So there I was at Target, land of the wrong toilet paper and the endcap suck-me-in (hey-- when CHINATOWN in widescreen DVD is on sale for 4 bucks, I can't not buy it), tasked with picking up The Wife's latest Ambien refill and my own 4 dollar latte. I wander the store for 15 minutes as the Indian scrip chick counts out the pills, I grab some milk and half-and-half, a crate of Goldfish, and an 8-pack of wiffle balls (aka, "the usual") and get the pills and head for checkout.
I'm in line behind a woman in a tennis skirt and sleeveless top.
"Nice legs" I note to myself as she empties her cart. She has the really well-toned legs of a woman who has played tennis or run regularly for years.
"Nice ass" I note as she stoops over to pick up some larger items from her cart.
"Wow-- nice rack, too" I think to myself as she turn to profile and I see the way her boobs -- likely aftermarket store-bought yabbos, but that's totally cool -- stretch the top just enough to be undeniably noticeable but not so much that they scream "LOOK AT MY BIG FAKE TITS".
I sip my coffee and look away, remembering not to pull a George Costanza and be caught staring to 5 or 20 or 53 seconds as if I'm looking at one of those 3D "picture in the static pattern" things they sell in mall kiosks. Steal a glance, look away... swipe a glimpse, check your watch... sneak a peek, examine some item on the checkout line... we males know this routine instinctively.
"Pretty hair," I think silently as her just above the shoulder bob flounces slightyl as she works back and forth, unloading the cart.
Finally she's done, she exchanges some pleasantry with the check-out monkey, and she glances around, and we make eye contact -- casual random thing. No problem. She smiles and nods that checkout line greeting, and I return the half-bored nod and smile to complete the social exchange.
"Huh... a little older than I was expecting, based upon the bod and hair... still... really pretty lady."
Sneak a glance, look away...
I look at the assortment of items on the conveyor: some socks, package of lunchmeat, bottle of marinade.
And two large boxes of Depends.
Somewhere in the reptilian part of my brain stem I here a double blast of the horn -- "STAND DOWN! STAND DOWN! FALSE ALARM! SHE'S A GRANNY!"
Oy.
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dirtier and older man by the minute B
just another online spittoon
05 March 2008
The Warrior
Though I am not a huge NFL fan (that love affair ended years ago when the league supported Fat Bastard Bud Adams in his theft of the Oilers and relocation to Tennessee...), but there are a few players and personalities I like to watch when I have the opportunity.
And now, the opportunity to watch perhaps my favorite ever NFL players is no more, as Brett Favre, longtime Packers QB, has announced he is retiring from the game.
I'll not waste time describing Favre's records (which are both many in number and staggering in scope), nor will I recite a litany of great moments from his illustrious career, Instead, I'll simply talk about the one thing that always made Favre so fun to watch, so fun to cheer for, so fun to point to and say "that's what sports is about."
It wasn't his arm, though by god that man could make pigskin fly like few ever seen. There are other QBs who boast flashier completion percentages or fewer intercepts or better QB ratings, but there are basically none who have spent a career threading impossible needles, making throws that no other QB would even attempt, much complete.
It wasn't his feet, though the typical Favre highlight always seems to include #4 slipping some onslaught of rushers, skipping to the side, and then firing a leather laser beam into the hands of some receiver who caught the ball purely in self defense lest it shatter his helmet.
It wasn't his head, as Favre was long maddening to watch (or coach, I would guess) for his tendency to make odd decisions, to force the ball into tight coverage rather than try a less risky play. The fact that he somehow made these dumb decisions work out right more often than not surely helps mitigate this aspect of his career, but let's not mince words: Favre often succeeded in spite of his decisions rather than because of them.
No, the thing that I always loved about Favre, always envied and adored and will now miss forever, was his heart. Heat, snow, rain, sun, fog, frogs and locusts-- it didn't matter the conditions or the situation: if Favre was on the field you knew he was going to be doing everything a human being could do to try and drag his team to victory. The Roman statesman Cicero once wrote "Where there is life, there is hope," and I can think of few other athletes who have ever personified that statement so clearly, so perfectly.
For 17 years Favre would just keep coming. No matter how banged up he got the week before, no matter what aches and dents and bruises and sprains and fractures he picked up while battling in the colosseum, Favre would just gear up and come back for more. It's hard to fully appreciate this number, but let's try: Favre started a NFL record 275 consecutive games at quarterback -- that's more than 16 straight regular seasons worth of games. Sixteen seasons.Sixteen seasons in which he was the undisputed marked man, the primary target in a hyper-violent nationally televised version of "kill the man with the ball," yet somehow he just keep getting up and coming back, play after play, week after week, year after year, until it became so normal that most folks started to take it as a given: just Favre being Favre.
His endurance and durability will likely never be seen again in the NFL at his position, but even more than the physical toughness I am speaking of a mental and emotional toughness. A quiet non-braggadocious sense that nobody was ever going to intimidate or out-tough him.
My favorite Favre memory is ironically one of his shortest and "easiest" passes. Christmas Eve, 1995: the Packers are down 4 to the Steelers late in the game, and again Favre is doing his thing, rallying the Packers back from the brink of defeat, leading the offense to the brink of the endzone, when three Steeler defenders break through and flatten Favre as he rushes to get off a pass attempt. That pass sails wide -- incomplete -- but Favre stood in a beat too long and takes the full impact of that trio of would-be tacklers. He hits the ground like he's hit by a bus. The trainers carry him off the field as his backup comes in for one ineffective snap, then Favre, still reeling and actually for-real no-bullshit spitting up blood from that previous impact, limps back to the huddle, calls a play, and lifts a one-yard pass to wide-open tight end Mark Chmura to give the Packers the come from behind win which sealed the division title and sent them to the playoffs. His team goes nuts, but Favre just winces and nods as he turns to head back to the bench, in too much pain even to lift his arms in celebration.
Life is often unfair, and usually difficult. Too often we see people fail, or let us down, or cut and run while pointing fingers and making excuses. For 17 seasons, I never saw Brett Favre do that. Instead I saw a warrior who went out every time the bell sounded and who gave up every bit of effort, every bit of hustle, every bit of perfect child-like love for the game, for the team.
Was he perfect? Far from it. The man surely did love his beer, and he wrestled for a while with an addiction to prescription painkillers (which is almost forgivable when you consider how often he probably **needed** those painkillers just to make it through one more week of throbbing aches and pains). He only won one Super Bowl in his illustrious career, and sometimes seemed to benefit perhaps a bit too much from a sports press in awe of his toughness and willingness to be the man in charge at the center of the storm. There will always be a compelling case that someone else was actually a better quarterback based upon some specific analysis of some specific set of stats or figures.
But none of that matters for me. When I hear the name "Favre" I'll not be thinking of stats or won-loss records or trophies or titles or awards. No, when I think of that name I'll always see #4 scrambling through the snow, ball cocked high and ready to fire, eyes locked downfield as he wills for a few seconds more chance, a few moments more mud-spattered hope in which to attempt one more impossible throw no human could ever hope to complete....
"Never, never, never quit."
-- Winston Churchill
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B
And now, the opportunity to watch perhaps my favorite ever NFL players is no more, as Brett Favre, longtime Packers QB, has announced he is retiring from the game.
I'll not waste time describing Favre's records (which are both many in number and staggering in scope), nor will I recite a litany of great moments from his illustrious career, Instead, I'll simply talk about the one thing that always made Favre so fun to watch, so fun to cheer for, so fun to point to and say "that's what sports is about."
It wasn't his arm, though by god that man could make pigskin fly like few ever seen. There are other QBs who boast flashier completion percentages or fewer intercepts or better QB ratings, but there are basically none who have spent a career threading impossible needles, making throws that no other QB would even attempt, much complete.
It wasn't his feet, though the typical Favre highlight always seems to include #4 slipping some onslaught of rushers, skipping to the side, and then firing a leather laser beam into the hands of some receiver who caught the ball purely in self defense lest it shatter his helmet.
It wasn't his head, as Favre was long maddening to watch (or coach, I would guess) for his tendency to make odd decisions, to force the ball into tight coverage rather than try a less risky play. The fact that he somehow made these dumb decisions work out right more often than not surely helps mitigate this aspect of his career, but let's not mince words: Favre often succeeded in spite of his decisions rather than because of them.
