built-in sounding board is such an amazing asset to have. We laugh, we refine and compliment each others work, and most of all, I think we make strengthen each others talents and abilities.

Every screenwriter should experience writing with a partner at least once before discounting it as an option. I can't recommend it enough.

Now let's see what happens next week when we show the script to people for the first time.

screenwriting

These are not the droids you're looking for.

2007-05-08T14:11:00.000-07:00

You can thank the scrumptious Emily for the inspiration to this blog entry.

Here's a small sample of the interesting search terms that have brought people to this blog:

i'm bored boobs

Ironically, I've used this exact Google search before. Welcome, friend.

lucious boobs

A man after my own heart. I hope you weren't too disappointed when you just found a bunch of words here instead of pictures of said lucious boobs.

forced tit growing stories

This one kinda scares me a little. What does it mean? I've never seen tits be forced to grow before. Is it painful? Does it work? I will have nightmares about this search for the rest of my life.

"writing about boobs"

I clearly write about boobs way too much.

what is fred savage doing

Whoever you are, sir, know that this is a question that plagues me on a daily basis. What is Fred Savage doing?

"fucked his girlfriend" smashing his guitar

I found this one interesting. Does he mean smashing his guitar while he fucked his girlfriend? Was he looking for tips on how to do it right?

My advice: use a safeword

Anyway, that's all for today. I think I'll turn this into a regular feature. Thanks again, Emily.

The Way Back Machine

2007-05-07T01:22:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the Way Back Machine - today we present you with something from my younger years. A book/story which took place in a video game. No, I didn't mistype that. Yes, you heard me right. I will cringe as I click the "Publish" button for this entry.

I don't even know why I'm posting this - it can only discredit my current attempt at becoming a professional screenwriter. But here I am, doing it... Here is just a small section of it for you to mock.

Be gentle.

* Crash has logged in.

Crash says, "So much for changing my life today."
Silvean peers at you quizzically.
You slap Silvean across the face.
Crash says, "Don't eyeball me, kid. I say what I want."
Silvean snarls at you.

Heh. I bet that pissed him off. Silvean's my arch-nemesis here. We're both powerful Sorcerers with quite the distaste for one another. It also doesnt help that we're interested in the same girl. A Sorcereress named Lylia. A beautiful, green-eyed, red-headed goddess with wit that paralleled our own. It's a good thing she wasnt around to witness that smack I just threw Silveans way - he'd have had to defend his honor and one of us would be dead in a pool of blood already.

"You touch me again..." Silvean begins to say.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Black clouds. Demons. My soul. Burning. I get it." I cut him off.
I chuckle as I walk off.

As I make my way towards Grey's Tower to kill some Elven Marauders, I'm ambushed by three trolls, equipped with black steel armor and enchanted flaming axes. I could immediately tell these were not your average trolls. Trolls typically wore leather armor and carried clubs, not to mention they werent native to the part of the continent I was in.

"Take his money and his head!" shouts the first troll as the other two leap towards me, dripping fire from their axes, dousing me as they descend upon my neck.

I try to jump back to avoid their attack, but I'm not exactly limber. They slice my left leg wide open as I fall to the ground in agony. The fire on their axes did nothing to cauterize the wound. I was bleeding like a stuffed pig.

I had two choices as they took a break to mock my unpreparedness. I could summon a demon and pray that hed win the fight for me, or I could send up a flare in hopes that a friendly face was nearby enough to come save the day.

* Crash sends up a flare for help from Twilight Forest.

"Hahaha, big strong finger-waggler scurred!" mocked the first troll.
"Mommy not come to help little finger-waggler today," continued the second.
The troll in the back, the one who barked the attack orders, seemed a bit worried though.
"Finish jokes and kill!" he commanded.

In walks Silvean followed by his loyal imp, Cackles.

"Fuck me." I comment, bleeding from the leg didnt impede my ability to recognize irony.
"I could leave if you want," Silvean smirks at me.
"Can I think about it?" I ask.

The trolls, fortunately, werent smart enough to realize that this was no savior and he had probably come by just to watch. They looked at each other for a second before charging towards Silvean.

Cackles, sensing the danger, immediately cast a protective shield around his master.

The trolls first attack was thwarted as they bounced off the shield and fell to the ground. That wasnt about to stop them, though. The shield was a relatively weak one and had dissipated after the first attack. As they made their charge towards Silvean four round two, Silvean turned to me.

"I hope you're taking notes," he sneered.

He raised his arms and canted the words to the Dark Catalyst spell.

A stream of fire, ice, earth, and darkness shot towards the two trolls like a speeding locomotive from Silveans fingertips. A few bloody, torn limbs flew in my general direction as the spell made contact. A huge cloud of dust erupted from the impact, and by the time it settled, all that was left of the two attackers were their satchels and two corpses burnt beyond recognition.

