Bear-Jacked

Week One. Again.

Deja vu.

I left Bear Stearns once. Just had to return to watch it die.

Peculiar parallels. When I left before, end of September '06, I'd left a bit prematurely and was faced with a stretch of uncertainty. Now, end of March '08, I'm faced with another stretch of uncertainty.

It's going to be okay. I'll get sorted out. I have before. I'll do it again and better.

I've gotten a weird range of reactions to getting laid off. Amused, congratulatory, grave, apologetic.

What's strange is that it almost feels like I never went back at all.

David Simon Q&A

Charlie Rose Club

I was flipping through the channels the other day and stumbled on Charlie Rose, who looked like he'd gotten his face rearranged in some underground male-bonding society.

'pparently, he did a faceplant on the pavement whilst trying to protect his new Macbook Air.

Suffice it to say, you Mac people really should see someone board accredited.

Wo ist Malice? Malice ist Gestorben.

Finished Scott Smith's THE RUINS.

Es ist gut.

LOOK. (I'm trying to recruit her for Misanthropy Central.)

oooMECCA OF THE MOUSE: The Magic Kingdom

Fugly Love

Russell Simmons...

I just don't get it...

He's about one step above Salman Rushdie.

I know, I know:

Power + Money.

It's a good equation. I hope it'll work to my benefit one day.

But come on, people.

Tell me there isn't something wrong with this picture.

The First Cut is the Deepest

Wednesday was a day of firsts for me:

The first time I've had a significant press mention for film.

And the first time I've been fired from a day job.

"I'm sure you saw this coming," the manager said, smiling as he closed his office door. "We're cutting you."

Well, no, I didn't really see it coming. Aside from the fact that the company had been sold off in a very public fire sale the other week, and the company name had quickly become synonymous with "epic fail" in the press. An ENRON-esque cautionary tale.

Plus, there'd been almost no work in my department the past two weeks.

I guess it's not as bad as being fired for performance issues. Everyone knew I was only there on a temporary basis—a stay protracted by the writers strike. That status made it an easier decision to cut me, I'm sure.

It was a Fucked-Company. Very loudly fucked. I didn't fuck it up. They didn't have security escort me out or anything. My last day ended just like any other day there: a few minutes to 6pm, I packed up my shit and walked out the door, voluntarily.

I ought to be more chipper over this. Buzz on my project is out there—for the nameless, faceless, bitter, lunatic "fanboys" to eviscerate based on as little evidence as possible.

[Preemptive note to people like Nick Gaffney and Ben Orozco: DO NOT forward me links to negative articles about my project(s) because you think I might find them amusing. Not that you would, of course. But, you know... don't. Thanks in advance.]

Fact is, I'm in this unfortunate patch of time right before everything's taken off. A lean period, post-writers strike, where I'm not sure when my next meal is coming.

So yes, it's a bummer I lost my day job. I was hoping to have it at least until I got the writing thing going again. And I don't think I was back there long enough to qualify for any kind of unemployment (< 6 months). In a few weeks, if things don't pick up, I may need to consider sniffing around the temping world.

But for a little while, I've really just got to try to put all this negative bullshit behind me. Focus on the writing. That's all I've been fucking working for anyway.
oooMECCA OF THE MOUSE: Celebration & Downtown Disney

Nobody Gets Too Much Heaven No More

A pall settles in the office.

A sense of surrender.

It's oddly infectious.

I shouldn't let it get to me. I've no stake in this job. It is a simple temp job. Something to get me by until other things get me by.

And yet, being surrounded by people who have no immediate prospects waiting for them... I feel that low rumble of panic. A sense of dread. Of something dreadful about to happen.

It would help if there was any information. It would make it easier to know how much time we had left. But that seems to be a luxury in the corporate world. Or at least in this department. Though I was away from this job for over a year, I worked here for over 6 years. Whether you're a manager or a lowly op, when they axe you they like to axe you without warning.

Of course, my future's as uncertain as anyone else's here, if not more so. Difference is, I never intended to be working here much longer. Choice is a big difference.

A MAN CHOOSES! A SLAVE OBEYS!

Um... in other news, holy shit!
oooMECCA OF THE MOUSE: Disney's Animal Kingdom

How Can I Hold You When You Ain't Even Mine?