No, the thing that I always loved about Favre, always envied and adored and will now miss forever, was his heart. Heat, snow, rain, sun, fog, frogs and locusts-- it didn't matter the conditions or the situation: if Favre was on the field you knew he was going to be doing everything a human being could do to try and drag his team to victory. The Roman statesman Cicero once wrote "Where there is life, there is hope," and I can think of few other athletes who have ever personified that statement so clearly, so perfectly.
For 17 years Favre would just keep coming. No matter how banged up he got the week before, no matter what aches and dents and bruises and sprains and fractures he picked up while battling in the colosseum, Favre would just gear up and come back for more. It's hard to fully appreciate this number, but let's try: Favre started a NFL record 275 consecutive games at quarterback -- that's more than 16 straight regular seasons worth of games. Sixteen seasons.Sixteen seasons in which he was the undisputed marked man, the primary target in a hyper-violent nationally televised version of "kill the man with the ball," yet somehow he just keep getting up and coming back, play after play, week after week, year after year, until it became so normal that most folks started to take it as a given: just Favre being Favre.
His endurance and durability will likely never be seen again in the NFL at his position, but even more than the physical toughness I am speaking of a mental and emotional toughness. A quiet non-braggadocious sense that nobody was ever going to intimidate or out-tough him.
My favorite Favre memory is ironically one of his shortest and "easiest" passes. Christmas Eve, 1995: the Packers are down 4 to the Steelers late in the game, and again Favre is doing his thing, rallying the Packers back from the brink of defeat, leading the offense to the brink of the endzone, when three Steeler defenders break through and flatten Favre as he rushes to get off a pass attempt. That pass sails wide -- incomplete -- but Favre stood in a beat too long and takes the full impact of that trio of would-be tacklers. He hits the ground like he's hit by a bus. The trainers carry him off the field as his backup comes in for one ineffective snap, then Favre, still reeling and actually for-real no-bullshit spitting up blood from that previous impact, limps back to the huddle, calls a play, and lifts a one-yard pass to wide-open tight end Mark Chmura to give the Packers the come from behind win which sealed the division title and sent them to the playoffs. His team goes nuts, but Favre just winces and nods as he turns to head back to the bench, in too much pain even to lift his arms in celebration.
Life is often unfair, and usually difficult. Too often we see people fail, or let us down, or cut and run while pointing fingers and making excuses. For 17 seasons, I never saw Brett Favre do that. Instead I saw a warrior who went out every time the bell sounded and who gave up every bit of effort, every bit of hustle, every bit of perfect child-like love for the game, for the team.
Was he perfect? Far from it. The man surely did love his beer, and he wrestled for a while with an addiction to prescription painkillers (which is almost forgivable when you consider how often he probably **needed** those painkillers just to make it through one more week of throbbing aches and pains). He only won one Super Bowl in his illustrious career, and sometimes seemed to benefit perhaps a bit too much from a sports press in awe of his toughness and willingness to be the man in charge at the center of the storm. There will always be a compelling case that someone else was actually a better quarterback based upon some specific analysis of some specific set of stats or figures.
But none of that matters for me. When I hear the name "Favre" I'll not be thinking of stats or won-loss records or trophies or titles or awards. No, when I think of that name I'll always see #4 scrambling through the snow, ball cocked high and ready to fire, eyes locked downfield as he wills for a few seconds more chance, a few moments more mud-spattered hope in which to attempt one more impossible throw no human could ever hope to complete....
"Never, never, never quit."
-- Winston Churchill
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B
02 March 2008
Texas, Our Texas
Happy Texas Independence Day.
March 2, 1836, the Sovereign Republic of Texas declared herself free and independent from Mexico. For many folks -- even many who live in Texas and who claim ancestry and heritage here -- the day doesn't mean as much as it ought to, but for me... well, it matters.
Saaaaaaaaaaa-lute!
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under the S in TEXAS B
March 2, 1836, the Sovereign Republic of Texas declared herself free and independent from Mexico. For many folks -- even many who live in Texas and who claim ancestry and heritage here -- the day doesn't mean as much as it ought to, but for me... well, it matters.
Saaaaaaaaaaa-lute!
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under the S in TEXAS B
29 February 2008
reminders
One of the cool pieces of writing advice I've picked up over the years is to treat this like a job: to remember to do the work, to punch the clock, to grind it out and drag the hulking beast over the finish line by grit and guts, by raw brute determination if need be. To not get so wrapped up in the "art" that you forget the simple cold fact that in order to be a professional you have to honor and respect the profession.
But there is flip side to that, too. Just as it's important to remember the business side of things, I think it's good sometimes to remember what it was—what it is—about writing that first made you fall in love with the notion of lion-taming words as a life's pursuit. To remember that feeling when some sentence or paragraph made your scalp tingle and your skin ripple with goosebumbs, made your eyes get misty and the corners of your mouth twist into an envious grin as somebody out there strung together a few words in such a manner as to make your heart race, your skin flush, your soul ache.
If you've ever read a line or heard a phrase and understood with throbbing clarity "I want to do that..." then maybe you have the soul of a writer in you.
I was noodling around online (we call it "research" in the trade—makes it seem worthwhile and valid) and stumbled across a video from one of my all-time favorite songwriters, and as I sat and listened to a shy Texan mumble 24 simple lines backed by a pair of acoustic guitars, I got that misty feeling all over again.
That's what it's about... I want to make words do that....
So as I try to remain aware of first weekend gross and market demographics and four quadrant appeal, it's nice to remember that sometimes it's just as simple as one guy, on a stool, saying what he really feels.
RICE BIRDS
(Adam Carroll)
I was thinkin' of you when the rice birds flew
when the false dawn came with the mornin' dew
you're a thunderstorm ragin' outside my garage
you're the white shirt peekin' through my camouflage
I was thinkin' of you and I won't forget
tail of the turtle and Bayou Teche
I cannot dance but I can hang on
to some sweet memory down in Oberlin
I was thinkin' of you at the Mardi Gras
Fords and Chevies like I never saw
I wish you were here to dance with me
to hear this cajun symphony
I was thinkin' of you at the LA bar
where I got so drunk I couldn't drive my car
I was dreamin' about you with my ten-ounce beer
dreamin' sweet day dreams wishin' you were here
I was thinking of you with the braids in your hair
old Houston Texas or anywhere
I was dreamin' about you and my changin' ways
I still think about you in my travelin' days
I was thinkin' of you where the sunset glows
down the Mississippi River where the Gulf wind blows
I was dreamin' about you and the fleur-de-lis
I was wishin' you were next to me....
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jealous as all hell B
But there is flip side to that, too. Just as it's important to remember the business side of things, I think it's good sometimes to remember what it was—what it is—about writing that first made you fall in love with the notion of lion-taming words as a life's pursuit. To remember that feeling when some sentence or paragraph made your scalp tingle and your skin ripple with goosebumbs, made your eyes get misty and the corners of your mouth twist into an envious grin as somebody out there strung together a few words in such a manner as to make your heart race, your skin flush, your soul ache.
If you've ever read a line or heard a phrase and understood with throbbing clarity "I want to do that..." then maybe you have the soul of a writer in you.
I was noodling around online (we call it "research" in the trade—makes it seem worthwhile and valid) and stumbled across a video from one of my all-time favorite songwriters, and as I sat and listened to a shy Texan mumble 24 simple lines backed by a pair of acoustic guitars, I got that misty feeling all over again.
That's what it's about... I want to make words do that....
So as I try to remain aware of first weekend gross and market demographics and four quadrant appeal, it's nice to remember that sometimes it's just as simple as one guy, on a stool, saying what he really feels.
RICE BIRDS
(Adam Carroll)
I was thinkin' of you when the rice birds flew
when the false dawn came with the mornin' dew
you're a thunderstorm ragin' outside my garage
you're the white shirt peekin' through my camouflage
I was thinkin' of you and I won't forget
tail of the turtle and Bayou Teche
I cannot dance but I can hang on
to some sweet memory down in Oberlin
I was thinkin' of you at the Mardi Gras
Fords and Chevies like I never saw
I wish you were here to dance with me
to hear this cajun symphony
I was thinkin' of you at the LA bar
where I got so drunk I couldn't drive my car
I was dreamin' about you with my ten-ounce beer
dreamin' sweet day dreams wishin' you were here
I was thinking of you with the braids in your hair
old Houston Texas or anywhere
I was dreamin' about you and my changin' ways
I still think about you in my travelin' days
I was thinkin' of you where the sunset glows
down the Mississippi River where the Gulf wind blows
I was dreamin' about you and the fleur-de-lis
I was wishin' you were next to me....
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jealous as all hell B
27 February 2008
T.M.I.