Silvean smirked at me.

The mother fucker sure likes to smirk. I wobbly stood back up, gripping my arch-nemesis shoulder for support. He hated to be touched.

"NOW!" shouted the remaining attacker, as nearly two dozen other equally well-equipped trolls emerged from behind the trees of twilight forest.

"Fuck me." I reiterated.
Silvean nodded at me.
We simultaneously sent up flares for help.

Although we hated one another, there were times in the past where we had to fight side-by-side. Mainly because of Lylia. So we knew how to work together well, even though I think neither of us would be disappointed if we never had to again.

Silvean took care of casting spiritual and elemental defense spells on us both as I summoned my loyal imp, Smirkles.

Silvean scowled at my pet.
"I knew you'd like him." I chuckled.

Before he could react and retort with something clever, we quickly realized the small army of trolls that was in front of us moments ago had just encircled us.

I spun around, stood back to back with Silvean as we both summoned a wall of fire in opposing directions, buying us a few extra moments.

I quickly pulled out my lucky Dagger of Trollbane and put on my Defensive Robes.

"Nice color," smirked Silvean.
Smirkles slapped Silvean in the right thigh, about as high as he could reach.
"Only Smirkles do that!" my little imp was emphatic.
"Thanks little guy," I petted him on the head as he smiled, happy to have pleased his master.
"Remind me to kill him when we're done," Silvean grumbled.

As the walls of fire began to dissipate, I muttered a few arcane words and vines began grabbing at the ankles of some of our would-be assassins knocking them to the ground.

I immediately yelled another incantation, sending a roaring fireball towards my closest troll. He flew back in flames, knocking down and injuring two others.

They circled us hungrily. Careful not to exhaust their resources, theyd only send in a skirmisher or two at a time, slowly whittling away at our mana supply. The banter between us began to subside the more it became evident we were grossly outnumbered.

"What now?" I looked over my shoulder at Silvean.
"Void." said Silvean.
"Void?" I questioned.
"Void." he was adamant.

A void was one of our most powerful spells. It took two very high level Sorcerers to cast, summoning an implosion that spared no one, not even the casters. A black void would open above our heads, and begin sucking in everyone and everything in the vicinity. Spewing things back out only after they were properly dead. Us included. It was a spell used ever-so-rarely, and never so close to town.

The trolls closed in on us, aware of our diminishing mana.

"Void now!" Silvean shouted as he began the incantation.
I was reluctant, but muttered the charm for implosion along with him.

A black cloud appeared over us and grabbed the attention of the trolls. They began pointing at it and whispering to one another as it began to spark and crackle. A soft wind began pulling towards the center of the cloud as it darkened further. The trolls crouched a bit, uncertain of what was happening or what they were looking at.

BOOM! A loud explosion came from the blackness above as the gusts of wind intensified into a frenzy as branches and small rocks were sucked into the black hole. A imperial guard of the city that happened to be walking by, and that could have potentially aided us in our defense, was the first victim of our implosion. Not as heavy as a troll, and unprepared, he was lifted off his feet in a flurry and disappeared into the darkness.

The trolls gasped with both relief and confusion. It didnt take long before what remained of the guard came showering back down onto our heads. Soaked in imperial blood and now beginning to fully understand the situation they were in, our attackers one by one began to retreat as their commander roared with disapproval.

"Army not run! Army kill finger-wagglers!" he demanded.

It was too late. One by one as they turned to tuck-tail and run, they were sucked into the void and spewed back out in pieces. We knew we were going to die, but at least we were going to die victorious.

Or at least we thought.

With still a dozen of the trolls remaining and our void at full strength, like a ray of sunshine on a rainy day, in walked Lylia, and four of our mutual friends. Lylia both laughed and shook her head at us as she quickly took notice of the void above our heads.

Finkle Nimblethumb, a well-respected halfling rogue of the lands who had made the trip with Lylia for our rescue didnt stand a chance. "Aaahhhh!" he screamed as he disappeared into the nothing. Only a tuft of scraggly hair with a severed foot atop it remained of Finkle.

The empath and cleric in Lylias party took no time to dispel our implosion before joining us in the fight.

"You boys seem to have found yourselves some trouble," snickered Lylia.
"Yes ma'am!" I responded.

The empath, a lovely elderly woman named Elisea Soother, ran over to me and put her soft hands around my mangled leg, transferring the wound over to herself before falling over in pain. She sat up and healed my remaining blood loss.

It was on now.

Silvean, Lylia, and I commanded our imps into battle as we began smothering our enemies with spells from every which way. The cleric, a man named Night Winged who made no secret of his dabbling in the darker arts, protected us with his divine magic before turning his attention to the corpses of the two burnt trolls - reanimating them to fight on our behalf.

With two troll skeletons as our front line of defense, taking the damage for us, Elisea could now focus on mending the wound on her leg as we took care of the remaining attackers.

