Kaboom, Kaboom

It's official.

Theatermania.

Playbill.

I can suffer the sorry excuse for a bio I've got in the press release, but the description of my play is fucking pathetic. Doesn't say anything about it being a horror, or a black comedy. It could be a fucking Scooby Doo mystery, the way it's described.

I know, all I can do is complain, but come on! This is my first big thing and only the title makes you curious about it, if that.

On a more positive note, only 15 plays were selected this year. And I don't know any of the other playwrights personally. And have I mentioned that this isn't an Asian-American play festival?

All I Have is My Love of Love (and love is not loving.)

Malice finds a voicemail on his cell as he's leaving work last night...

"Hi, Malice, it's xxxxx from SPF, I've got a list of directors that I think would be great for your play, if you'd like to give me a call at the office..."

Malice walks halfway home, finds a quiet spot in Central Park, calls the SPF offices around 6:30pm.

"Summer Play Festival, how may I help you?"

"Can I speak to xxxxx?"

"Sure, may I tell her who's calling?"

"It's Malice Highload! I'm returning her call!"

"Okay, hold, please."

***

"Hello, Malice..."

"Hi!!! I just wanted to return your call!"

"You know what?, I was just walking out the door and I want to talk to you for a while because I've got a few terrific directors that I think would be great for your play... So, do you think, maybe tomorrow morning..."

"EXCELLENT!!! I could call back sometime tomorrow morning...!"

"Orrr, I could call you back..."

"Sure, of course...!"

"It was nice talking with you again, albeit briefly..."

"Likewise!!!"

I'm an idiot and I'm gonna queer the deal. Every time I'm on the phone with them, I keep expecting them to say, "You know what?, forget we said anything..." I just hate taking personal/career calls while I'm at work coz there is no privacy.

Quite a spring day today, New Yorkers. Hell of a day to be in an office...

Everybody Wins... (sometimes)

Violent congratulations to Son of the Mourning who just got accepted into The Famed Art Institute of Chicago, no doubt based on the letter of recommendation I penned for him. People see the name "Malice Highload" and there's only one reaction: Who the fuck is that?

Okay, perhaps he got in despite my character reference. Regardless of how he got in -- it is brilliant news for his career and his life.

Let this be a lesson to all of you. The Church of Malice has influence.

Random 5 Songs:
1. Electioneering, OK Computer, Radiohead
2. It's Sweet, Liz Phair, Liz Phair
3. Be-In, The Dandy Warhols
4. Man is the Baby, I Am a Bird now, Antony and the Johnsons
5. The Tale of Dusty & Pistol Pete, Adore, Smashing Pumpkins

That Fake Prison Show

I watched about half of Prison Break last night before nodding off.

I hate to fault a show for absurd plotting and leaps of logic, coz the good lord knows that I have a heap of trouble with those things myself.

I suppose the thing that totally takes me out of the show is the language. Granted, it's network television and they can't be cussing. But it's a show that features inmates in a maximum security prison, for fuck sake.

At one point in last night's episode, this one tough guy says to this old man, "Shut your word-hole!"

Word-hole...?

I guess he was referring to his mouth. Because it's a hole and words come out of it. But is that supposed to come off as an offensive way to refer to a mouth? Seems more like a really awkward way to refer to a mouth.

I imagine the Prison Break writers in conference...

"Clamp your tongue-sleeve"...?

"Close your teeth-container"...?

"Seal your ingestion-orifice"...?

Man... it'd be a lot easier if we could just have him say "Shut the fuck up, old man"...

One of the nice things about THE SHIELD being on basic cable is their freedom to use the word "shit". They use it a lot, perhaps in slightly awkward phrasing ("Shut the shit up!"), but it gives it a more authentic feel.

Slow Motion

Hello. I'm the slowest writer on mother earth. I need a better system. I'm so easily and willfully distracted. I should have gotten a lot more done this weekend, but I ended up finishing a rough draft of something I expected to finish last weekend. Go Malice!

