No More Movies

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

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

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

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

See you folks in a week.

Hope I don't die. :)

When it Rains

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?