If there was ever a time to impress Lylia, now was it. With just three trolls left, I leapt over Silvean and with one swift maneuver, grabbed the necks of the first two trolls - electricity crackling at my fingertips. A surge went through the trolls entire bodies, from their neck down, and they soon fell limp to the floor. Their necks charred.

Only the commander remained.

I looked over my shoulder and saw that Silvean was already preparing to cast a spell - I knew that I didnt have enough time to cast anything, as hed already gotten the jump on me in that regard. I charged towards the commander, Dagger of Trollbane in hand - and plunged it into his stomach. Looking into his eyes, which almost seemed human for a moment, I twisted the dagger upwards, gutting him.

"Not today, my friend." I whispered into his ear as he took his final breath.

Lylia clapped.

"That wouldn't have been for my benefit, would it, Crash?" she asked with a smile.
"Me? A showman? Never." I insisted.
She shot me a quick wink as Silveans spell fizzled away, unused.

Night turned our undead protectors away, and the fight was over. I could breathe again.

I turned my attention to Finkle's big toe and Night, "Is that enough to resurrect him?"
"You mean there was more to him before?" Night chuckled.

We gathered the satchels full of gold and treasure the trolls left behind, as Night resurrected Finkle and Elisea healed his wounds.

"Good to have you back, Finkle!" Lylia beamed.
"I think I shat myself," Finkle announced.
"I cant heal that," Elisea grinned.

We had a good laugh at poor Finkles demise as we made our way to the East Tower of town to scavenge through the riches our troll friends left behind.

As I drank my ale and counted my gold, it was becoming evident it was time to leave.

"I need to run," I said to the group.
"But I just got here," said Lylia disappointed, as she smacked my shoulder.
"I'll be back." I reassured her.
"Unfortunately," scowled Silvean.

* Crash has logged out.

Beware of Becoming Predictable

2007-05-07T00:32:00.000-07:00

Condemned to live through our art, for we do not know how to live through our lives. We are islands.

It's amazing how someone can be so sexy, unique, and intriguing one minute - but the moment they become predictable, they lose their flavor.

It's like a rubix cube in many ways. The challenge of a rubix cube is perplexing at first, and even though it frustrates you to no end, if you happen to come across one, you can't help but pick it up and try again - even if it's just for a moment.

People are a lot like that for me.

I always see people as a mystery. Elusive, appealing creatures. Each one rich with his or her own story, complete with countless tales for you to absorb. I assume everyone I meet is complicated - until they prove otherwise, of course.

Then suddenly, much to my chagrin, what I once saw as a maze of material turns into a simple creature. No mystery. No appeal.

The rubix cube is solved.

The good news is, though, someone always needs to fill that void of mystery and appeal. A new muse is in order.

After all, it is the pursuit we seek, not the capture.

I Procrastinate

2007-05-05T16:57:00.000-07:00

The Vapor Trail
Random Brutal Love Master

Here today, gone today. You are The Vapor Trail.

Are you in a relationship now?

What about now?

Vapor Trails can be highly charismatic people--unpredictable, confident, and magnetic. You're experienced. You know how to handle yourself in a relationship, and many people appreciate that. Many people, all in a row.

You've had your share of blissful beginnings, to be sure. But things almost never turn out how you'd like, do they? The problem is you're never happy with someone for an extended period of time. Relate to the following:

Vapor Trails especially need a girl who will laugh at their jokes. They're also the most likely male type to be haunted by serious regret.

FACT: A few of your exes, the ones you were best to, will always love you. Nice going.

Your exact opposite:
The Backrubber

Deliberate Gentle Sex Dreamer

ALWAYS AVOID: The Intern, The Maid of Honor

CONSIDER: The Sudden Departure

Link: The 32-Type Dating Test

What type are you?

The Rebirth

2007-05-05T00:42:00.000-07:00

If you're anything like me, you've always hated homework. To the bone.

Unfortunately, this latest blog entry requires some reading in order to understand (or you can just skip it and come back tomorrow). Anyway, this is about the rebirth that took place after this story here.

I was in quite the slump after what had happened. I felt destroyed. I had lost what little taste for life I once had. I was basically stuck in neutral for several months - but like a bad case of herpes, I eventually came back with a vengeance.

This is how I got my closure.

One Friday afternoon, while procrastinating from any meaningful activity, I posted a comment on a picture my old friend Emily had put up on MySpace. It said, "Nice hat, fucker."

This may seem like a benign comment, but it wasn't.

"Nice hat, fucker" represented everything that my life was missing. "Nice hat, fucker" was the carefree, less solemn me trying to break free. "Nice hat, fucker" made me realize I had no closure to the life I once had.

