Call it off

Maybe I would have been something you'd be good at
Maybe you would have been something I'd be good at
But now we'll never know
I won't be sad
But in case I go there
Everyday, to make myself feel bad
There's a chance I'll start to wonder if this was the thing to do...

Writing on the Wall

I don't need no arms around me!
And I don't need no drugs to calm me!
I have seen the writing on the wall!
Don't think I need anything at all!
Nooo!
Don't think I need anything at all!
Can you believe July is nearly done for? (Believe it.)

For entertainment purposes, I revisited the blog entries I wrote two years ago, in August 2006. That month following my big SPF show. (Start at the bottom and scroll your way up.)

To offer some context, I was still working at Bear Stearns. Bear Stearns was still a company that existed. And I had no idea what I was going to do next.

It's surprising how generally bummed I seem toward the beginning of the month. SPF had been such a huge boost for me that July but I had no idea what my prospects were when it was over.

I'd gotten some notice, a handful of regional theaters were interested in reading my playscript, but the world had not completely transformed as I'd secretly hoped it would. I still didn't have an agent, which was the most basic thing that I'd hoped for from the experience. I was back at the day job full-time, trying to make peace with what I had.

Some foreshadowing from my August 9th entry:

"As I left the office yesterday, I found a $20 on the floor in the lobby. Finders keepers, suckas! A sign of better things to come?"

My August 10th entry shows how I was beginning to feel a little better about the world. Started to appreciate what I'd accomplished, determined to build upon it.

My August 16th entry marks where my fortunes clearly change.

This is the shit I need to remember. When I get really bummed out. I've come so fucking far. I've still got a lot of fighting to do before I'm somewhere secure but I've gotten this far. I've got to respect that.

Now Testify

On Sunday, I went to church.

Church of Latter Day Saints, that is.

Singles ward.

Why?

For YOU, Dear Reader. To fucking entertain YOU, of course.

Suffice it to say, I was wayyy out of my element. Not only was I in a church with very few minorities, I was in a church on the Upper East Side—which is like a Bizarro, upside-down version of the Upper West Side.

I looked so sketchy there. I've got a gun tattooed on my arm, for fuck sake. Not talking to anyone. All on my own. Hugging my bag. Surrounded by buttoned-up, blond Aryans. Scared shitless. It was pretty clear I had no business being there. I probably looked like I was smuggling heroin in from Turkey. I might as well have been wearing clown makeup and juggling knives.

You would have laughed. Oh, you would have laughed.

An older, Hispanic-looking man sat down next to me as the ceremony began. One of the few minorities there. I wondered if They spotted me and sent him out special to "help" me. He handed me a hymn book as people began to sing; let me look on as I clearly had no idea what page people were on. (On so many levels.)

[SPOILER ALERT!!!]

The ceremony was surprisingly reminiscent of the Catholic masses I grew up on. Not so much up-and-down, call-and-response, though.

Hymns were sung. Speakers would go up to the podium to talk about how the religion changed their lives in meaningful ways. The first speaker was this pretty girl who seemed terrified of public speaking. Not helped by how quiet everyone remained throughout. No applause or "amens". To agree with some sentiment, people silently raised their hands.

One thing that struck me: the pretty young things in attendance actually seemed RESTLESS sitting there. In my own prejudiced mind, I'd imagined a roomful of neatly pressed All-Americans sitting there with cartoon hearts for eyes, hanging onto every word of the ceremony...

On the contrary, people were quietly chatting with each other throughout. Texting on their phones. Zoning out for the poorer speakers. Yes, there were some cartoon-hearted, including the Hispanic man next to me. But for the most part, it seemed like a bunch of kids whose parents made them go.

At a key part in the ceremony, young men brought out these handled-plates filled with what looked like tiny cubes of yellow pound-cake. These were passed down the rows; people would eat one and pass the plate on. I regarded the cake as if it were made of poison. As if it wasn't enough of a mockery that I was sitting in on this meeting, I most certainly was NOT going to partake of their holy pound-cake!