Screenwriting -- and I'll including writing television in that -- can be a cumbersome, technical thing. This is what I want to do with my life and yet writing the ACTION can really kill me. Painting in broad strokes, implying more detail than there actually is. It's up to other people to fill in the screen. And yet, trying to do that with clarity and elegance can be a real pain in the gulliver.

I prefer writing the dialogue, but even the dialogue needs to be concise. A few lines before setting up a new slugline and diving into another description.

Everybody thoroughly bored with my whining on a Monday mourning? Perfect.

They're Out Ta Get Me!

I'll preface this dream by mentioning that I found (and destroyed) a big cockroach in the Fortress of Solitude 2 Friday night. Saturday was spent cleaning house and buying traps. Saturday night, I had this dream...


[Dream Interlude]

I was lying in my bed when I began to see little brown mice skittering about the floor. The thought occurred to me, Oh no, I've got to get mouse traps now. More and more mice darted about the floor and then suddenly they were not just mice but large black rats. And for some reason, they stopped running about the floor and climbed up into bed with me, and I was covered with rats as if they had all decided, Let's see how many of us can fit onto this bloke's mattress, eh?

I shooed them all off the bed and suddenly they underwent another evolution and became what looked like small panthers...


That is to say, panthers cross-bred with large black rodents...

One of them clamped down on my fist with its large teeth and would not let go. I took one of the dumbells lying on the floor and used the weight of it to essentially decapitate the nightmare creature.

Its body fell limp. I removed my hand from its wet maw. Thinking I may have to show the super some evidence of this infestation in the morning, I put the severed head into a brown paper bag and popped it into the freezer. (Made sense in the dream.)

Then, there is a time-slip in the dream, and suddenly two detectives are in my room, questioning me about a murder. I claim my innocence but then one of the dicks opens my freezer and retrieves a large paper bag. Inside the paper bag is a large HUMAN head!

"We've got your DNA all over his head and inside his mouth. Were you playing with him or something...?!" the man said, in a tone that suggested that he meant to add, "You sick fuck!" at the end.

And then I made a run for it. And I guess I woke up at a certain point.

I Never Thought I'd Be A Junkie...

Wasn't gonna blog about this, but what the fuck...

I lost my fucking iPod at the gym two days ago. Sweet fucking thing, only a few months old, bought it for myself as a gift for my new home.

Accidentally left it in the locker room while I was changing. Went back two hours later when I realized it was gone: no sign of it. Left the information with the front desk.

Went back yesterday. Still nothing. Some asshole is out there rocking out to an iPod engraved with the words "Ghost of the Future" on the back. Contemplated doing a little detective work, but I think I've just been watching too much of The Shield...

In any case, I've managed to get myself so dependent on this little multimedia wonder, yesterday I decided to order myself a replacement with some of the overtime I racked up at work. Some clearer-thinking friends advised me to wait until the new iPod gets announced/launched, but I'd done some cursory online searches and had found no evidence of a new iPod build...

Until I got home and found this. And this.

Piss up a rope.

My order can no longer be cancelled. But after some initial self-flagellation, I'm at peace with it.

First off, a rumor's a rumor, and there are counter-rumors. And while history shows that Apple has no problems with cannibalizing its own market by releasing too many New iPods too close together, I've read that the earliest they could get the thing on sale to the public would be sometime in June. And March isn't even over yet. And I am dying without a fully functioning iPod. And as cool as this theoretical new iPod sounds, I'm sure I can steel myself and wait until the 7th Generation Audio/Video/Blowjob iPod gets released before I have to buy another one.

Apple's got some fucking racket going, brother. This is just one reason I steer clear of Macs. (Aside from the fact that they suck.)

Fist to the Jaw

Sometime next week, I should begin the process of interviewing directors for my big debut play. I hope they've got some capable people lined up. They're trying to match me with some "up-and-coming" theater directors who would be compatible with the material.

I need this to be good. I need this to be a fist to the jaw. I need this to leave an impression.

The initial shock of getting in is tapering off, and I'm left with a sense of determination. I've got a chance to get off this island and all I've got is a flare gun and a little spec on the horizon.