I realized that a big part of me was still clinging to that life I once had back in North Carolina. The sense of stability that time represented was gone for a while now, but it was a reality I wasn't willing to confront. Emily is the only remaining tie I have to that life, and I wish she had still lived there - because that weekend, I went back.

That's right - like Ozzy fucking Osbourne, I made one final return to North Carolina that weekend for the comeback tour to end all comeback tours. This was my epilogue. My closure - The North Carolina Comeback Tour.

I had to make myself a couple promises before I did it:

One - I would not make contact with anyone of significance from my time there. Those characters from my life had been killed off, so to speak, and they were under absolutely no circumstances to be reintroduced.

Two - While this would be a tour of pleasures, there would be certain pleasures I would abstain from. After all, this was not for the closure to things, just a closure.

So with those two certainties in mind, I was ready to party like it was 1999.

One small hiccup with the plan, though - I'm not white. I was a man of middle-eastern descent (1/2 Greek, 1/2 Lebanese) who had purchased a last-minute cross-country flight ticket with cash. Before I could even yelp "I'm a Republican!" Donald Rumsfeld had on white gloves and was demanding I spread my cheeks. Having been thoroughly violated and my baggage checked multiple times, I was finally en route to North Carolina.

I eventually got to my hotel room in my luxurious Enterprise Rent-A-Car, and decide I'd waste no time on this whole closure thing.

I went to one of my favorite coffee shops and found exactly what I was looking for - one of the girls that I'd been meaning to take out when I lived there. She was excited to see me. I maneuvered my charm like a slippery ballerina and got her to agree to break off her commitments for the evening and go see a movie with me instead.

The evening was a fantastic reintroduction to my old world. And while I really liked this girl, sleeping with her was not an option. She was a single mother - and as everybody knows, you don't shoplift the pootie from a single mother. This particular comeback tour stop was not about sex anyway - it was about the people there that I missed, the old movie theater that I used to go to, and of course, a nice dinner at one of my old favorites. The evening accomplished everything it was supposed to.

I went back to my hotel room and fell asleep - alone.

Sunday afternoon I went to one of my old watering holes and had a nice lunch of cheese sticks and captain and coke - something that would make my old friend Emily very proud. I sat outside like we always did and recounted some amazing memories that were associated with that place. Fights, love affairs, and sharing drinks with a couple police officers that saw us smoking weed the day before - to name a few. I was alone, but not in spirit. I said goodbye to the aptly named Sunset Grill and headed to my third destination:

Naked women.

I wouldn't be who I am today if not for god's greatest creation - strippers. So it was inevitable that I would at some point end up at a strip club during the trip. Having lusted for them, dated them, and had sex with them on the job, it would be completely out of character for me to not make this third stop on my tour. After all, what would an Ozzy-like comeback be without its fair share of debauchery - and since drugs were out, boobies would have to do.

I hadn't been to a strip club since I'd broke up with my ex a couple years ago, but it was like riding a bike. Walking into that dark room and sniffing at that intoxicating mix of scented oil, cigarettes, and sweat was like being back in the crib. The club owner instantly recognized me and rushed over to see where and how I'd been. We caught up for a few minutes before I patted him on the shoulder and took my exit with a hurried, "Anyway Jim, boobies await."

I sat down on my old couch, and much to my surprise, I recognized a few of the faces. One girl in particular I remembered really well - she'd always been one that got away. For a multitude of reasons, we'd never hooked up.

I decided that I had to mark one last piece of territory before my comeback tour was over.

It didn't take much effort to convince her that she had to see the inside of my fabulous hotel room. As two in the morning rolled around, me and my bride-to-be for the evening took our leave and headed back to my hotel. I'll spare you the details.

It was now monday morning and my flight left that afternoon. I had one final stop to make before closure was complete.

I headed to my old office building. I didn't go inside or initiate contact with any of my old co-workers (see the above two caveats for my trip), but I did park outside the building and reminisce for an hour or two. I saw a few of the cars my old friends drove, I imagined what life would be like if I were still there - and occasionally, I ducked down really low in my seat if I spotted one of them.

It was a nice feeling. I've always had aspirations to become more than I am, and being there helped me realize that while life there was stable, it wasn't exactly vaulting me forward. That job did nothing for my insatiable appetite to become something bigger. I was now content with having moved on from there and being forced to take that leap into the unknown.

Adios, suckers.

As I drove off, I glanced over at my old doctor's office right down the street from the office and chuckled, remembering my last visit with her. I won't go into too many details, but let's just say it was on the heels of a binge-filled week and I wasn't exactly myself. I hope I left her with a few stories.

I was now officially done with my comeback tour. So I made my way to the airport for one final cavity search and a flight back to California.

It was good to be back.

Quick Writing Update

2007-05-03T23:33:00.000-07:00

So things between me and my new collaborator are going really well. She laughs at all my jokes, and so far we're really proud of the stuff we're coming up with together. Hopefully the chemistry will translate to the page.