Agents called me yesterday afternoon, properly impressed with the big new draft of the TV pilot I sent them last Thursday. Which is a relief because I made some sweeping changes and it was a shitload of work.

At the 9-5 dayjob (for however long it lasts, all things considered), progress is measured in hours. Make it through the day, make it through the week. Doesn't matter. It's all about collecting that shitty (but regular) paycheck.

On the other hand, the entertainment career's progress is measured in drafts. However long it takes me to crank them out. A few weeks for a spec TV pilot. A month or two for a spec feature. A year for a new fucking play. The faster I am, the better. Because the pigs don't send you bills based on drafts. Rent's gotta get PAID, ya feel meh?

That said, there's a pronounced urgency to get the writing thing off the ground again. Because the ground may crumble into the sea at any moment.

Shifts overlap where I work. Overnight shift overlaps with day shift, day shift with night shift, etc. Each shift having its own unique cast of misfits.

In the mornings, I'm witness to the overnight's officially-recognized freakazoid...

INT. OFFICE - DAY

Woman-1 is on the computer, wrestling with TurboTax. Woman-2 sits nearby, half-paying attention.

Awkward-Man stands by his cubicle, across the way. Looking on eagerly, like a dog ready to fetch a stick.

WOMAN-1I just want to get it done already! I hate doing taxes, it's painful.

WOMAN-2You'll feel a lot better when it's finished.

AWKWARD-MANNo one really enjoys doing it... e-except maybe Bill Murray in "Little Shop of Horrors"...

His interjection is met with suitably awkward silence. The people on this shift are clearly accustomed to these blurts from him and do not take the bait.

Awkward-Man forces the bait, in case they didn't hear him clearly enough:

AWKWARD-MANDid, uh... did you see that...? "Little Shop of Horrors"?

WOMAN-1
(half-listening)Yeah, I saw it, but I don't remember Bill Murray in it...

Encouraged, Awkward-Man shuffles a few steps toward her cubicle:

AWKWARD-MANOh, he's got this scene in a dentist's office where he really enjoys getting hurt. It's very funny...

WOMAN-1
(as if talking to a child)Uh-huh...
ooo
MECCA OF THE MOUSE: Disney's Hollywood Studios

Fuck Easter

On the phone with my mom this weekend:

ME
None of my friends do anything for Easter.

MOM
They don't even go to church? What about the ones in Brooklyn? Dave and Jenny?

ME
Dave's Jewish, mom.

MOM
He is?

ME
David Cohen? You met him at graduation?

MOM
Oh yes! "Cohen" is a Jewish name, isn't it?

Then on Sunday, my dad fucking calls me. Third time in a fucking week. He calls me under the weak ruse of wishing me a "Happy Easter", then quickly asks me about my company. He sees the stock's so low, he's contemplating buying. THAT phone call ends in about 30 seconds.

I try to answer the phone when I see that my dad's calling only because I know I'm terrible at calling him back. But I swear, I'm not answering any more calls from him for a fucking month.

Sometimes I find it peculiar that my parents have no idea who I am.

Sometimes I feel so alienated from the world, I might just drift off into outer space.

MECCA OF THE MOUSE: E.P.C.O.T. Center

Like Toy Soldiers

Been a good Friday...

Around 1am last night, I was not harboring much charity in my heart. I was still in the middle of sorting through a year's worth of receipts, making slow progress of it. It occurred to me that if I'd given myself a week to do this, I could have gotten it done in more manageable parcels of time.

But I was tied up with revising the draft of a script this week. Past several weeks, really, but it was more pressing that I get it done this week.

To complicate things further, Thursday night the WGA-East threw a Strike-Is-Over party and I wanted to attend the back-patting festivities.

A few hours spent at the party. There was a raffle. They gave away like a dozen gift bags full of crap; Chris and I didn't win jack shit. But some people left their empty gift bags on a table, so we loaded them full of free sandwiches and beer because that's how we roll. Real classy guys.

On our way out the party, some folks saw us with the gift bags and congratulated us.

"Whadja win?"

"FREE SAMMICHES, MOTHERFUCKERS!"

But nothing is truly free, and I paid for it. 1am. 2am. 3am. About a quarter to 4am, I managed to gather my documents together in a little folder. All that work for such a small stack of paper.