Some might argue I'm setting myself up for disappointment -- I would argue my entire life's been a series of disappointments! I'm trying to visualize where I want to be. I'm not expecting the world to kneel before me (yet), but I'm expecting something. I'm going to make people take notice of me.

And then, I will unleash hell...

My mother and sister are coming to see this play. They've seen almost nothing I've written, ever. My mother is going to find out what a profane sexual-deviant she's raised. Won't she be fucking proud? I cannot convey to you how well I've hidden the "real me" from my family. I mean, the tattoos were hard enough. ("Why did you have to get a tattoo of a GUN...??") But this play is NOT going to go over well with them. My sister might be able to look past some of the content, but my mother is going to be utterly horrified.

And before you suggest that I might be surprised at how they react, trust me: my mother's going to fucking puke.

Springtime (for Hitler)

Some days, waking up and getting myself to work is murder.

Went to sleep a little earlier last night. Woke up on time, but I just felt like sleeping for a day longer.

Got to work late yesterday. And I'm really trying to save up my sick days. (Nearly the end of March and I've not called out...) Don't get many sick/vacation days up in here. I'm still riding on the good buzz of that "Employee of the Year" award, but I don't want to cash in all my "fuck-up passes" up front. I need the security and relative flexibility of this day job. I've got to keep my focus.

First full day of Spring. Where did the Winter go...?

There Will Be Blood

Woke up choking on my own blood yesterday. I've been getting some awful nosebleeds lately. Would be a shame if I died before The Prophecy is fulfilled...

[cue OMEN theme]

I was reading about this hot-shot, "up-and-coming" Asian-American playwrights group that had a show a few months ago. It featured a "chain play", where each writer wrote their own segment of the narrative. To top it all off, the biggest hot-shot writer was going to pen the final segment LIVE AT THE EVENT.

I hate this.

I hate the very chain-play concept. Everyone tries to out-do everyone else, and it NEVER showcases each writer at their best, and I have never seen something like it yield a coherent, compelling narrative. And writing the final segment live at the event reduces the process of writing to a fucking parlor trick!

The whole thing screams, "Aren't we the cream of the cream?!"

"I'm so good, I can finish writing this while you're all sitting there!"

It's fucking retarded. Give just an ounce of respect to the process of writing, why don't you? It's not a fucking magic trick. It's a craft. It's painful. It's laborious. It's SOLITARY. You're gonna charge people to watch you sit there and try to write something? FUCK YOU. How arrogant is that?

This is why I hate these groups. They overestimate themselves. Think that anything they write is going to be worth paying to see. I'm not necessarily talking about all the members of the group; I'm sure some just go along with it just to go along with it. But the underlying idea that these are important people, and you the public should take some time out of your busy lives to come watch their creative exercise. It makes my head spin.

You know what I'm thinking when I write something? Nobody wants to be here. They've been coerced here out of obligation, friendship or professional; they don't know who I am, they don't care who I am. And above all, they can't wait for it to be over. They can't wait until there's a good break for them to walk out without being rude and disruptive.

I take that as the given circumstance, and I try to build a narrative that will make them want to stay till the end. I may not succeed, but that's what I'm trying to do. Because nobody should care who I am or what my credits are. And I don't want them to. I want them to care about the story.

Fuck Yeah!

Woke up this morning, re-listened to the voicemail on my cell phone to get the details on that play festival I got into.

Arielle Tepper herself left me the message. She produced Monty Python's Spamalot and The Pillowman, among all these other massive Broadway shows. The Pillowman is one of the best plays I've ever seen. "We absolutely loved The Butcherhouse Chronicles," she says in the voicemail. Holy cocksucking christ...

I swear, when I started to listen to the message last night, I figured they were trying to save on postage by courtesy-calling all the losers. I'm so inured to rejection.

First I get the "Employee of the Year" award at work. Then I get into this big play festival. There's only one thing to explain it:

Scientology works.

You've Never Heard of the Butchers?

Happy St. Patricks Day, indeed...