We're on a really tight schedule but cranking things out at record pace. Draft 1 has a deadline of May 15th - yikes. Good thing we work well under pressure.

If nothing else, this is turning out to be a great process. We're both having fun with the writing and looking forward to contributing new things each day. Before you know it, I'll be living a life of luxury as a professional screenwriter - a thousandaire.

May 15th here we come.

Fear of Commitment

2007-05-01T15:22:00.000-07:00

Some people get the seven year itch. I get the seven month inch.

Sometimes the seven week itch.

It's true - I'm terrified of commitment. It doesn't just apply to relationships, either - it extends to all aspects of my life.

When I was making more money than I knew what to do with, people kept insisting that I buy a home. "Do it, just fucking do it!"

But I couldn't.

The thought of buying a home, growing roots in one place scared me just as much as the idea of binding myself to a single woman for the rest of my life. I don't know what it is, I'm incapable of any sort of long term thinking.

I always feel like the bottom's going to fall out. That any sort of future plans are wasted, because you never know what tomorrow will bring. And if you've read any of my earlier blog entries, you'll find that it has been a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Well no longer.

Four months and two days away from turning 30 years old, I'm finally taking my first step towards adulthood.

No, I'm not getting married. I'm not even buying a house. But I am starting to work with a writing partner. Baby steps, right? So far we're working really well together - and while it's too early to tell, I'm really excited by the prospect.

We're very different people with completely different backgrounds. She is the Yin to my Yang. I'm crass, she's sweet. I'm insane, she's grounded. I have spurts of inspiration and stretches of laze, she's driven. Hopefully, it will be the right combination for perfect screenwriting.

I will keep you updated.

screenwriting

Snubbed by John August

2007-04-28T20:10:00.000-07:00

When I woke up this morning, I had high hopes. Today was the day. I'd win John August's Make Your Introduction Scene Challenge, and there'd be no looking back - the glamorous life of a professional screenwriter would be mine. I'd have more coke and whores than I'd know what to do with.

This is how it was supposed to be.

Instead, John chose two lesser submissions as the winners. I was shocked. Shocked, I tell you. My dreams were crushed. Was he not going to personally call me and refer me to his agent based on how great my submissions were? What about the introduction to Tim Burton, would that not happen as well?

My world was coming crumbling down around me.

But the person who really lost today was not me. No. It was John August. Because I no longer plan to share with him my meta game plan to extend the Big Fish franchise into a trilogy - Bigger Fish, and Big Fish: With a Vengeance. I'm keeping those little nuggets of gold to myself now.

The truth is, I spent all of five minutes on my two submissions. With the first I just wanted to make a Tim Burton zinger, and the second was my feeble attempt to redeem myself. I failed at redemption. I failed at impressing John August.

I have failed as a human being today.

I have no excuse.

Oh, and here are my two submissions.

Submission One:

INT. HAPPY LAUND-O-RAMA - DAY

The Korean family running this joint never skimp on the starch. Clothes wrapped in plastic whiz in circles as the thirteen family members working today turn their attention to JOHN AUGUST (36), entering with a stained tuxedo in hand.

His fidgeting annoys the father at the front desk.

JOHN
Uh, I was at an awards dinner last night and–

FATHER
What wrong with suit?

JOHN
It’s a tuxedo, actually.

The father grows more annoyed and just stares at John.

JOHN
I spilled wine on it.

FATHER
Okay. Seven dollah. You come back Wednesday.

JOHN
Do I get a slip?

The father looks like he’s ready to jab John in the neck with his pen as he fills out the slip and angrily hands it to him.

FATHER
Bye.

JOHN
(mumbling)
Tim never has to put up with this shit.

Submission Two:

INT. HAPPY LAUND-O-RAMA - DAY

FRANK DAWSON (35) enters the busiest dry cleaners west of Sunset Boulevard and takes his place in line. Each time he’s about to reach the front, he turns around and allows another person to cut in front of him.

FRANK
Oh that looks heavy. Go on ahead of me.

And another.

FRANK
Yikes, that’s a lot of laundry. You go first.

And another.

FRANK
You’ve got a lot more than I do, I insist you cut.

The korean woman at the front eyes him curiously, as this continues for well over an hour. Eventually, there is no one left.

KOREAN WOMAN
Sir?

FRANK
Oh, sorry. I just didn’t want to be alone today.

Frank leaves behind a gentle smile as he exits.

screenwriting

Writing is Fun

2007-04-27T17:57:00.000-07:00

So I started working on my new script yesterday. A little weepy still over having to shelve my baby, I jumped right into the new spec. And a funny thing happened... I didn't struggle with it. The words came naturally. The story developed on its own.

Ho-lee shit.

This must be what everyone was talking about. That whole "Writing is supposed to be fun" mantra that I kept scoffing at as I struggled with the old spec for weeks. It really is an amazing feeling.