After the cake, another set of handled-plates was passed around: these filled with vials of (what appeared to be) water. Again, I was careful not to touch it. Sure that it would leave me with third-degree burns if I did. And how much more did I really need to stand out?

As the hour came to a close, I had my eye trained on the exits. The older Hispanic man smiled at me. "Your first time?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied. Almost wanting to say more, for his benefit. But I decided that it was enough.

And again, that question: WHY?

A few reasons...

An unnamed friend had encouraged me to go, suggesting that it was a good place to meet some nice, desperate women. I didn't really expect to meet someone there, but I'd put off going for so many weeks, I got the idea that my unnamed friend was probably beginning to think that I was too chickenshit to ever actually go. Which qualifies as a dare, which means I had to go. No question.

Secondly, this is the sort of shit I do. Every so often, I force myself to go way the fuck out of my comfort zone. What's life without awkward new experiences?

Lucky

Had another dream that I've had before, over the years, in different incarnations.

I'm in my apartment. I catch a glimpse of my childhood dog sniffing around, approaching me like he's hungry or wants to go for a walk. I think to myself,

It's been DAYS since I remember either feeding him OR taking him for a walk...

Then I recall he died years ago. And I wake up.

What is with these fucking guilt dreams??

I saw a sheltie on the street this weekend: I guess that triggered the dog dream. All shelties kinda look alike. And they share the same soul.

(Unlike cats, who have no souls at all.)

So what? I lied. (I lie to me, too.)

Tegan & Sara. Adorable lesbian twin rockers.

A friend sent me a copy of their last album sometime around the holidays. Which means I just got around to listening to it this past week. I prefer to be a few paces behind at all times.

I can't get this one out of my head.

Early Reader

I had a hard time learning to read when I was a tyke. I remember really digging those "Early Reader" books in first grade, because I could actually read a whole fucking book on my own!


I had a peculiar fondness for "Frog and Toad". I think because their stories were so goddamn dreary.

"This is my sad time of day," said Toad. "It is the time when I wait for the phone to ring. It always makes me very unhappy."

"Why is that?" asked Frog.

"Because I never get any phone calls," said Toad.

"Not ever?" asked Frog.

"No, never," said Toad. "My phone is always quiet because girls do not like me. No one will ever love me because I am ugly. Girls do not like ugly toads."

"Is it possible to die from loneliness?" asked Frog.

"No," said Toad. "But I wish I were dead."

I should be writing children's books.

Hollywood's trying to horn in on the Early-Reader Book Market, but I think the Hulk is a poor teacher.

x X x
For those who care, it looks like we're going to get to go for an R-rating on "Butcherhouse"!

This may not seem like news, but there's been a real threat we'd have to aim for a watered-down PG-13 since last summer.

Aside from this, I've got a major revision ahead of me. A key change to the second half... that I actually think could be really exciting. A huge departure from the play, but one that could take the whole thing to another level. I've just got some work cut out for me mapping this out.

x X x
Hey, if today's your last day at The Company Formerly Known As Bear Stearns, FUCKING GOOD ON YA!

Now it's dead to me. Ashes to ashes.

"One last iPod shuffle, for old time's sake?" sighed the Gay Horse. "You cart me out FOR THIS?! I should be dancing!"

"Bear Stearns is Dead" Shuffled 5:
1. "Wanna Be Startin' Somthing", Michael Jackson
2. "Spun", Brian Jonestown Massacre
3. "Little Star", Stina Nordenstam
4. "The Red Carpet Grave", Marilyn Manson
5. "Knee Deep at the NPL", Camera Obscura

"We Must Never Forget" BONUS
"Stop", Pink Floyd

Sade Baderinwa Fan Club

I don't typically watch the local news coverage, but I caught a promo for WABC-TV's 11:00 Eyewitness News the other week and—

STOP THE PRESS... who's that...?