Totally worth the work, though. Smooth meeting with the accountant.

Mid-day on Friday, counting my gold stars for the week:

+ Finished new draft of TV pilot
+ Stole free sammiches at WGA party
+ Completed taxes
+ Did laundry

Fucking KING me.

Profile on Zak Penn
Revenge of Mr. Show

Emilie de Ravin is a Fox

I was up till nearly 4 in the morn getting all my tax papers together and now I've got to run off to see my accountant.

SOOO, time for a half-assed blog entry!

Read about:

Alan Moore

Babe: Pig in the City

South Park guys

Taste Test: Pizza Beer

Be back in a few hours, mm'kay?

When I'm out in the street, woh-oh-oh-oh-oh!

FIRST DAY OF SPRING, VICTIMS!

Everyone looking forward to riding the Hollywood Rip Ride Rockit Roller Coaster? Perhaps the shittiest name ever for a ride that could be really cool?

Today's to-do:

Writing
Taxes
Laundry

Down to the wire on all three.

And speaking of wires...

Since most of you motherfuckers cuhn't be bothered to watch THE WIRE, here's my marginalized coverage:
David Simon's postmortem.

Jupiter and Beyond the Infinite

It figures that the week I debut a HAL-logo, Arthur C. Clarke gets a posse. (Honestly, I thought he died sometime last year!)

I just watched "2001: A Space Odyssey" off Universal HD this weekend. Clarke worked closely with Kubrick in adapting his own novel into the feature.

I remember watching the movie in college. Asking one of my screenwriting teachers how it followed the classic laws of structure that we were learning. He basically told me that Kubrick's one of those filmmakers that exist outside the rules, especially with something like "2001".

DEAD POOL!!!

So... Minghella... Clarke... one more notable person ought to be getting a posse real soon. Someone behind-the-scenes, like those guys. Minghella's the Brad Renfro—younger man's death, someone who could have done a lot more. Clarke's the Suzanne Pleschette—older death, someone whose largest contributions were behind them. Who's gonna be the Heath Ledger? Zach Snyder?

Of course, as always, we all get bonus points if it turns out to be Steve Guttenberg...

I am so behind on writing.

Hope Floats (Like Corpses)

My pop calls me—Sunday afternoon and again late Monday night. Both times:

"SO, what do you think about Bear Stearns?"

Both times, the conversation lasted about 30 seconds before I hung up.

Monday, news cameras swarmed the entrances to the building. Today, they've moved on.

NO ONE KNOWS ANYTHING.

I went back to the old day job when the writers strike hit me. Post-strike, I intended to stick around till I got my writing career back on track. Soon, I may not have anything to stand on.

This week, I need to finish revising a spec TV pilot, touch base with my new theater agent and get my tax papers in order.

Oh, and Anthony Minghella just got a posse.

I hate everything right now.

Fuck you. Go away.

Polishing the Brass

You know what would be nice? Like, for a little change of pace...? I'd like to be in the middle of something that isn't making huge, negative headlines. Just for a few months, maybe. Kind of like a cool-down run.

From the poet Matt Drudge, this mourning:
And this is my safety day job.

TV news crews circle the building, grabbing establishing shots.

There's a lot of brass to polish in here.

Happy St. Patrick's Day, you godless vultures.

Spoilsport

"You got a plasma screen? Oh yeah, they're slashing price-tags on those 'cause they want to stop manufacturing them: You can't repair them!"

"Writers strike might be over, but it doesn't really change anything for you, does it, pal? Coz you'll be rewriting that fucking script for the next 5 years, right?"

"Oh, you've got to get rid of your agent! And get out of that day job as soon as you can -- it's toxic!"

"What, you leaving already? You homo!"

Ever go to a party where all the vibes are off? Where EVERYBODY seems to be saying exactly what you DON'T want to hear? And they're all blissfully oblivious to it?

I didn't expect to flee the party as suddenly as I did, but half an hour in I literally felt like puking. Which had nothing to do with the bad interpersonal vibes, but it didn't help.

Bad chemistry. Everywhere.

Not to mention that being THE SINGLE GUY amidst a sea of couples gets really fucking oppressive really fucking fast.

Taking a break from that scene. Now.