Now I don't know what the final product will look like - but right now, I really don't care. I'm having so much fun writing this sucker that I'm not even worried how it will turn out - I'm just exhilarated by the story.

Weird, right? After being so worked up over my last spec, it's a bit weird to have things work so easily with this new one. I'm up to 15 pages (15 that I'm actually, truly happy with) with no signs of slowing down.

It's going to be awesome.

Oh, and I've decided I don't hate those of you who made me dump the last one so much anymore. You're back on the Christmas list, mother fuckers.

screenwriting

Bro Rape

2007-04-27T16:53:00.001-07:00

This really needs no introduction. Watch it. Cringe at it.

Learn to love it.

It is. Perfect.

Learning to Let Go

2007-04-26T05:39:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I made a really tough decision. I finally admitted to myself that my current feature just wasn't working and needed to be shelved - at least for now. I've never put anything on the backburner before without finishing it. I've never been a quitter.

I heard the stories of people working on that one spec for years upon years and never getting it "just right." Forever suffering with these personal tales they insisted on telling. I didn't want to be one of those guys. I couldn't be one of those guys.

So I weighed the opinion of several people I respect and trust, and the only conclusion I could come to was that I needed to put this project on the backburner - especially if I wanted to make any headway whatsoever in my 12 month goal.

I'd been struggling with this script for long enough, and needed to move on.

It sucks. It's painful. It feels like you're giving up. You begin to wonder whether or not you're even cut out for this game. But I had to ignore all that. I just had to accept that this one script, for whatever reason, was just not working.

Maybe the story was too personal. Maybe I'm not cut out for drama. Whatever the case may be, I had to bite the bullet and shelve the sucker. Did I mention it sucks?

So with that out of the way, we're obviously not making Nicholl this year. A huge setback in my opinion - but one I'm not going to dwell on.

Several people have been insistent that I should work on a twisted romcom, something that plays to my strengths - which apparently, according to them, are making people cringe and laugh at the same time.

I've also been entertaining the idea of writing with a partner. I think it might be something that would benefit me a great deal, as I seem to always be more on the ball when I have someone to bounce things off of. Part of being an attention whore, I suppose.

Now I just need to find someone I would work well with.

Anyway, to Matt, Ronson, Rene, Shawna, and everyone else who has been a great help in getting me to this decision - thanks. I mean, of course screw you for making me shoot my baby in the head, but thank you too.

screenwriting

I Hate Tribute Bands

2007-04-25T11:59:00.000-07:00

I've been in love before. It's a mistake I try to repeat as little as possible.

I remember the day I fell hard for this one girl. We were at a show, watching a fabulous Guns N' Roses tribute band called Appetite for Destruction.

Considering we were both huge Guns N' Roses fans and had heard such great things about this tribute band, we had to go see them.

Everyone was right. These guys did not disappoint.

For the first half the show, and every day prior to it - she and I were just friends. "Just friends" is a difficult place to be to begin with - especially if the chick you're just friends with has a perfect set of hooters. I managed, though. I kept faith that if I toughed it out long enough, one day she'd tug on my penis.

It wasn't until the end of their set that my dreams slowly began to materialize.

They began to play the song Patience.

What started as the two of us just swaying side to side with the music - turned into her grinding against me as the song picked up. I looked around the crowded club in hopes that someone, anyone, was taking notice of this monumental occasion. They were all too busy watching the band and listening to the music.

I had forgotten who was even on stage.

Be cool, be cool. I knew that if I got too aggressive, she'd back down. A singel misstep and she wouldn't pounce me that night. This was my big moment - and I had to be non-chalant about it. Life is ironic that way.

So I played it cool.

I grinded back, but not too much. I put my arms around her waist, but didn't get too grabby. I was casual about it. We were just two friends seeing a show together. And maybe once it was over, she'd ride me like a fucking race horse.

When the show ended, she remarked about how cute she thought the guitarist was (Izzy, not Slash). Was this a fucking test? I had no choice. Clubbing her over the head and dragging her to my apartment was not an option, so I went ahead and told her what I'd tell anyone I wasn't looking to do the hibbidy jibbidy with - "Go talk to him."

She did.

Mother fucker. If this little 18 year old punk pretending to be Izzy Stradlin bested me, I didn't know if I could live with myself. I stood there and watched as the woman of my dreams twirled her hair and flirted with some fucking kid in a tribute band. I wanted to vomit.

When she turned around and started walking back towards me - I felt like my life was over. She was going to tell me to go on without her, and that she was staying to fuck this little pretendster.

God dammit.

Instead, I heard the six most perfect words in the english language, "Wanna go back to my place?"

So fuck you, Izzy Stradlin.

I beat you. And I didn't even have a guitar.

