No More Anal

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.

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

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

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.

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!

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

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

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

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

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.

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

˙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

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!

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

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

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. :)