No, not "Too Much Information."
Today it means "Transient Moment of Idiocy," and I coin that phrase to describe an increasingly common and increasingly tiresome sort of behavior I am seeing all over the place -- the situation of a normally intelligent and well-reasoned person suddenly leaving the reservation to claim and defend some truly oddball and often offensive opinion which you find intellectually and ethically repugnant.
I'll not even bother describing specific examples of such, as surely some friend or other will read that example and say "HEY... that bastard is talking about ME...!" and to be perfectly honest, right now I'm just not in a mood to argue with such folks. They have a right to their opinions, and I have a right to sit in judgment and label them a booger-eating moron for having and then publicly expressing such dipshittery.
No problemo.
What does seem more troubling is the underlying thought process which drives and excuses such behavior: the idea that all opinions are somehow equivalent or acceptable, or that by labeling something as "My Opinion" you are then somehow absolved of being judged FOR that opinion, or that others are then somehow morally compelled to give a rat's caboose. If I sat here and howled that "THE MOON IS MADE OF OLD SOCKS!" or "COLUMBUS NEVER DISCOVERED AMERICA -- IT WAS ALL FAKED BY THE LISBON PRESS!," all but a comfortingly small number of folks would rightly consider me a brainless idiot. yet there are plenty of folks four-footing around expressing bits of "thought" no less moronic and laughable, and when anyone suggests that maybe -- perhaps -- these people would be better off sucking on their own tongues rather than trying out for lead alto brayer in the jackass choir, the idiots usually trot out "hey -- I'm entitled to my opinion!"
Yes you are.
And the rest of us are then entitled to point and laugh and mutter "what a friggin dumbass."
I bet you think this song is about you... you're so vain...
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proud owner of a timeshare on the moral high ground B
Today it means "Transient Moment of Idiocy," and I coin that phrase to describe an increasingly common and increasingly tiresome sort of behavior I am seeing all over the place -- the situation of a normally intelligent and well-reasoned person suddenly leaving the reservation to claim and defend some truly oddball and often offensive opinion which you find intellectually and ethically repugnant.
I'll not even bother describing specific examples of such, as surely some friend or other will read that example and say "HEY... that bastard is talking about ME...!" and to be perfectly honest, right now I'm just not in a mood to argue with such folks. They have a right to their opinions, and I have a right to sit in judgment and label them a booger-eating moron for having and then publicly expressing such dipshittery.
No problemo.
What does seem more troubling is the underlying thought process which drives and excuses such behavior: the idea that all opinions are somehow equivalent or acceptable, or that by labeling something as "My Opinion" you are then somehow absolved of being judged FOR that opinion, or that others are then somehow morally compelled to give a rat's caboose. If I sat here and howled that "THE MOON IS MADE OF OLD SOCKS!" or "COLUMBUS NEVER DISCOVERED AMERICA -- IT WAS ALL FAKED BY THE LISBON PRESS!," all but a comfortingly small number of folks would rightly consider me a brainless idiot. yet there are plenty of folks four-footing around expressing bits of "thought" no less moronic and laughable, and when anyone suggests that maybe -- perhaps -- these people would be better off sucking on their own tongues rather than trying out for lead alto brayer in the jackass choir, the idiots usually trot out "hey -- I'm entitled to my opinion!"
Yes you are.
And the rest of us are then entitled to point and laugh and mutter "what a friggin dumbass."
I bet you think this song is about you... you're so vain...
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proud owner of a timeshare on the moral high ground B
21 February 2008
yeah yeah yeah...
We're making some changes to the old blog code.
I finally figured out how to make a three column layout work the way I wanted (no thanks to BLOGGER... yeesh...), and while I was in there I started tweaking and fiddling, so things are starting to drift around a bit from a design standpoint.
Most everything is still here, just maybe skooched around a bit.
And yes, "skooch" is a technical term used by us inter-web code-maker people-guys.
Move along.
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B
I finally figured out how to make a three column layout work the way I wanted (no thanks to BLOGGER... yeesh...), and while I was in there I started tweaking and fiddling, so things are starting to drift around a bit from a design standpoint.
Most everything is still here, just maybe skooched around a bit.
And yes, "skooch" is a technical term used by us inter-web code-maker people-guys.
Move along.
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B
20 February 2008
the great and glorious game
"It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops."
-- from "The Green Fields of the Mind", by A. Bartlett Giammati
So begins one of my all-time favorite bits of writing, Giamatti's brilliant "The Green Fields of the Mind", a bizarrely affecting little essay which grows in impact and relevance for me with each passing year, and which has now become a sort of mantra or ritual to mark both the opening and closing of baseball season each year.
I love sports—most all sports, with the notable and seething exceptions of golf and soccer, facilities for which I find contemptible wastes of real estate which might be better used as landfills—but there is something about baseball which goes beyond mere love and approaches a sort of religious fervor. And I do not mean that I fixate upon ERAs and batting averages of major leaguers, for those overpriced over-privileged and over-skilled primadonnas are but one bit of baseball. What I love about baseball—what speaks to me in reverent whispers—are the strange clues and revelations of capital-T Truth which it provides us. I'm one of those who believes that Life is a good analogy for Baseball rather than vice versa, as there is basically nothing in life which does not mimic some aspect of the great and glorious game.
Success? Victory? Glory? Sure, they're there, but always in equal or lesser amounts than are failure, defeat, ignominy. It's that rarest of sports where it's as much about individual confrontation—pitcher vs batter, catcher vs runner, outfield vs time and space itself—as it is about team play. It's the one game where the offense is always—always—at a designed numerical disadvantage, and where you score without the ball. Where you can fail as a player yet see that failure contribute to the team's success, and vice versa. Where no game is ever over until both sides have had fair and equal opportunity to wrest victory from the jaws of galactic indifference. Where luck and blind chance play such a monumental part of the game that few even notice its presence, as when a ground ball somehow barely trickles through for a critical hit when one batter later a laser-straight cannon-shot might magically find an undeserving glove to be reduced to merely "out number 2" in the scoring.
Last night was the first night of Little League baseball for this year, and as I walked onto the first field for practice—my 5-year old daughter's first workout—I looked at the sky, at the grass, as the balls and bats and gloves and bases scattered on the ground, and was immediately swallowed up by that odd deja vu sort of feeling—haven't I been here a thousand times before?. A half hour later I drove around the corner to a neighborhood pocket park to meet my 10-year old team for the first time as part of a quick meet-n-greet.
As I stood there and talked to the boys and explained what I hope to teach them this spring, I started to feel like a priest delivering the Easter sermon for the thirty-fourth consecutive year to his local parish. The message remains largely the same, and there are some new faces and some familiar faces looking at me when I speak, but still there is that rush in the chest, that ball of heat that tries to claw its way out: I know this stuff sounds silly in our modern world, but dammit you have to hear me! You have to believe me when I tell you that THIS IS THE STUFF THAT MATTERS!
All the mundane bullshit of "normal" life is stuff we can hide from, stuff we can delegate, we can postpone, we can ignore.
But in baseball... there is only the moment. When the pitch is on the way... when the ball is coming toward our position... when you see the runner shouting to you with his charging feet "I don't think you've got the arm to make this play, bud...".. When the game is on the line and victory or defeat will be decided in the next third of a second by What You Do Next.
Later in the evening I led my 7-year old team through its first full workout of the year. The pitching machine was set up, we hit a lot of batting practice, we worked on some very basic defensive concepts, we ran the bases a lot. Practice ended and I was breaking down the pitching machine to store in the storage shed at the park, picking up the bases and collecting my gear. Most families had already left, but one dad was lingering back to help me straighten up. He laughed that I seemed so involved with baseball, and wondered how in the world I found the time to be so involved.
"You make time for the things that matter."
He at first thought I was talking just about my kids—that they are what matters and for which I make time. I explained that surely that was a big part of it, but that I also mean that baseball itself is important, as much for what the game teaches us about frustration and heartache and disappointment as for what it reinforces about pride and joy and contentment. Because at the end of the day, what matters most is what you do when things don't magically fall your way, when the gods themselves seem to conspire to throw obstacles in your path, when you can't buy a strike and every ball you hit seems pre-ordained to find a glove.
Anyone can seem heroic when the going is good. It's in those cold lonely moments when nothing seems easy or good that character and worth are truly revealed, and baseball provides us with such chill moments by the bushel barrel.