Fuck Rocky Horror

2007-04-24T00:25:00.000-07:00

Welcome to this week's edition of Things That Suck. Today we're discussing The Rocky Horror Picture show. Not so much the movie, but the cult following.

That's right. I'm talking to all you vegan hippy mother fuckers:

Stop using Tim Curry as your excuse to go drag every friday night.

If you're going to keep this shit up, I'm going to officially declare every tuesday as BioDome Day. The one night of the week the rest of us can let our hair down and dress up as Pauly Shore and Stephen Baldwin (the one who doesn't yell at 11 year olds).

And rock the fuck out to the Safety Dance.

We can dance if we want to.

Do you hear me you Rocky Horror drag queens?

BIODOME!

Gone Fishing

2007-04-23T02:33:00.001-07:00

There will be no clever blog entry for you today.

You will not be entertained.

I am writing.

Le Mot Juste

2007-04-22T02:01:00.000-07:00

Are all writers perfectionists? I find myself being more and more critical of my own writing lately and it's beginning to bother me. I'm a person that's brim full of confidence usually, so when I find myself smoldering with generic rage over something I'm writing - I can't help but want to slap the shit out of me.

I wasn't this critical of myself until I started considering writing as a professional career. Now that I've begun to take it seriously, I'm coming to find out my inner child is, well, a little fucking emo.

Maybe I need to write something less dramatic to purge myself of this self-doubt; a tale of a bulging bicep who single-handedly wins the war then sleeps with the entire village as his reward. A harem of women at his feet, exhausted after a thorough ravishing, he hovers over them looking outside at the carnage that is his.

Or I could just get the fuck over it and keep writing.

screenwriting

The Mysterious Booger

2007-04-21T02:32:00.000-07:00

While we were out for drinks this evening, my friend Timberly brought up a story about a midget she's been telling since high school. Seeing as I was actually there for this traumatic experience of hers, and that I've carried a bit of uncertainty about its authenticity since it happened, I thought it was time we cleared the air about the whole damn thing.

See, Timberly's always been one to tell tall tales. Ever since she was little, you could never tell whether or not the words coming out of her mouth were a story she'd spun together, or if it really happened.

Take for example the time she had the entire neighborhood convinced her mother, Irene, was an abusive alcoholic in need of an intervention. When Irene got home from work on that fabled day, over three dozen of her closest friends and neighbors were gathered in her living room, waiting to tell her how much they loved her, and how they'd be willing to do anything to rid the demons inside of her.

They even used soft voices when they spoke.

I saw the terror and confusion in her poor mother's eyes that day - would she tell them all the intervention was just a clever ruse, perpetrated by her daughter, or would she just play along and pretend to kick the habit? Rather than bring further embarrassment to the family, she ultimately decided to play along.

Irene quit the cough syrup.

This was just one of Timberly's elaborate stories growing up. A lot of the time they were entertaining, sometimes they were life-threatening - but mostly, you were just left uncertain whether or not what she had just tried to convince you of was truth, or fiction.

One day she jumped out of her car after having just gone out for cigarettes, a crazed look in her eyes - I knew one of her famous stories was coming. Out of breath and panicked, she started yelling about some deranged midget who had just chased her out of a gas station.

She began to act out the scene for us in every detail.

She ran in place on the lawn, showing us how she went from a normal walking pace to a full on sprint when this supposed midget began to run after her. Then she hunched over and ran full speed with her arms waving over her head, pretending to be the actual midget who chased her. She even pulled out her keys and reenacted her terror when just as she got to her car she dropped them.

Timberly went as far as to to smear water all over her face to realistically depict the snot running down from the nose of her midget assailant.

She had everyone convinced.

"Oh my god, I'm so glad you're okay!" one blonde friend naively shouted.
"Dude, let's go kick that midgets ass," demanded one of the jock asshole that hung out with us.

I just shook my head and looked into her eyes.

"You don't believe me," she said, shocked.
"Well, I can prove it!" she continued.

She grabbed my arm and pulled me to the driver's side window and pointed at a booger, planted square in the middle of it.

"See?" she asked.
"It's a booger," I replied.
"The midgets booger from when he pounded on my window," she confirmed.

I had to admit, the presence of the booger was indeed fascinating. It was light green and disheveled, consistent with what a truly random booger would look like. Were it darker green and rolled into a ball of some sort, it'd be obvious it was a plant.

This booger was authentic.

I wasn't completely sold, but as usual, I gave Timberly the benefit of the doubt. A retarded midget with boogers running down its face had chased her out of the gas station that day, and so the story was etched firmly in our history together.

Every once in a while, whenever we'd be driving somewhere near to the gas station of this supposed incident, she'd look into the distance and shout, "Holy shit, I think it's the midget!"

As we'd come closer to the phantom midget, it usually turned out to be a mailbox. If we were lucky, it was a little kid.

Once, it was a squirrel.