I had a reading of a play what I wrote about two years ago, called "The Butcherhouse Chronicles". Two nights, it went okay as far as readings go, some mixed reactions.

Well, my friend Erwin Falcon pushed me submit it to this summer play festival... AND TODAY I FOUND OUT THAT IT GOT IN!!!

They only accept 16 plays a year. ("From a pool of over 1,000 applications...") It's a full production, 2nd week of July. 8 shows. Very legit company.

But best of all... it isn't an asian play festival!!!

Guess I'm finally an "emerging playwright"...

I know that people who subject themselves to this blog suffer some of my mercurial moods, but this is some good news for once. I really fucking needed a break like this.

It may just be an emerging playwrights festival, but it'll get seen and my work will get more exposure and I'll meet people and it won't be in the fucking Asian-American theater ghetto.

More info as it develops. Back to the writing.

I Need a Fix Coz I'm Goin Down

Mother Superior jumped the gun...

Mother Superior jumped the gun...

It's cold outside. Promises to be positively arctic this weekend.

Gotta visit the tax-man tomorrow, mourning.

Mostly, though, I am writing. Because a writer writes: ALWAYS. If I could only write WELL.

5 Randomized Tracks:
1. Jezebel - Boy in Da Corner, (Dizzee Rascal)
2. Price of Gasoline - Silent Alarm, (Bloc Party)
3. The Death Song - Holy Wood, (Marilyn Manson)
4. Somebody Told Me - Hot Fuss, (The Killers)
5. Dress Sexy at My Funeral - Dongs of Sevotion, (Smog)

The Killer in Me is the Killer in You

I hate writing. It's solitary and violent. A fucking war with myself to get the right words onto the page. It is miserable and arduous and mostly thankless, and it's my life.

Need to get taxes done and need to finish writing this script.

Writing spec scripts is a thankless chore. A screenplay, a television pilot -- these things aren't art. They're stuffing for a portfolio. They're letters in a bottle that you throw into the vast, heartless ocean. Odds are, they'll reach no one. And you'll be stranded on your lonely fucking island till you die.

A script isn't art. It's a blueprint for art.

I don't believe that completely, but enough people believe it that it's true.

I need to get this done...

Greetings Earthling.

I Am The Bishop of Battle.

Master of All I Survey.

I Have 13 Progressivly Harder Levels.

Try Me If You Dare.

Insert Coin.

Woke Up This Morning, Got Yourself Some Guns...

Anybody watch the montage of celebs @ the Sopranos season premiere party?

Christofa's over at the Fortress-2 last night and says to me, "Hey, it's Axl!" And I'm all like, "That ain't no Axl!" And he's all, "Dude, it's Axl! Rewind that shit!"

So, I rewind the DVR and, lo and behold!, it's Axl -- all corn-rows and Joan-Collins-faced -- chatting up Steve Van Zandt at the Sopranos premiere! Axl Rose @ MoMA... JGoose's got a lot of splainin' to do...

That album must be in good shape for him to be out on the town as often as he's been. Maybe he's courting Van Zandt to replace Buckethead...

Snakes in a Dream

[Dream Interlude]
Had a dream I was in Chicago, with a lot of people -- I don't know who they were supposed to be. We were set up in a huge flat with a bunch of rooms, but there were a lot of people, but I managed to get a "single". And it was freezing. And we were there for a wedding. And I had lost my luggage.

At a certain point, the dream must have switched to something else, because suddenly I was in the wilderness. Two other people had set up a fire, but let it go out before I had cooked my meat. As the fire died out, I tried to cook a raw chicken breast. Wasn't working very well, and I was hunched close to the smoldering fire pit, and then I got distracted by something that looked like a cross between a snake and an ostrich...


And no sooner had I noticed it than I felt something snug around my throat. And it tightened around my throat until I couldn't breathe. And then I woke up.

... and the television was on and set to The Discovery Channel's Survivor Weekend...

I'm glad it wasn't on Autopsy.

Chinese Democracy...

This entire operation... has been a decoy...

They laid off three managers yesterday. And a supervisor. It was a bloodbath!