A Flock of Wah-Wahs

"HEY, MA!! Fitty-cent hot dog place just tole me who ta vote fah!"

I love it when Gray's Papaya gets political! They always act like they're the official, elected voice-box of The People.

And, clearly, The People want two things:

1) Fucking cheap hot dogs.
2) Hope.

(In that order.)
x x x X X X x x x
Songsharking. Fly-by-night company posts some ads in the local paper, luring aspiring musicians to an open audition. Good or bad, the songshark tries to sign the musician, asking them to partially pay for studio/production costs.

Then... well... fly-by-night.

This really happens. You'll never go poor preying upon people's dreams.

Which bring us to a crazy film called "Great World of Sound". It's a scripted film, about a guy who inadvertently becomes a songshark, not realizing it's a scam.

But it's not completely scripted...

The movie production actually posted ads in local papers. And actual aspiring musicians showed up to actually audition. And the songshark actors gave them the business and actually tried to convince them to kick in money. Whole thing filmed with hidden cameras and integrated into the film.

Sadly, but unsurprisingly, a number of these people agreed to pay the money. I was wondering how many of those musicians refused to sign releases after they were told the premise. Then again, it's a hell of a consolation prize. They DON'T get scammed out of lot of money *and* they get to appear in a movie that a bunch of NetFlix motherfuckers will watch.

Honestly, aside from this conceit, the movie's a bit simple. Very indie. Some uneven performances. Some nice flourishes. But worth checking out if any of this sounds intriguing to you, yeh?

In Treatment

I'm just about the only one I know who's made a commitment to HBO's IN TREATMENT. Adapted from the Israeli Betipul, the show is a fairly spot-on representation of what it's like to go through therapy. Which is to say, it's a bit excruciation at times. And a bit boring at times, quite frankly. Like real therapy, there are breakthroughs, regressions and these patches where nobody knows what to say while the minutes burn holes in your pockets. Am I selling the show for you yet?

I like the posters for the show that they've got around, with Gabriel Byrne photographed like the fucking Pietà. Carrying the burdens of his patients. Trying to guide them through their trials. And trying to resist fucking them. (Just like the Virgin Mary tries to resist fucking YOU, you fucking teases!)

Here is a photoshop I made, with a somber dog replacing Gabriel Byrne:

Now that's what I call gravitas!

(Eat your heart out, James Lipton, ya dizzy fruitcake!)

Hey, good luck to whosoever may be getting married today: I hear it's a good day for it and shit.

319

Two things I think you'll all agree I'm pretty good at:

Soliciting sympathy...

... and pissing it all away!

As ever, the maddening thing about keeping a public record like this is the need to be oblique about certain things...

Suffice it to say, some things were on the verge of getting FedEx-ed to Hell in a handbasket yesterday... but the crisis has been averted. And it appears that an old debt is nearly paid off in full.

God is great.

Ashley Alexandra Dupre, the hooker who brought down Eliot Spitzer's political career. [I'd buy that for a dollar! Though maybe not $4,300.]

To be fair, it's not this girl's fault. Fucking the governor is one thing; imagine what else she had to fuck.

In a way, I'm glad that she's a hot girl and not some Monica Lewinsky type. Though, I guess Bill Clinton gets extra points for not having paid Lewinsky for her services.

But why would men with wealth and power need to pay for it at all...?

Discretion, I would assume. You get a giddy schoolgirl like Lewinsky and she gets all chatty with the wrong people. You make it a business transaction, there are no emotions involved. Of course, you've got to be worried that the business may eventually get gutted... and all those gutty-wutts are going to be exposed.

Dummy Data

Sometimes a sequence that I think will be dead-easy to write ends up being... a drag.

I'm sure there are deeper psychological reasons why I'm having trouble cranking out this revision of my pilot script. Procrastination-related. Fear of failure and that whole song and dance.

No easy answers or blames here. I ought to be singularly motivated right now. Yes, it's a pain balancing the hours I need to be at the deskjob with the hours I need to be writing. But even the deskjob isn't a valid enough scapegoat because I ought to be able to hack that.

The more honest response is that—whether I'm holding down a day job or whether I'm "writing full-time"—I go through these stretches where it's like I'm sleepwalking. Night blurs toward day. Hours are lost without reason. And I've got to fight to shake out of it.