I want my kids—and when I say "my kids" in the context of baseball I refer not to just my own biological progeny, but to that extended circle of kids whom I love for having been their coach at some point—to learn to not shy away from those moments. To not fear those moments, but to relish them, to enjoy them, to desire and cherish them as divine gifts. For it is at those moments that we cease to be merely bystanders in the story of our own lives, and instead become the central player, the locus of all potential outcomes in a given situation— "all possible realities spring from this singular unique moment."
One of the great tragedies of modern life seems the way that so many men now stand paralyzed and impotent in the face of any challenge or difficulty. I see heartbreaking numbers of men genetically incapable of standing their ground and fighting for what they believe and claim to value.
Surely some folks will roll their eyes and think this is a rather large leap to make, but I contend that more often than not you will find such men are the ones who did not play baseball as youths, or who, if they did play, played but briefly and without any passion at all—who never learned how to muster the courage to put on a helmet, grab a bat, and then dig in in the batter's box to face nine opponents defiantly convinced that you pose no threat, that nothing you might do could change their combined trajectory.
To stand there, alone, ready and willing to put yourself at risk of public failure yet remain absolutely convinced that today you shall succeed... that seems a feeling worth having, worth seeking, worth nurturing and fostering and promoting.
And that's why I love baseball. Not for the easy glamour of winning, but for the moments when you are forced to cling tenacious to only the faintest glimmer of hope when everyone around you has long since given up the fight.
Not because in those moments you have any great likelihood of succeeding, but because in those moments you have the opportunity afforded by hope... if you have the guts and courage to claim it.
Yes, "it breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart." But for a heart to break, it first must care. And that for me remains the crowning glory of Baseball—the notion that one man with a tiny bit of hope and grit and bloody raw determination might yet turn this story down a totally different path.
Come on, meat—bring me the heat. Bring it...
God I do love this game.
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B
17 February 2008
PLAY BALL!
Well, it's baseball season again, and I spent the better part of this weekend wrestling with scheduling practices for two teams I'll manage this spring (Rookie 7 Red Sox and Minor 10s Red Sox), as well as setting up new web pages for each, updating the FAQ I send out every year, building the contact rosters to hand out to all parents, and working on some logos for some practice t-shirts I usually print up as surprise First Practice gifts.
Muddled in there is the scheduled practices for my 5 year old daughter, this year playing her first turn in T-Ball, as well as my duties MC-ing the annual Cub Scout banquet we had Friday night (250 people, 60 cub scouts advancing in rank, an Arrow of Light Ceremony, a Crossing Over ceremony where a dozen of our boys graduated to Boy Scouts, 50 pizzas, plus more Chinese decorations than will be used at the opening of the Summer Games in Beijing...), two taekwondo lessons, a Cub Scout trip to the hockey game at the same time our other Cub had a trip to the county courthouse, plus we had a sleepover last night, and tomorrow I get up at 5 AM to help oldest son install 63 large American flags for President's Day.
Sometimes I have to remind myself that I actually have something like a career trying to start somewhere, as I am currently ass-deep in alligators eight days a week.
But that's all just details, as it's baseball season again, and thus it is time to lace on the spikes and oil up the gloves and smell that horsehide and new-mown grass and feel the chalk and dust on the back of your neck... and know that there yet remain some great and sacred truths in this world, and they often come delivered on a field of green, 'neath a sky of blue.
Amen. Now pass me that rosin bag.
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B
Muddled in there is the scheduled practices for my 5 year old daughter, this year playing her first turn in T-Ball, as well as my duties MC-ing the annual Cub Scout banquet we had Friday night (250 people, 60 cub scouts advancing in rank, an Arrow of Light Ceremony, a Crossing Over ceremony where a dozen of our boys graduated to Boy Scouts, 50 pizzas, plus more Chinese decorations than will be used at the opening of the Summer Games in Beijing...), two taekwondo lessons, a Cub Scout trip to the hockey game at the same time our other Cub had a trip to the county courthouse, plus we had a sleepover last night, and tomorrow I get up at 5 AM to help oldest son install 63 large American flags for President's Day.
Sometimes I have to remind myself that I actually have something like a career trying to start somewhere, as I am currently ass-deep in alligators eight days a week.
But that's all just details, as it's baseball season again, and thus it is time to lace on the spikes and oil up the gloves and smell that horsehide and new-mown grass and feel the chalk and dust on the back of your neck... and know that there yet remain some great and sacred truths in this world, and they often come delivered on a field of green, 'neath a sky of blue.
"I've tried 'em all, I really have, and the only church that truly feeds the soul, day in, day out, is the Church of Baseball. "
-- Annie Savoy, in BULL DURHAM
Amen. Now pass me that rosin bag.
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B
13 February 2008
GAME ON
The Strike is over. Business (or attempts to stir such) is now back to normal.
Three months ago—a time which now somehow seems an eon behind us—I had some small amount of heat/buzz/mojo, but then "things happened" and we all got to sit on our hands for three months as no scripts could be read or submitted or talked about or sold or wrapped 'round a wrench and throws through a window. It sucked.
Now we wake and find that the embargo is lifted, and everyone is again clear to engage in acts of futility.
And it looks like that's what they are doing. I've already seen a huge number of folks saying they are starting crazed self-marketing efforts at dawn today, and I fully expect that the folks in Hollywood are returning to their offices to find a white tsunami approaching, a tall teetering tidal wave of awful writing from folks desperate to get their stuff out there, regardless of quality or readiness. These next two weeks will likely see a flood of scripts into prodcos, studios, and agencies, and the 95% Rules will surely remain in effect, meaning there is a massive cleanup effort about to commence as workers shovel these scripts into the nearest deepest hole.
Yeah, that sounds harsh, and it is harsh, but what it ain't is wrong: if you are honest with yourself, you understand that there are a whooole bunch of folks out there writing a whooole bunch of really bad scripts, and a whooole bunch of those are going to be in the huge first wave of pent-up energy now being unleashed.
My reps and I have been talking and think it's probably best to just stand back and let this flood push past, to let things normalize a bit before we jump into the stream. We have some projects we're eager to get out there, and people we're eager to reach, but right now we expect that everyone is up to their ears in content right now, and we're confident enough in the products we're pitching that we can afford to let things calm a bit.
But lordy it does make the heart flutter a bit to say those happy words again: "resume racing."
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calmly excited B
Three months ago—a time which now somehow seems an eon behind us—I had some small amount of heat/buzz/mojo, but then "things happened" and we all got to sit on our hands for three months as no scripts could be read or submitted or talked about or sold or wrapped 'round a wrench and throws through a window. It sucked.
Now we wake and find that the embargo is lifted, and everyone is again clear to engage in acts of futility.
And it looks like that's what they are doing. I've already seen a huge number of folks saying they are starting crazed self-marketing efforts at dawn today, and I fully expect that the folks in Hollywood are returning to their offices to find a white tsunami approaching, a tall teetering tidal wave of awful writing from folks desperate to get their stuff out there, regardless of quality or readiness. These next two weeks will likely see a flood of scripts into prodcos, studios, and agencies, and the 95% Rules will surely remain in effect, meaning there is a massive cleanup effort about to commence as workers shovel these scripts into the nearest deepest hole.
Yeah, that sounds harsh, and it is harsh, but what it ain't is wrong: if you are honest with yourself, you understand that there are a whooole bunch of folks out there writing a whooole bunch of really bad scripts, and a whooole bunch of those are going to be in the huge first wave of pent-up energy now being unleashed.
My reps and I have been talking and think it's probably best to just stand back and let this flood push past, to let things normalize a bit before we jump into the stream. We have some projects we're eager to get out there, and people we're eager to reach, but right now we expect that everyone is up to their ears in content right now, and we're confident enough in the products we're pitching that we can afford to let things calm a bit.
But lordy it does make the heart flutter a bit to say those happy words again: "resume racing."
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calmly excited B
09 February 2008
THE PROPOSAL (WGA strike deal)
Well, after all that, the proposed terms for the WGA-AMPTP settlement are now posted:
THE TENTATIVE DEAL
The link above sends you to the WGA site where you'll find a rather unassuming 4=page PDF of the critical terms of the proposed settlement.
Is it the shining golden Holy Grail of great deals for writers? No—not even close, really—but neither is it the total screw-job the Alliance seemed hell-bent on delivering early on, either. It seems pretty squarely in the middle ground between what the writers wanted and what the studios wanted, so now both sides will have militant elements screaming that "we got screwed!" and more moderates saying "meh, we can live with this—let's get back to work, already."
