The Stages of Grief

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

Heartbreak

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.