These stagnant stretches usually get glossed over when I manage to be super-productive for compressed stretches. Rough way to work, though. And not very helpful in giving people time estimates.

But I always seem to find time to compose useless blog entries like this, don't I?! Boy howdy!

Requiem for an Emperors Club

For those curious about the brothel that Spitzer used (busted as of last Thursday), the site's obviously down now but here's some good screen-cap/cache action.

For those more interested in an uplifting Kevin Kline film, THAT site is still active.

Spitz & Swallowz

Nothing like a juicy sex scandal to kick-start a work-week, eh, boys and ghouls?

Assuming Spitzer resigns, New York's gonna have itself its first blind/black governor. TAKE THAT, MOTHERFUCKERS!

So, how bad is this really? People are way too uptight about the sex thing, but extra-marital coitus is just the icing on the scandal-cake. Not saying that I approve of adultery, but human beings are scum. We have base instincts that we suppress for the sake of civility, or the illusion of civility. His own personal failings are just that: his own and personal. I think it's a little absurd that we expect our political leaders to be puritans...

That said, the bigger issue is that what he did was, technically, criminal.

And you've got to wonder who's responsible for this getting out. He definitely has his critics but I'm curious about his outright enemies. He's certainly amassed his share over the years.

Does he survive this in some manner? I mean, it's not like he's gay or anything (which is technically illegal in New Jersey).

[Don't you just love when Misanthropy Central does the political stuff?]

How Spitz got Spitzered.

The Inevitablility of Prostitution.

In other news... fireman saves puppy to score more pussy!

I am having an awful time writing lately. Trying really hard to turn that around this week.

Po-Po!

Poetic, that I should get pulled over by the 5-0 after wading deep into the swamps of Brooklyn to watch The Wire series finale.

After the show, Econo-Nick gave me a partial ride, from boondocks to sub-boondocks. I'd already had a shit time getting INTO Crooklyn earlier in the evening via subway, so I figured I'd treat myself to a cab ride home. However, my attempt to make a quick getaway was thwarted when my cabbie made the bold decision to run a red light in front of a cop car.

I don't take cabs nearly as much as I used to, but my last two cab rides? One gets a fender bender right when he's dropping me off, and this one gets pulled over by the poh-lice!

Something you trying to tell me, Cosmos?

Monday's a writing day. Don't try to contact me @ the desk job, I ain't there.

SLATE thoughts on THE WIRE finale.

Thorough commentary on THE WIRE finale, from a Time Out writer.

Don't Pay Heed to Temptation

By the logic of this survey, I ought to have a 100" tee-vee by now...!

Everybody anxious about the huge series finale of THE WIRE tonight?! Oh, I'm sorry, were you all just waiting to watch it on NetFlix in 3 years?

Well, 'bout a dozen people 'cross the nation 'boutta have they socks blown tha fuck off tonight, feel meh...?!


Snoop goes country!

And for the YOU-TUBE deprived:

My Own Personal Jesus

BEHOLD! My half-assed Photoshop skills!

Okay, so it's tricky photographing televisions. Because you've got light emitting from the screen, but you also want light shining BACK AT the screen so that you can appreciate the dimensions of the thing.

I placed the Sprite can and Dewers bottle on either side of the TV so that you can get an idea of the size. Attempted some half-witted Photoshop clean-up before throwing in the towel and posting what you see here.

What to say...

All these years... spent learning basic social etiquette... developing a minimum of interpersonal skills... what a complete and utter waste. I hereby cut off all ties to humanity. I'm done. I'm out. I'm finished. I don't like you. Beat it.

Goodbye, cruel world, I'm leaving you today! Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!

Goodbye, all you people! There's nothing you can say to make me change my mind...!

GOODBYE!!!

[Now, go look at pictures of models eating.]

Villainy & Atonement

Apparently, for quite a while, there's been internet chatter about a new Disney theme park focusing on VILLAINS. I'd post some links, but most of the chatter is unsubstantiated speculations from message boards. Suffice it to say, I would fucking love a villain park. Disney's Isle of Villains. (I imagine a sort of prison theme, like Guantanamo Bay with roller coasters.)
The buzz grew in volume recently, but it seems that "Disney's Night Kingdom" is NOT the villain theme park. It sounds like it's just going to be another vaguely-defined theme park WITHOUT RIDES, geared toward adults.