They say that in a good negotiation, neither side gets to claim victory. Using that standard, this seems (potentially) a good negotiation.
If you're going to the membership meeting tonight in LA or NY, Godspeed, bon chance, good luck, and may the Force be with you. I expect it will be a long loud and exhausting affair.
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B
THE TENTATIVE DEAL
The link above sends you to the WGA site where you'll find a rather unassuming 4=page PDF of the critical terms of the proposed settlement.
Is it the shining golden Holy Grail of great deals for writers? No—not even close, really—but neither is it the total screw-job the Alliance seemed hell-bent on delivering early on, either. It seems pretty squarely in the middle ground between what the writers wanted and what the studios wanted, so now both sides will have militant elements screaming that "we got screwed!" and more moderates saying "meh, we can live with this—let's get back to work, already."
They say that in a good negotiation, neither side gets to claim victory. Using that standard, this seems (potentially) a good negotiation.
If you're going to the membership meeting tonight in LA or NY, Godspeed, bon chance, good luck, and may the Force be with you. I expect it will be a long loud and exhausting affair.
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B
05 February 2008
04 February 2008
things not found here
POLITICAL DISCUSSION
It's an election year, which means a lot of armchair pundits are out in force, sharing their "thoughts" (ahem) with the entire world, usually in the form of strident drool-soaked ad hominem attacks on whomever or whatever it is they claim to NOT support.
Look, I respect the right of every human being to have whatever opinion they like, but nowhere is it written that I have to respect the opinion itself, or the opiniator, or the stumbling bumbling manner in which they try to pontificate. If someone wants to support some candidate or cause, then that's great. Power to the people. Rah rah. Tippecanoe and Tyler too.
Whatever.
Just don't act like I have to give a flip that you care.
Oh, and by the way: every time I have ever tried to express my utter disinterest in the blathering bloviation of many political windbags, I come back to find someone somewhere has decided that I must surely have been speaking specifically about THEM. Trust me: if you are reading this, then you have no idea who annoyed me to the point of feeling a need to repeat this little mini-rant. I have a LOT of friends who post and comment on politics from pretty much every conceivable point on the political compass, and seldom ever do I get bothered by what they post (as I tend to ignore most of it anyway!).
In other words, "this rant was not sparked by you." This morning, while surfing pointlessly around the web, I was taken aback by a total stranger, spewing opinions (more like "hate speech") which I was staggered to see anyone admit to, much less take pride in.
This was not stuff from anyone I know or have ever seen before (or hope to see again). In fact, I normally would never have seen when I foolishly followed a link from a link from a link from a link and apparently wound up in the online town of East Dipshit, Putzylvania. We're talking Grade-A mental snot blown onto a screen by some paste-eating gaboon who likely has to have grown-ups operate the toilet for him, opinions so idiotic and nonsensical that you wonder if perhaps this person is not engaged in some sort of Dada-esque text art project where they paste together random snippets of other sentences cribbed from other people, resulting in an alpha-numeric stew which has the appearance of language but none of that pesky context, relevance, or meaning.
When you try and have a political discussion online, this last class of ass-hat is as often as not the kind of moron who steers the debate (and then often into a ditch or cesspool).
So I don't "do" politics online. It's just not fun or interesting for me.
OVERLY SPECIFIC REFERENCES TO MY WIFE AND KIDS
I love my kids, but that doesn't mean I need to post pics of them here so that any assholes who feel like it can use those pics to paunch hateful attacks on me.
That's not far-fetched. Twice before I was shocked when friends of mine had posts made online or emails sent to discussion groups wherein old innocuous family fun photos had been copied, morphed and then used as vulgar jokes/attacks against them in response to some heated discussion (see above). One time I saw friend get a heartbreakingly evil comment attached to a downloaded copy of a picture of his own mentally challenged young 4-year old in a wheelchair, and I was made suddenly mindful of the fact that there are a lot of truly worthless mean-spirited gutless hate-filled people in the world, and there's no good reason for me to potentially give them a means to cause heartache to me or my family.
So while I will sometimes talk about my kids, I try as much as possible to not flaunt their names or images hereabouts. Those who have actual *need* for such info usually get it without any difficulty, but the rest of you... well, you might be nice people, but just as I do not leave my house open during the day when I am away or leave my wallet and personal documents on the room of my car when I park at the airport, neither do I offer my kids for your amusement. No offense, but I just don't know or trust you that much.
SCREENWRITING ADVICE
Clearly, if I knew enough to be in any position to have advice worth giving, I'd then be far too busy to waste time in handing out free advice to slobbering morons like you.
Also, there are already far too many places where you could just as easily go to find whatever advice you think you need. Ultimately, advice is seldom the secret. In my opinion, screenwriting is one of those things you pretty much have to figure out for yourself. Yeah, you can find a few nuggets here and there, and sometimes in discussions with people you can come to discover and understand something new or useful, but if the game were so simple that you could show up, read a blogpost, and then march off to BE A SCREENWRITER, then obviously there'd be no need for screenwriting sites and books and courses and seminars and systems: you'd just learn the five steps and then DO it, like tying your shoes or falling off a log.
I sometimes think I have some idea of what works for me and how and why that might be the case, but I do not think I know enough to lecture loudly or with intent to edumicate, so don;t come snuffling around here hoping to catch scent of The One Great Secret. I don't think it exists, and I'm pretty damned sure that if it does then I ain't got it.
RECIPES
Not that I can't cook -- I just don't like you enough to share.
-=-=-=-=-
Now... among those things you WILL find here are:
• mounds of long-winded self-absorbed tales of trivial events played up as epic quests
• rambling stream of semi-consciousness where I use too many words to say too much about something too few care too little about
• pointless and random updates on my own screenwriting projects, offered not because I think anyone cares or that I feel any need to brag, but more so I can take stock of what I am doing (or am supposed to be doing...) and maybe then stay a little better "on-point."
• scads and scads of childish puns and potty humor gussied up so as to have the slightest stink of urbane wit and charm
• misspelled words out the ass (as this is a free site and I see no reason to waste much time in perfecting content which only ten or fifteen people will ever see and which none will ever recollect or remember.
And that's where we stand.
.
.
.
B
It's an election year, which means a lot of armchair pundits are out in force, sharing their "thoughts" (ahem) with the entire world, usually in the form of strident drool-soaked ad hominem attacks on whomever or whatever it is they claim to NOT support.
Look, I respect the right of every human being to have whatever opinion they like, but nowhere is it written that I have to respect the opinion itself, or the opiniator, or the stumbling bumbling manner in which they try to pontificate. If someone wants to support some candidate or cause, then that's great. Power to the people. Rah rah. Tippecanoe and Tyler too.
Whatever.
Just don't act like I have to give a flip that you care.
Oh, and by the way: every time I have ever tried to express my utter disinterest in the blathering bloviation of many political windbags, I come back to find someone somewhere has decided that I must surely have been speaking specifically about THEM. Trust me: if you are reading this, then you have no idea who annoyed me to the point of feeling a need to repeat this little mini-rant. I have a LOT of friends who post and comment on politics from pretty much every conceivable point on the political compass, and seldom ever do I get bothered by what they post (as I tend to ignore most of it anyway!).
In other words, "this rant was not sparked by you." This morning, while surfing pointlessly around the web, I was taken aback by a total stranger, spewing opinions (more like "hate speech") which I was staggered to see anyone admit to, much less take pride in.
This was not stuff from anyone I know or have ever seen before (or hope to see again). In fact, I normally would never have seen when I foolishly followed a link from a link from a link from a link and apparently wound up in the online town of East Dipshit, Putzylvania. We're talking Grade-A mental snot blown onto a screen by some paste-eating gaboon who likely has to have grown-ups operate the toilet for him, opinions so idiotic and nonsensical that you wonder if perhaps this person is not engaged in some sort of Dada-esque text art project where they paste together random snippets of other sentences cribbed from other people, resulting in an alpha-numeric stew which has the appearance of language but none of that pesky context, relevance, or meaning.
When you try and have a political discussion online, this last class of ass-hat is as often as not the kind of moron who steers the debate (and then often into a ditch or cesspool).
So I don't "do" politics online. It's just not fun or interesting for me.
OVERLY SPECIFIC REFERENCES TO MY WIFE AND KIDS
I love my kids, but that doesn't mean I need to post pics of them here so that any assholes who feel like it can use those pics to paunch hateful attacks on me.