... and why can't I seem to find a really good picture of her alone...?!

Lads and germs, meet Sade Baderinwa. This is no ordinary love.

Hailing from the rough streets of Bodymore, Murderland.

She comes to New York City and nearly gets killed by a hit-and-run on a news assignment.

But let's not dwell on the grisly, shall we?

How about we talk about who the fuck is casting the team over at WABC-TV's local news!?

First they give us the laughably hot Liz Cho and now I've got this new one I gotta look up pictures for??

These images don't quite do her justice. You have failed me, The Internet.

When I was a kid, we had Pat Harper and Sue Simmons—women you wouldn't DREAM of thinking of in a sexual manner! On the contrary, these were women you would think of when you wanted to STOP thinking about sex!! Matronly, fiercely asexual women.

What the fuck happened?

Country of Lost Children

"I think there must be something wrong with treating children as goods... but I can't figure out what it is."

I knew about China's "One-Child Law" from grade school. Started in 1979 to curb the population growth. It always seemed like a funny thing to have to do, but the larger social ramifications never occurred to me.

Until I caught "China's Stolen Children", a co-production between HBO Documentary Films and Channel 4. Part of HBO's terrific "new documentaries every Monday" series.

In the culture, sons grow up to take care of their parents in their old age; daughters grow up to take care of their husband's parents. Which is why sons are much more prized.

This, in conjunction with the one-child policy, has led to untold numbers of abortions. A lost generation of girls. Leading to an obvious longer term disparity in the gender ratio.

And a larger immediate issue: a booming underground economy selling stolen kids.

Oneironaut

An oneironaut is one who travels through dream worlds and/or explores alternate realities.

Another common definition dictates that an oneironaut is one that travels without moving.

Moving in this case refers to physical or bodily movement.

Had the dream again. This weekend.

It's never the same. In this one, I'm walking around some city that for some reason makes me think of Tokyo. I don't remember the action of the dream very clearly.

But within the dream, I recall murdering several people.

Like a repressed memory. Within the dream.

Not just murdering, but covering up the crimes. Dismantling bodies, disposing of them. I remember the sense of panic and revulsion and shame. That haunted feeling of not being caught.

In the dream, this memory comes back to me and I really have to consider whether it really happened because I'd spent so many years denying it.

My friend BOZE is with me in the dream: he admits that he killed someone too, but he doesn't think it counts because he committed his murder with a letter bomb.

Inevitable Backlash

Continuing our WALL-E-disparaging Monday series, the A.V. Club compiles a list of all the ways people are up in arms over our cuddly new E.T.-knockoff.

Hey, I liked the movie, but Misanthropy Central's gotta blog the news.

Sixes

So I'm watching the film adaptation of "Six Degrees of Separation"—which I saw in the theaters back in '93. It's got some interesting elements in it but it ISN'T a very good movie. I could see how it could've come across better as a stage play, but as a film... it feels like a play.

Will Smith is good—playing a gay con-artist. (Your basic Zach Taylor archetype.) Note how delicately it's shot so that we don't actually see him kissing Anthony Michael Hall on the lips in one scene... many years pre-Brokeback.

But wait a minute...

JJ Abrams is in this movie?! As an actor??

With a real part, too. Playing the college-aged son of one of the adult characters.

And then years later, he's the executive producer of a show called... wait for it...

"Six Degrees"!!!

Coincidence??

MySpace Angles

Are you familiar with the term "MySpace Angle"?

It's a modern little sniglet that refers to... tricks people may use to create a more flattering (dishonest) photo of themselves, for online consumption.

Creative cropping. Flattering angles, lighting. Physical distortions of the face.

A WARNING TO SOME OF OUR READERSHIP: The following linked article may be construed as misogynistic, as it focuses exclusively on women...

BEWARE THE DREADED MYSPACE ANGLES!