Forgive me if I remain skeptical any time Disney tries to gear anything toward adults. (Unless they mean MORMON adults...) What is it, then? A few discotheques open till midnight? Ooh, I'm quaking! Lock up the kids, Martha!

Of course, Disney has a history of opening ill-conceived theme parks before they're ready. And then spending a lot more money to fix them. Case in point, Disney's Californication.

Now, if Larry Flynt were to erect HustlerLand in sunny Orlando, with (wet) rides and adventures: THEN, I would pay some attention. Take a tour through the Voyeur House. Sexy ride through Jenna Jameson's Space Mountains. Or just sit back and enjoy the Pavilion of Rape.

North needs South, East needs West...
And no needs yes, yes, yesss...

Up needs down, life needs death...
And no needs yes...

Yes...

YES.

Born Again

A while ago, I bring a girl back to my Fortress of Solitude. We're sitting on the bed, she's glancing around making a quick appraisal of my possessions. She points to my modest 26" HDTV, which I'd gotten off Craigslist, and remarks, "Uh... mine's better."
| | | | |I'm not sure what started the itch to get a new television recently. It's something I've been mulling over for a while. Stifled less by a consideration of the cost and more so by a contemplation of how to get rid of my old, unwieldy cathode ray tube television. It was kind of a big ordeal to get the television in the first place (as attendees of NickEmma's wedding will recall from my blockbuster speech) and I didn't relish the thought of inviting random Craigslist serial killers over to my apartment to kill me and steal my old tv.

But this desire for an upgrade would not quit. Perhaps spurred by the end of the HD format wars. And the end of the writers strike. And the fact that I watch so goddamn much television and movies...

Sooo... I made the leap. Circuit City will haul off your old tv when you buy a new one from them. I admit, I went slightly overboard with the size, but—despite the anecdote I related at the beginning of this entry—you should NOT analyze that. Sometimes a laughably oversized flat-panel plasma 1080p HDTV is just a laughably oversized flat-panel plasma 1080p HDTV. Okay?? (50", fyi. Suck on that.)
| | | | |What's great is that the pending delivery of my new HDTV, scheduled for Friday afternoon, has forced/inspired/incentivized me to do some major spring cleaning. I got a lot done last night. I'll do more tonight and tomorrow morning. But the place is already looking... completely transformed.

There's so much I want to accomplish this year and it may sound funny but this feels like a fresh start. With that bulky CRT television out of the way, I think the new flat panel is really going to help open up the room. (And it's going to be like sleeping in Times Square!)
Walking through Central Park on the way to work this morning, I passed by The Falconer statue. I glanced up at the statue. Then looked back at the walkway before me just as a real fucking falcon was swooping down on a squirrel!

Sadly, the squirrel managed to escape the falcon's grasping talons. And the falcon flew back up into the trees.

[If I were a liar, I could have easily said that I saw a falcon eat a squirrel this morning. Would have made for a more thrilling anecdote, to be sure. And who could disprove it? But I could never lie to you, Constant Lurkers...]
Before I left the apartment, I caught this news story about an explosion in Times Square this morning.

Which explained the vision of helicopters hovering watchfully over mid-town as I moved south through Central Park...

T.B.D.

To Be Deadly.

To Be Desperate.

To Be Disastrous.

To Be Determined...

(To Be... Asian? Please tell me it doesn't stand for that...)

I guess this is going to be one of those infamous entries where only 2 or 3 people know what the fuck I'm talking about. And I'll do little here to make this more accessible. But really, this is for my own sake...

I REJECT THE BAIT.

It's futile. Looking over your shoulder, taking measurements on the pissing contest.

I cannot build a career based on revenge. Not a creative career, at least. It's a ruinous pursuit. It will never, ever end. Do you hear me?

There is a difference between completely shutting out the world and wearing blinders. I need to remain focused.

I made a conscious decision to separate myself from the Asian-American theater community a while ago. I've got some strong opinions about what they've been doing over at Ma-Yi for the past several years... but ultimately... it doesn't concern me.

It doesn't pertain to me.

That world. Those people. It's useless to get worked up over an Asian-American frat-club posturing—absurdly—as an up-and-comer playwright circle. Whose collective talent pool would be more aptly described as a talent cesspool. Must be hard to stay clean when you're always knee-deep in shit.