That's not far-fetched. Twice before I was shocked when friends of mine had posts made online or emails sent to discussion groups wherein old innocuous family fun photos had been copied, morphed and then used as vulgar jokes/attacks against them in response to some heated discussion (see above). One time I saw friend get a heartbreakingly evil comment attached to a downloaded copy of a picture of his own mentally challenged young 4-year old in a wheelchair, and I was made suddenly mindful of the fact that there are a lot of truly worthless mean-spirited gutless hate-filled people in the world, and there's no good reason for me to potentially give them a means to cause heartache to me or my family.
So while I will sometimes talk about my kids, I try as much as possible to not flaunt their names or images hereabouts. Those who have actual *need* for such info usually get it without any difficulty, but the rest of you... well, you might be nice people, but just as I do not leave my house open during the day when I am away or leave my wallet and personal documents on the room of my car when I park at the airport, neither do I offer my kids for your amusement. No offense, but I just don't know or trust you that much.
SCREENWRITING ADVICE
Clearly, if I knew enough to be in any position to have advice worth giving, I'd then be far too busy to waste time in handing out free advice to slobbering morons like you.
Also, there are already far too many places where you could just as easily go to find whatever advice you think you need. Ultimately, advice is seldom the secret. In my opinion, screenwriting is one of those things you pretty much have to figure out for yourself. Yeah, you can find a few nuggets here and there, and sometimes in discussions with people you can come to discover and understand something new or useful, but if the game were so simple that you could show up, read a blogpost, and then march off to BE A SCREENWRITER, then obviously there'd be no need for screenwriting sites and books and courses and seminars and systems: you'd just learn the five steps and then DO it, like tying your shoes or falling off a log.
I sometimes think I have some idea of what works for me and how and why that might be the case, but I do not think I know enough to lecture loudly or with intent to edumicate, so don;t come snuffling around here hoping to catch scent of The One Great Secret. I don't think it exists, and I'm pretty damned sure that if it does then I ain't got it.
RECIPES
Not that I can't cook -- I just don't like you enough to share.
-=-=-=-=-
Now... among those things you WILL find here are:
• mounds of long-winded self-absorbed tales of trivial events played up as epic quests
• rambling stream of semi-consciousness where I use too many words to say too much about something too few care too little about
• pointless and random updates on my own screenwriting projects, offered not because I think anyone cares or that I feel any need to brag, but more so I can take stock of what I am doing (or am supposed to be doing...) and maybe then stay a little better "on-point."
• scads and scads of childish puns and potty humor gussied up so as to have the slightest stink of urbane wit and charm
• misspelled words out the ass (as this is a free site and I see no reason to waste much time in perfecting content which only ten or fifteen people will ever see and which none will ever recollect or remember.
And that's where we stand.
.
.
.
B
29 January 2008
Deafened But Smiling
Elmer Bernstein
+
The Phoenix Symphony
+
Opening theme to THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN
+
Koss Pro 4 studio grade headphones
+
one volume knob rotated as far to the LOUD as God will allow
=
one big damned happy smile
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soundtrackin' B
+
The Phoenix Symphony
+
Opening theme to THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN
+
Koss Pro 4 studio grade headphones
+
one volume knob rotated as far to the LOUD as God will allow
=
one big damned happy smile
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.
soundtrackin' B
28 January 2008
Nicholl Week -- Day the Fifth
Thursday dawned bright and early as always in LA. The Wife and I slept in a bit (anything past 8 AM seems a royal luxury), then padded down the hallway to grab a breakfast from the concierge lounge where, per usual, we bumped into some of the other finalists. The day would be the first in this trip where I did not have wall to wall meetings and obligations, and we'd made casual arrangements to hook up with a friend and go visit Terry Rossio for lunch.
And yes, that is a shameless bit of name-dropping, but believe me when I explain that I drop Rossio's name as much for my own amused amazement as for anyone else's. The Wife had heard me refer to Terry numerous times over the course of previous years, and she'd enjoyed PIRATES and SHREK and other Rossio-penned works, but she'd never met him or been able to put any sort of face onto the odd and typically skewed tales I'd spun of the man, so she was curious to finally meet this guy.
Steve, one of my best pals in LA, agreed to come play chauffeur for the day, as he was on extended sabbatical as a script of his own worked its way through the development tubes at a major studio in LA. Steve met us out front and away we zoomed to Topanga Canyon.
Winding through the canyon, I couldn't help but notice how much the terrain and scenery reminded me of the Hill Country of Texas, my favorite place on Earth. Of course, where roadside signs in the Hill Country might advertise "BBQ" or "dozer work for hire," in Topanga they seemed more often about "fish tacos" and "custom pottery."
"California," I chuckle to myself.
Just before noon, we turn off the main drag in Topanga (the only drag in Topanga) and head up the winding trail that leads to Casa del Terry. As we get halfway up the slope, Steve and I point to a stucco-and-tile mission style home topping the hill before us. We pull around the front and park next to Terry's oddly run-down VW Eurovan.
Terry's place sits atop a breeze-swept hill, with panoramic views in three directions and a slight secondary peak just behind the main house. A smaller outbuilding lies slightly down the hillside, joined to the main house by a road and a wandering trail through the scrub brush, Stone paths and walls and low fences meander across the ten or so acres of the property, and the entire place just oozes a relaxed casual quietness which is by design as far removed from the noise and glitz and plastic-ness of Hollywood as can be easily imagined. It's exactly the sort of place Id dream of owning if I were told that I have incredible means and an absolute need to live within daily commute of Hollywood.
"OK, now this I like," The Wife announces.
We wander to the back door on the pergola-shaded porch, knock twice, and then Steve—himself a close and longtime friend of Terry's—checks the door and leads us in. Steve calls through the house.
Four or five seconds later, Terry plods around the corner: barefooted, in sweatpants, bleary-eyed, hair tousled, and looking for all the world as if our arrival wakened him from a very comfortable slumber. He rubs his eyes, stretches, and smiles.
"Oh, hi. Yeah... lunch...." He stretches harder and smiles. "Well, let me get dressed and give Rebecca the tour. Come on-- we can start with the closet..."
Steve and I chuckle, as this is vintage Terry. I have often described him as seeming eternally like a cat being disturbed from a nap in a shady spot on the floor: somehow there, but not tremendously impressed or concerned about being there.
Terry loves this house and property and it clearly shows as he leads us around, pointing out all his favorite views and favorite little nooks and crannies, talking about all the plans for the various buildings and property. It seems clear that this is not just a place to crash. This is home: his haven, his safe place in the world, and he intends to make it everything he has every dreamed of finding or having in such a place.
We check out some concrete work being done on a retaining wall near a building soon to become a fully equipped AV editing studio. We admire the new hilltop hot tub maybe from a giant wine cask. We admire the views, the breeze, the scents of lavender and sage.
Wandering back to the back porch, we find a delivery has been made: a large ("heavy") custom made ("extra heavy") wrought iron wine rack.
"Oh, great! It got here in time!" Terry says as he walks past without slowing. "Bring it in here, guys."
Steve and I look at each other and start giggling. "It's Terry's world, I grumble as we lift the damned iron monster and lug towards the door. "We're just workin' in it."
Terry directs us dumb laborers as we wrestle the hundred pound beast into a small recess in the wall adjacent to the kitchen. The fit is so tight I fear we'll need to grease the rack to squeeze it into place, but with one well-applied shove it slips in like a shell into a chamber. Terry seems pleased—apparently this rack has been a bit of an ongoing problem.
"OK, before we head to lunch, we have to do something," Terry explains. "I'm going to insist."
Turns out we have to play ping pong on his patio. Terry is a slightly competitive guy, so he loves this "friendly" chance to assert dominance over strangers. I and The Wife end up as a team, which is a joke in its own right, but made funnier by the fact that we might have a combined 15 years on us since the last time either of us picked up a ping pong paddle. We go down in short order, and I make a point of pointing out to Terry that we'd never think of showing up the host on his home table.
We head down the hill and meet at a local burger and sandwich kind of place -- the kind of place where you sit on nine-dollar plastic patio chairs and sweep away the dead leaves and dust from the outdoor tables, where there might well be as many people arriving by bike or Harley as by car. Terry's (cute/smart/fun/blonde/Harvard-degreed) girlfriend joins us for lunch, and we sit around and talk about movies and the strike and how weird a time is it is to be in Hollywood right now, even as a supposed Major Award Non-Winner.