And the less-successful sequel,

REVENGE OF THE MYSPACE ANGLES!

(Some of those pics are a little unfair...)

Of course, this phenomenon isn't confined to women or to social-networking sites. A lot of actors carry around headshots of themselves that look nothing like them.

Some might call it deceptive. I think it's more self-deceptive.

People don't know what they look like. They know what they think they look like. They know what they feel they SHOULD look like, in the best case scenario.

But it's not what most people will see when they meet you.

For your edification,

HOW TO POSE FOR YOUR BYLINE PICTURE.

The Constant Blogger

The only way I've been able to regularly update two blogs has been to compose a lot of blog entries in advance. Yeah, it makes for some shallow entries, but it's not like I get any more credit for a longer entry. I could spend two hours creating an elaborate animated gif that won't get any more recognition than some random bit of clip-art I find off Google Images.

This week, I ran out of my pre-written Misanthropy Central entries.

Which is why I've had to keep this blog up the old-fashioned way: writing it the night before.

A little less hiding behind random pop culture phenomena. A little more... actually talking to you. The customer.

The radio silence this week has been deafening. Waiting for the right calls to come in is just the worst time in the fucking world.

These are the soul-searching, demon-wrestling hours.

These are dark days in the sun.

Too much introspection becomes poisonous for me. I've been staying active. Hitting the gym. Beating the pavement all over this beautiful, godforsaken city. It's been so goddamn gorgeous outside this week, I've just wanted to puke.

Tomorrow, a shallower entry.

Truly Gone Fishing

All right, world.

Wednesday. July sixteenth. Two thousand and fucking eight.

This quiet world is due for an eruption of noise!

Good. Bad. You cross a threshold where it doesn't really matter.

That's not entirely sincere.

Some optimistic noise would be welcome.

This is one of those bad weeks.

Things can change so dramatically, it would really help me if I could know when things are going to, like, happen. I mean, I could prepare for it. And I could wring my hands a little less.

Dark Rides

Had one of those terrible Mondays.

Traversed the city looking for something that I couldn't find. I almost found it at this one place but it was missing something. So I walked home empty-handed. Real poetic like.

Had my phone on me. I was anticipating a slew of calls: none came through.

This is how it works. I should really come to expect this in the business, but it's always jarring. One day, you're in Siberia. The next day, the sun is shining and everyone wants to be your friend. The day after tomorrow, you're trapped in a spontaneous ice-age. And then it starts ALL OVER AGAIN,

LAUGHING, CRYING, LAUGHING, CRYING!!

I did get a call from a producer who was supposed to call me a few weeks back. Could be hanging out with him later in the week.

And another promising opportunity presented itself which I will DEFINITELY not be discussing in detail here. But in a strange way, I think this opportunity cast the darkest cloud over my Monday...

Imagine that you're locked up in a prison for life. And this one day, someone tells you, "Hey, we might let you out later this week."

And that's the last you hear of it.

Sometimes, a little hope can be cruel and painful.

It's like an old wound being opened up. That familiar stinging sensation. Almost paralyzing.

Hope can fucking hurt.

Better to remain numb, though? I don't know.

But you don't want to read me prattling on about this...

I know what you fucking want:

I used my silent cell phone to capture this image of the Batmobile, parked on the Upper West Side.

And nearby, a covered BatPod...?

WALL-E World

Pixar's WALL-E is making some audience members cry for the wrong reasons.

If you've been to Disney World in the past decade, you might notice a resemblance between the patrons and the obese meat-puppets aboard the film's starship Axiom.

SLATE article about the faulty logic behind relating obesity to environmental collapse in WALL-E.

Dystopia

It's been one helluva writing week.

Finally finished a massive overhaul of a very old screenplay called "Dystopia". It was my senior thesis script @ NYU.

It was a huge endeavor, dusting it off. My writing style has matured significantly since college. Ubiquitous technologies like cell phones and the internet were in their relative infancy back then—and thus, did not exist in the draft.