Vitriol aside... the truth is, they probably need each other. That insulated little back-patting community. There's comfort to be had in a ghetto. And if I were weaker, I guess I would take solace amidst the numbers.

But I know what I'm capable of.

You know what I'm capable of.

I am determined to reject the noise and keep focused on my own work.

Another Day's Not Really Guaranteed

Picturesque walk to work cutting through Central Park—beautiful spring mourning. Later today, it'll be raining but you wouldn't know it from looking at the skies at this hour.

I'm trying out 3-day desk-job work-weeks for the next several weeks, to allot more time for the writing. Some larger changes may occur this week but it's so hard to predict. And I won't try to predict them here.

One thing's certain: I NEED to get out of my day job. I don't quite have the financial strength to take the huge leap of faith that it took to quit it the first time, but I really need outs.

If an anvil were to fall on my skull in a month—dropping me dead—you know what I'd regret most? That I ever quit smoking. And that I didn't quit my day job sooner.

(Reu cqrc V uvue'c argn r yfc fo jfzne.)

Ashes to Dust

Sometime Saturday morning, I woke up and puked into my bathtub.

Had a talk with the studio exec Friday night, then went drinking with a friend somewhere in mid-town. Some girl at the bar picked up my arm and started inspecting my ink as if I were a free art exhibit. At the end of the night, my friend put me into a cab. The cab got into a small accident as it tried to make a turn onto my street. As I was leaving the cab, I noticed that someone had left a nearly-full pack of smokes in the backseat... which I instinctively grabbed, as if some cosmic sign.

And then, Saturday I woke up puking. I didn't smoke, though.

Sunday, I spread some ashes in Central Park. Some old letters that I burned a fucking while ago, that I'd been meaning to get rid of for ages. Took me a while to find a place to dump the ashes. Hard to find any privacy in Central Park. But ashes have finally been spread, and good riddance.

Monday's taken off, to catch up on some writing. Some bigger career movement may happen this week, but I'm never certain.

Goddamn. It's March.

The Exact Moment His Heart Breaks

You can call it schadenfreude if you must. But I'd hate for you to marginalize it. I am not merely amused. I am utterly fascinated by other people's misery.

The backstory is important for this video. Little kid is caught snooping for his Christmas presents and discovers that his mom has bought him an XBOX 360. Now, the way the story is presented, it *may* be a case of entrapment here, and the intention was always to pull this little prank on him.

Regardless, Christmas morning, the kid gets a little surprise when he opens that "XBOX 360" box:



I love how he pretends to be surprised when he tears open the wrapping paper...

And then how the camera zooms in and lingers on his face in the aftermath, and the profound death of hope...

Of course, it was just a prank. He did get the XBOX, after he'd sufficiently suffered. (So we're told.) I actually like to imagine that he appreciated it even more after this heartbreaking episode of betrayal.

Who wants ice cream?

Last (Filipino) Action Hero

I realize I'm a bit late to the game on this, but I had no idea that "Johnny Rico" from Starship Troopers was supposed to be a Pinoy. Which makes the casting of the blindingly-Caucasian Casper Van Dien all the more brilliant. I mean, his first name is literally "Casper", as if to emphasize that he's as white as a friendly ghost!

All right, okay, I'll stow the soap box. I'll have you know that some of my dearest friends are white, Dear Lurkers. (Hard to believe, but true.) I'm not here to write some reverse-racist screed. Or bitch about the dearth of minority representation in major Hollywood fare.

I think Casper Van Dien was the perfect blank canvas for the protagonist of Starship Troopers. Would have been a far murkier statement had they cast an Asian as the lead.

WHITE POWER!

They've got a Starship Troopers 3 coming directly to the home video market. Written and directed by Edward Neumeier, who wrote ROBOCOP. And though I skipped Part 2, I'm curious about this one for some stupid reason.

Speaking of Asian representation, have you had your surprisingly-tart frozen yogurt fix today, you fucking fruit-baskets? Read about the war for your frozen yogurt dollars, with thanks to Jenny.

And in other news that I can't be bothered to elegantly segue into:

Whatever happened to Neutral Milk Hotel?

The truth behind Vista...