After a relaxed lunch (where I think we all wound up swapping plates to nibble on whatever the others had left behind, be it chips or slaw or fries or free range jicama or whatever), I mumble that it might be good for us to start heading slowly back towards LA just to make sure we have no surprises or delays. After all, Thursday night is THE dinner, the main reason for coming to LA in the first place, when the Fellows pick up their certificates (and first installments of their cash awards!), and when I and the Wife get all gussied up in our finery.
It's well before 2 pm, the cocktail hour for the dinner starts at 6:30, and the dinner itself at 7:30, so we're in fine shape as we hug goodbye to Rossio and girlfriend.
We elect to head south out of Topanga, turning onto PCH near Malibu just a few minutes later. It's a gorgeous sunny day, the Pacific is annoyingly glorious, and The Wife suggests we pull over for a moment to check out the beach. We slide in to park behind a yellow Lambo convertible (welcome to Hollywood!), wander the seawall, and notice the Santa Monica boardwalk just up the coast, so decide to swing by and check that out since we have so much time.
The pier and accompanying human scenery is interesting, and we wander for a bit before deciding to walk down to Venice to grab a beer. Of course, by the time we make that mile hike, work down a brew, and then hike back to the car, it's time to head back, so we slide back onto the road, ease up to speed, round a bend, and... stop.
Dead stop. Before us stretches a line of taillights broken only by the curvature of the Earth.
We sit in silence for a moment or two before I finally chuckle. "So how bad of a problem do we rate this?"
"This," says Steve flatly, "is bad."
What makes this bad is not only the fact that The Wife and I need to be back to the hotel in time to shower and change and then drive back across Hollywood, but Steve also has a major social engagement -- he's the president of local men's social order and they have a major induction event that same evening, an event where he will be required to swing by his home and strap on a tux and tails.
So, this is bad.
There is some horrendous traffic snarl between us and Hollywood, and all we can do for the next 2 hours is to sit and sweat. The start time for the cocktail comes, then slides into the rearview: 6:30... 6:50... 7:15... At a certain point all we can do is giggle and sigh, as complaining and whining won't do a damned bit of good.
At 7:35, we are a block away from our hotel, still mired in gridlock, so The Wife and I roll out at a red light and spring through traffic. We reach our hotel room at 7:40, sporting a day's worth of sweat, hat-head, and tourist-funk, so a shower is mandatory. Somehow we apparently fold time, as we both sprint out the front door of the hotel, fully dressed and well-gussied, some 17 minutes later. The Red Chevy POS stands waiting, we dive in, and I smile. "Hold on. We shall now violate several traffic laws."
I can tell you from personal experience that Santa Monica Boulevard is interesting at 74 MPH. I was frankly a bit surprised that we neither killed anyone nor drew the ire of the local constabularies, but God was, for once it seemed, on our side, and we slide into the breezeway of the Regent Beverly Wilshire "only" 40 minutes late.
We spring into the dining room, find everyone already seated and I note that the salad course is still in service, with entrees just starting to roll from the kitchen. I spot Joan, Greg's assistant in the Nicholl office, and she chokes, waves, and runs to me.
"THERE you are! Come on -- you're table is right over here."
We find our seats, apologize to the 8 or so people at our table, and I spin some quick and ridiculous retelling of our day as our salads and wine appear. I glance around the room and spot the other finalists. Lisa Gold shakes her head at me to say "you're an idiot!". Dave Mango's slight smile and shake of disbelief says much the same. I toast my wine glass to them and commence to socializing with my locals.
The rest of the evening goes off splendidly: apparently guests are seated at the tables of finalists based upon some scheme whereby your biggest fans sit elbow to elbow with you. At least, that's how I have to assume it works, or else there was some seriously weird juju at work. The gentleman seated to my right introduces himself and makes some small talk, then asks me if I was an entrant, and I say yes and he asks what my script was, and I tell him and he drops his mouth open and stares at me for a beat and then says "You're KIDDING me! THAT was yours? YOU wrote QUEEN OF THE SKY?"
For a moment I wonder if perhaps he intends to stab me with an unused shrimp fork—clearly there is something weird afoot.
He turns to his wife and grabs her by the arm: "Dear! Remember that script I was telling you about—the Russian pilot one? This young man wrote it!"
He then proceeds to spend the next 20 minutes of the dinner praising me to the heavens and explaining what a miraculous bit of fortune this is for him as he thinks that's his favorite script he's ever read in 8 years of reading for the Nicholls and my god it's amazing that I was able to generate such sympathy for a COMMUNIST flyer as he hates the goddamned Communists and I toast him to hating goddamned Communists and he absolutely will drink to that and he goes on and on and I look at The Wife and she's smiling and to hr left there's another slightly older couple who seems late in coming to understand that I actually wrote that script about the (goddamned) Communist flyer and then HE starts singing my praises and there's this very weird lovefest going where I am seated off to one side of the room, away from the winners of the evening, and yet I am being tongue bathed by total strangers who claim to have been deeply moved my some words I once scribbled on a page.
I gotta tell ya, people: if that feeling were available in pill form, I can see myself becoming seriously hooked on it, as it is nothing short of amazing. I glance around the room and check the other finalists, and in most cases I can see they are experiencing something of the same: strangers, industry players, people who know movies and writing and drama, all hosing us down with the sort of genuine respect and approval and validation that you never get on a regular basis. I start to get a little weirdly emotional as it finally fully starts to sink in where I am, what I've done, what this all means.
The new Fellows are introduced and step forward to receive their award certificates and the little white envelope that contains the great big check. Various industry pros—Susanna Grant, Dan Petry, etc.—introduce my friends with words and respect which would have seemed totally far-fetched a week or two previous. I see them stand at the podium and offer some fumbling words to try and convey what this means, what this feels like, and I see them take their turns posing in front of the huge Oscar statues as press photos are snapped. I smile and feel truly happy for and proud of my friends as they claim their honors. The Wife puts a hand on my knee and smiles. "You doing OK?"
I smile and shrug, and nudge my chin towards the podium where Amy and Cecilia are accepting their goodies. "I really wanted to win."
She leans over and smiles "I think you'll do OK."
Phil Alden Robinson, writer of Field of Dreams, one of my all-time favorite flicks, offers some brief fun comments as the keynote speaker, we have a few other very brief speakers, and before you know it dinner winds down and we all applaud a great evening done well. My new old goddamned Commie hating fan grabs my hand and says "Come on—I want to introduce you to someone."
I turn to try and say something to The Wife, but she just giggles and waves me away, saying "go do whatcha gotta do, man...". New old fan pulls me down front, and I wave at a few of my pal Fellows and they laugh that I again seem tangled in some goofy situation.
"Brett? I want you to meet Sid Ganis, President of the Academy."
Sid turns and smiles. "Hey, Brett. Glad to see you made it. Enjoy the evening?"
"Good to see you again, Sid. The evening was great. Thanks for all this, truly."
New old fan stares at me. "You know Sid?
I shrug. "We've met."
New old fan humphs, grabs my hand and drags me into the crowd again. He pulls me up to a large man with his back turned, and he taps on the gentleman's shoulder.
Dan Petry turns around, looks at new old fan, sees me, smiles. "Brett! What are you doing in here? I was hurrying to try and catch up to you in the bar! You gonna stick around and have a drink?"
"What do YOU think, Dan?"
Dan and I laugh, as new old fan again seems slack jawed. "Do you know EVERYBODY?" he asks.
"Not just yet."
New old fan and I wander back to the table, and we exchange business cards and I promise that I will keep him informed is this script manages to grab any success in the coming months and years. "Well, it was an real pleasure to meet you," he says. "I look forward to bragging that I met you way back when."
He leaves, and I catch The Wife giving me that look—the "don't even try making it seem like you weren't loving every minute of that" look. I shrug, give her a peck on the lips, and drag her back to the front to try and see some of my pals before they all get sucked into the night.
I manage to catch up to most of the other finalists, and I use the moment with each to forward Terry's invite to his little house party the following evening. Most seem thrilled by the possibility of meeting a writer like Rossio who is, for now, pretty much sitting on top of the moneymaking mountain for screenwriters. He is the impossible absurd fantasy that most of us are too scared to admit ever having: what if I not only sell a script, but sell several, and they become hits, and folks line up to haul truckloads of cash to my door to write yet more movies which become even bigger hits?
Things wind down and we start to ease into the Beverly Wilshire bar, but on the way I spot Phil Alden Robinson saying his goodbyes and heading to the door as well. I push over and grab some eye contact. "I just had to say 'god damn you, Phil Robinson'."
He looks at me with a moment of confusion.