One of the mgrs had been on The List for a while -- a complete fucking incompetent -- but the other people were big surprises.

This coming less than a week after our department's big award ceremony. What are the odds of that happening: me being tasked with putting together a big propaganda movie to show everyone RIGHT BEFORE a huge "restructuring"...? Was I paid to produce a smokescreen?

I LOVE IT.

IRS...

Everybody get their taxes done already?

Every year, I endeavor to get mine sorted out as early as possible, and nearly every year I seem to end up racing the clock. This should be the last year I file as "married", however, so next year should be a fucking breeze. A lonely, pathetic breeze.

Ever wish you could start each day by hunting for a rodent? Want to own the most annoying alarm clock ever conceived?

Rhiad & the Bedouins...

On the walk home from work, I usually pass by the Paris Theatre on 58th and 5th. One of those rarer one-movie-only theaters. I think the last movie I saw there was Kenneth Branagh's Hamlet. They keep a movie there for forever. Since I've been walking home, they've been showing the final Merchant/Ivory production,The White Countess. Last night, I noticed they'd switched to Joyeux Noël.

The spec tv pilot script I've been trying to finish is called "The Black Forest". It's my version of the A*Team. I mention it because maybe that'll push me to get it done. And then I'm set to work on a mystery script called "zerotwelve".

I need to write faster. I need to write better.

My ipod shuffled 5:
1. Welcome to the Jungle (Demo), Guns N' Roses
2. Lotus, Up, R.E.M.
3. Cry Electric Co., Vertigo 2005 (Live from Chicago), U2
4. Let's Get High, 2001, Dr. Dre
5. Building Steam with a Grain of Salt, Endtroducing..., DJ Shadow

What kind of drunk are you...?

Better...

I've already mentioned this, but it's so nice to not have to go home and clock right back into work.

I have to get some writing done now. Stop wasting so much time. Tonight and tomorrow night, get something done...

Ebony and ivory, baby...

There Was a Time...

Everyone get the Awards Fever out of their systems?

All's I'm gonna say is that Crash oughtn'ta won Best Picture coz it's a pile o' crap.

My office award ceremony went off smoothly. People fell for the videos I shot. I won "EMPLOYEE OF THE YEAR" and got a nice piece of cardboard for my efforts. And now I'm back to fading in the background.

Honestly, there were some things I witnessed during the office award ceremony that really highlighted the fact that I can't just coast by forever at this place. I mean, I CAN and that's the problem. I could easily lose a lot of time collecting paychecks and not making any progress with my vocational goals. Not saying I need to quit my job soon. I just have to get busier writing more. Finishing more. Sending my work out. Getting my work seen/read. It's a fucking war.

I'm in my 30s now, and I feel like I wasted half my 20s with some stupid bullshit. I'm not going to be one of those people that just bitches about their job. The future is mine to lose. I've got no excuses.

Picture

Tomorrow's the big day.

Not totally. My department is having its first annual AWARD CEREMONY, and it's a silly, misguided affair conceived to boost morale. Management's "heart" is in the right place, but what it doesn't get is that this is a day job for most people -- and thusly, most people (most sane people) don't WANT any recognition. They just want to collect their paychecks. So if you want to reward people and boost morale, you do it with money and not plaques. A lot of the staff don't even get health benefits.

But that's neither here nor there. I shot and edited all the video segments that'll be projected during the ceremony. Big Boss liked it so much, he's not even going to bother doing a PowerPoint presentation. I'm just pleased at having an audience for some of my work.

Not sure what the fallout will be. I only worked this hard because it involved filmmaking. If they expect me to put this much effort into creating maps and generating reports, they're in for a big surprise...

Travel Expense

The Job is sending me to New York Junior for a week. I contemplated holding out for a trip to the L.A. or S.F. or London branches [sorry, Dallas and India offices: not interested], but I decided to just take the Chicago trip. Now, I've gotta figure out how to get in trouble in the windy city...

Would The Company post bail if I were arrested there...?

Can I travel-expense prostitutes...?

Watch me ruin the entire branch exchange program for everyone...