The script's come a long fucking way. It's in the hands of my managers and agents this weekend. If they don't respond to it, I will be fucking bummed out. Not to say that I think it's perfect, but the current draft gets the story across.

I finished that mid-week.

Rest of the week, I completed a very detailed story-beat outline for another potential project. Sent it off to the producers early Friday evening, before catching an SPF show. It was a fuckload of work, that. And it still needs some tinkering. But I think it could make for a really exciting project. A psychological thriller that doesn't involve the supernatural, thankyouverymuch.

This weekend, I've got to pool some ideas together for an adaptation of a popular Poe short story.

My Paramount guy touched base briefly on Friday. The next stage of "Butcherhouse" should be happening soon. (Which is good, cuz I'm boutah go on Food Stamps, yo.)

And one of my managers tells me that I've got a fan at Fox Atomic, which could be good. I'll take what I can get.

Bigupp to all my haters. As ever.

Talk To Me!!!

Went to see "Stand By Me" at the Brooklyn Bridge Park Thursday night. Under the stars, surrounded by too many people.

I wonder how many single women were there. Probably a lot.

Can you guess how many I talked to?

(Zero.)

Can you guess how many single women I've talked to in the past month?

(Zero.)

You know what zero plus zero equals...?


Of course, those days are behind me... now that I've discovered the magic bullet to assassinate my lonely days:

A secret society of over 100 million hip, in the know (single, divorced, widowed) eligibles.

Anytime, anywhere you feel like meeting someone just put the Talk To Me^TM Pin on. Wear it on a lapel, a blouse, a tie, a collar, a handbag, a swimsuit, an exercise outfit.

We're through the looking glass, people.

This changes the game entirely. Hold onto your hats coz this is bout ta blow the fuckin doors off tha dating scene.

Of course, no woman in her right mind is gonna be caught dead wearing one of these pins... but you can bet your butt that a shitload of awkward men will be!

And guess what? They're gonna want you to fucking talk to them.

Alert the blogosphere.

Listen to the winds of revolution. A revolution of low-confidence individuals.

Talk to me... WHY WON'T ANYONE TALK TO ME??

The Dark Hype

Everybody secure your "Dark Knight" IMAX tickets? Looks like that shit's sold out through September.

Check out what they're doing to help get the word out.

Kinda Fight Clubby.

Speaking of Project Mayhem (which I really shouldn't be), check out what OTHER people are throwing up on the sides of buildings.

Oh, and one more thing...

TRACY MORGAN'S THE NEW HOST OF SCARE TACTICS!!!!!!!!!!!

His opening words:

"I'm here for one reason: THIS SHIT IS CRAZY!"
Funniest-Guy-Ever alert.

(Fuck you, Dane Cook and Dane Cook Cultists.)

Shannen Doherty was actually a great host for the show and T.M. can't quiet pull off some of the hot-bitch lines that she could throw off so effortlessly.

Morgan really excels at the fruit loopy bat-shit (to bring it back to Batman). When writers can tap into it, it's a fucking goldmine.

And I have faith that the Scare Tactics writers will get a better handle on what works with Morgan along the way.

But what's really distracting is this picture of Shannen Doherty. I know I'm supposed to be hyping up Tracy Morgan as the new host of Scare Tactics, but Doherty is such a fucking hottie. I don't care that she's supposed to be a bitch. She deserves to be one. Hot girls don't need winning personalities.

Home Education & Two Dogs

HBO has been airing new HBO Documentary Films every Monday.

That's how I learned about the artist Chuck Connelly.

A contemporary of Basquiat and Schnabel in the 80's art scene.

Scorsese featured his paintings in his segment of "New York Stories".

And now, after years of alienating every collector and gallery owner, he's back to being a schnook like everybuddy else.

Check out the fascinating,

"The Art of Failure."

It ends a little abruptly and you wonder what the point was, but still fascinating.