At the end of the day, after all these years and all of Timberly's stories, this one about the midget has always bothered me.

Did she discover the booger on her window and craft the tale around it, or did she first create the story then plant the booger herself?

We'll never know.

My High Fidelity Moment

2007-04-20T01:45:00.000-07:00

The ruggedly handsome Riddley Walker (pictured above) has tagged me with the task of listing Five Goals. He was tagged by the scrumptious Emily. She was tagged by someone else, who was tagged by another person, and so on and so forth. The cool kids call this a meme.

I say it's the internets way of making you gay. And if it weren't for the fact that this'll probably get me laid, I wouldn't be doing it. So without further ado, here are my Five Goals:

Become a Professional Screenwriter: This is the obvious one. I want people to pay me to put my brain-juice down on paper. I want to write character driven dramas one year, and then do an adaptation of DC Comics' Lobo the next. I also want to work on shows like Entourage where I can wave my dick jokes around. I just want to write.

Direct: In the footsteps of Kevin Smith and Quentin Tarantino, I would like to eventually direct my own features. I want to be involved in every aspect of making my own films - from writing it, to directing it, to editing it. Quick, someone give me $30,000 and Jason Mewes - I'm ready.

Craft an Advertising Campaign for Coke and Nike: There was a time when I loved Advertising and chose it as my career. So while I may have given up on it to pursue this whole screenwriting thing, there's still a big part of me that wants to develop Coke and Nike campaigns. Those two companies in particular - nobody else.

Have a Family: This one may come as a surprise to most of you. Hell, it surprises me. Now that I'm about to turn 30 this year, I can't help but start thinking about the prospect of actually having a family. Will I miss putting my penis inside a different woman? Sure, who wouldn't - but as I get older, the idea of settling down becomes more and more appealing. I want to have kids who I can corrupt. A wife who I can ignore. It's really all very romantic.

Get Fit: I'm stealing this one from Riddley. I'd like to get in shape. There's really not much more to say than that.

Super Secret Sixth Goal: Fuck the rules, I'm adding a sixth goal. I want to win a major poker tournament. Poker has always been a hobby of mine, and I'd like to see myself on television winning one of these tournaments. It would also help finance me in making my own movies - double win.

There it is, my High Fidelity moment.

The rules state that I must pass this task on to some of you, so those of you listed below, please get cracking on making your own little gay list:

screenwriting

Writing About Love

2007-04-19T02:18:00.000-07:00

Writing about love is a funny thing. You get to strip away all the awkwardness of the real world and only get to talk about the moments that are few and far between.

I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've actually lived movie love moments.

You know the kind, right?

You're walking side by side down a quiet street, reveling in each others company. Your pinky fingers play a game of tag as you sneak quick glances at one another and grin. The moonlight casts a perfect glow around the both of you. And just when things seem like they're are about to lull, it begins to rain - and you have no umbrella.

She smiles at you. You smile at her.

She turns to face you. You lean forward, her eyes flutter. She hesitates just for a moment, then gives in. You kiss your first kiss.

It's perfect.

Real life, on ther hand, usually isn't. And that's the beauty of writing about love in your script. You can craft the perfect world - where it always begins to rain right before your first kiss or where it's just cold enough out that steam rises out of the hot tub as you make love in it.

If only the real world had more of these moments. Or maybe, it's better that it doesn't - we'd have nothing to write about if life were picture perfect.

At least we have our scripts.

As for those of you wondering who the hell has taken over this blog or if you accidently went to the wrong bookmark, fear not - it's still me. You can take the strap-on out of a man, but you can't take the man out of the strap-on. Tomorrow is a new day and I'm sure I'll be back to my old self.

I just needed to get that off my chest.

screenwriting

Searching for Soul

2007-04-18T03:22:00.000-07:00

As I spend another night barely able to find the words for my current feature, I'm plagued with thought.

I'm never going to make Nicholl's. I have twelve days left, and I continue to struggle with my characters and this story. I really wanted to meet the Nicholl deadline - even if it was a first draft.

I have nobody to blame but myself.

I lived it, I know it inside and out - yet I'm struggling putting it down on paper. It's lacking soul. I don't know how else to put it besides that. The characters don't feel like they have soul, the story doesn't feel like it has soul, and the ending sure as shit doesn't feel like it has soul.

Soul. How do I find it? I know these characters inside and out. I've done all the writing excercises and mapped out their emotions and mood from scene to scene. I've all but sat down in a room with each of the mother fuckers and asked them to transcribe to me.

When I finally do manage to get a grasp on the story, I sit down and put to paper one, maybe two scenes that I'm happy with. It's moving slow. Is this how it's supposed to be your first time? Am I doing something wrong? Will it get easier? Did I pick too personal a story to tell?

My index cards sit across from my desk and taunt me as we speak.

screenwriting