Connelly's got a pretty awesome website with a well-designed virtual gallery. Check it out if you're stuck at work waiting to get fired. Be my friggin' guest.

Mammoth

This is up in the suburbs. My sister's driving, I'm riding shotgun, we're arguing over something.

It's a dark night. The visibility isn't great because there aren't many street lamps along this stretch and there are all these big trees leaning over the road.

It's kind of windy and the branches and leaves are swaying up ahead as we drive. Sounds like a storm's about to hit.

And then... out of the shadows and waving branches up ahead...

... this massive WOOLLY MAMMOTH comes barreling straight at us.

We swerve, the mammoth runs right past us.

Then another mammoth emerges --

It's a stampede. One after another.

They're spooked and we're trying to avoid them.

I'm looking up at them through the windshield and they're monstrously big. One wrong step and they would demolish our car. And they are completely freaked out.

We finally reach a clearing where we can see further and it's full-out fucking mayhem.

Cars and people have been tossed into treetops.

And this is where it admittedly gets a little weird --

In addition to the mammoths...


... there are these hulking GREMLINS. King Kong big. Terrorizing this suburban town!

It may sound absurd but when you're stuck in the thick of this incomprehensible chaos, it feels just like 9/11. This overwhelming, inescapable feeling of dread. A sense that this is how the world ends: with mammoths and gremlins.

Before you wake up.

If you wake up.

700 Years of Solitude

Trapped in a lonely wasteland for an eternity. Watching a movie over and over, just to remember what it's like to FEEL something.

That's my fucking life, PIXAR. You assholes.

FWIW, I think WALL-E is a pretty brilliant movie until the robot finds someone to love. That's where it starts to feel far-fetched to me. That's where you lose me.

How about THIS ending:

WALL-E spends another 700 years completely alone as all his friends get married and move to Brooklyn and start having kids.

"Honey, why don't we invite WALL-E over this weekend? It's been like a hundred years since we've seen him."

"I love how he says his own name and cries when he watches musicals. Puts a smile on my face. Really cheers me the fuck up."

"A'right, lemme text that little dirtbag, see if he's free..."

If anyone needs me, I'll be in Central Park, squashing trash into little cubes.

I Never Loved Nobody Fully

this is our independence day

Hell on Earth?

Appleton, Wisconsin.

2006 Fireworks Convention: 10,500,000 fireworks.

Enjoy that?

Well, now you've been TAGGED:

"Google will have to turn over every record of every video watched by YouTube users, including users' names and IP addresses, to Viacom, which is suing Google for allowing clips of its copyright videos to appear on YouTube, a judge ruled Wednesday."

Crank up the Rage Against the Machine and get dirty, blog-army.

Lights out!
Guerilla Radio!
Turn that shit up!!!

Tom Cruise's Birthday

... and in non-Scientologist (*yet*) birthday news, my friend Jenny celebrates a new year on spaceship earth today... my, what lovely cakes she has!

What's my Misanthropy Central blog gift to her?

A story she will NOT want to read:

Teen decapitated at Six Flags over Georgia

Not to go on an unresearched, knee-jerk blog rant here, but...

[rolling up sleeves]

... these rides get built too fast, too big. Competition for a shrinking pool of park-goers sparks this record-breaking contest. Speed, height—the limits of engineering get pushed. They're safety-tested within certain profit-limits, but many of them break down regularly.

And the occasional teen gets fucking decapitated.

Ever wonder what it's like to kick some kid's head clean off with your New Balance sneakers?

Six Flags over motherfucking Georgia.


ROAD TRIP!!!

The Heart Wants What it Wants

"The heart wants what it wants. There's no logic to those things. You meet someone and you fall in love and that's that."

1992 Interview with Woody Allen.

Cold Days in Hell

I want one of these creepy fucking snowglobes, designed by artists Walter Martin and Paloma Munoz.

More HERE.

Now buy me some.

Gimme.