"Damn you for the final four minutes of FIELD OF DREAMS, 'cuz it makes me blubber like an injured first grader to this day whenever it comes on. I can’t not watch it and I cant not cry when I do. So damn you."
Robinson laughs. "It does the same thing to me! What can I say? We got lucky and had a perfect execution to some of the best writing I've managed. It makes me cry and I wrote the goddamned thing!"
We shake hands and go our separate ways, and again I see The Wife smirking at me. "You’re actually very good at this. You now that, right?”
I smile. We head for the bar. After this day, there's drinkin' to be done.
- - -
In the crowded bar we wind up spending an hour or so hanging out with the Petry’s and most of the other finalists. I wind up with Dave Mango where we again debate the weirdness of this environment and whether or not this is really where and how we want to work. We both agree that we miss our kids, and that Hollyweird seems a truly terrifying place to try and raise kids, and we agree that neither of us would wish for that specific situation.
We polish off our various libations, shake what hands need shaking and make what hugs need making. I snap my fingers and the valet brings up the Red POS between a big mean Hammer-tricked Benz sedan and gorgeous Bentley drop top.
Yeah, I’m total fuckin’ money, baybee.
We head back to the fabo Renaissance, make the obligatory brief stop at the World’s Worst Hotel Bar, chuckle that last call comes down at 11:43, then polish off our drinks and retire to our rooms, wiped out by the day’s fun.
The Wife brushes her teeth as I stand and stare out at Hollywood, wondering if the view ever stops seeming surreal.
‘Cuz it damned sure hasn’t yet.
(to be continued...)
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drifting between worlds B
And yes, that is a shameless bit of name-dropping, but believe me when I explain that I drop Rossio's name as much for my own amused amazement as for anyone else's. The Wife had heard me refer to Terry numerous times over the course of previous years, and she'd enjoyed PIRATES and SHREK and other Rossio-penned works, but she'd never met him or been able to put any sort of face onto the odd and typically skewed tales I'd spun of the man, so she was curious to finally meet this guy.
Steve, one of my best pals in LA, agreed to come play chauffeur for the day, as he was on extended sabbatical as a script of his own worked its way through the development tubes at a major studio in LA. Steve met us out front and away we zoomed to Topanga Canyon.
Winding through the canyon, I couldn't help but notice how much the terrain and scenery reminded me of the Hill Country of Texas, my favorite place on Earth. Of course, where roadside signs in the Hill Country might advertise "BBQ" or "dozer work for hire," in Topanga they seemed more often about "fish tacos" and "custom pottery."
"California," I chuckle to myself.
Just before noon, we turn off the main drag in Topanga (the only drag in Topanga) and head up the winding trail that leads to Casa del Terry. As we get halfway up the slope, Steve and I point to a stucco-and-tile mission style home topping the hill before us. We pull around the front and park next to Terry's oddly run-down VW Eurovan.
Terry's place sits atop a breeze-swept hill, with panoramic views in three directions and a slight secondary peak just behind the main house. A smaller outbuilding lies slightly down the hillside, joined to the main house by a road and a wandering trail through the scrub brush, Stone paths and walls and low fences meander across the ten or so acres of the property, and the entire place just oozes a relaxed casual quietness which is by design as far removed from the noise and glitz and plastic-ness of Hollywood as can be easily imagined. It's exactly the sort of place Id dream of owning if I were told that I have incredible means and an absolute need to live within daily commute of Hollywood.
"OK, now this I like," The Wife announces.
We wander to the back door on the pergola-shaded porch, knock twice, and then Steve—himself a close and longtime friend of Terry's—checks the door and leads us in. Steve calls through the house.
Four or five seconds later, Terry plods around the corner: barefooted, in sweatpants, bleary-eyed, hair tousled, and looking for all the world as if our arrival wakened him from a very comfortable slumber. He rubs his eyes, stretches, and smiles.
"Oh, hi. Yeah... lunch...." He stretches harder and smiles. "Well, let me get dressed and give Rebecca the tour. Come on-- we can start with the closet..."
Steve and I chuckle, as this is vintage Terry. I have often described him as seeming eternally like a cat being disturbed from a nap in a shady spot on the floor: somehow there, but not tremendously impressed or concerned about being there.
Terry loves this house and property and it clearly shows as he leads us around, pointing out all his favorite views and favorite little nooks and crannies, talking about all the plans for the various buildings and property. It seems clear that this is not just a place to crash. This is home: his haven, his safe place in the world, and he intends to make it everything he has every dreamed of finding or having in such a place.
We check out some concrete work being done on a retaining wall near a building soon to become a fully equipped AV editing studio. We admire the new hilltop hot tub maybe from a giant wine cask. We admire the views, the breeze, the scents of lavender and sage.
Wandering back to the back porch, we find a delivery has been made: a large ("heavy") custom made ("extra heavy") wrought iron wine rack.
"Oh, great! It got here in time!" Terry says as he walks past without slowing. "Bring it in here, guys."
Steve and I look at each other and start giggling. "It's Terry's world, I grumble as we lift the damned iron monster and lug towards the door. "We're just workin' in it."
Terry directs us dumb laborers as we wrestle the hundred pound beast into a small recess in the wall adjacent to the kitchen. The fit is so tight I fear we'll need to grease the rack to squeeze it into place, but with one well-applied shove it slips in like a shell into a chamber. Terry seems pleased—apparently this rack has been a bit of an ongoing problem.
"OK, before we head to lunch, we have to do something," Terry explains. "I'm going to insist."
Turns out we have to play ping pong on his patio. Terry is a slightly competitive guy, so he loves this "friendly" chance to assert dominance over strangers. I and The Wife end up as a team, which is a joke in its own right, but made funnier by the fact that we might have a combined 15 years on us since the last time either of us picked up a ping pong paddle. We go down in short order, and I make a point of pointing out to Terry that we'd never think of showing up the host on his home table.
We head down the hill and meet at a local burger and sandwich kind of place -- the kind of place where you sit on nine-dollar plastic patio chairs and sweep away the dead leaves and dust from the outdoor tables, where there might well be as many people arriving by bike or Harley as by car. Terry's (cute/smart/fun/blonde/Harvard-degreed) girlfriend joins us for lunch, and we sit around and talk about movies and the strike and how weird a time is it is to be in Hollywood right now, even as a supposed Major Award Non-Winner.
After a relaxed lunch (where I think we all wound up swapping plates to nibble on whatever the others had left behind, be it chips or slaw or fries or free range jicama or whatever), I mumble that it might be good for us to start heading slowly back towards LA just to make sure we have no surprises or delays. After all, Thursday night is THE dinner, the main reason for coming to LA in the first place, when the Fellows pick up their certificates (and first installments of their cash awards!), and when I and the Wife get all gussied up in our finery.
It's well before 2 pm, the cocktail hour for the dinner starts at 6:30, and the dinner itself at 7:30, so we're in fine shape as we hug goodbye to Rossio and girlfriend.
We elect to head south out of Topanga, turning onto PCH near Malibu just a few minutes later. It's a gorgeous sunny day, the Pacific is annoyingly glorious, and The Wife suggests we pull over for a moment to check out the beach. We slide in to park behind a yellow Lambo convertible (welcome to Hollywood!), wander the seawall, and notice the Santa Monica boardwalk just up the coast, so decide to swing by and check that out since we have so much time.
The pier and accompanying human scenery is interesting, and we wander for a bit before deciding to walk down to Venice to grab a beer. Of course, by the time we make that mile hike, work down a brew, and then hike back to the car, it's time to head back, so we slide back onto the road, ease up to speed, round a bend, and... stop.
Dead stop. Before us stretches a line of taillights broken only by the curvature of the Earth.
We sit in silence for a moment or two before I finally chuckle. "So how bad of a problem do we rate this?"
"This," says Steve flatly, "is bad."
What makes this bad is not only the fact that The Wife and I need to be back to the hotel in time to shower and change and then drive back across Hollywood, but Steve also has a major social engagement -- he's the president of local men's social order and they have a major induction event that same evening, an event where he will be required to swing by his home and strap on a tux and tails.
So, this is bad.
There is some horrendous traffic snarl between us and Hollywood, and all we can do for the next 2 hours is to sit and sweat. The start time for the cocktail comes, then slides into the rearview: 6:30... 6:50... 7:15... At a certain point all we can do is giggle and sigh, as complaining and whining won't do a damned bit of good.
At 7:35, we are a block away from our hotel, still mired in gridlock, so The Wife and I roll out at a red light and spring through traffic. We reach our hotel room at 7:40, sporting a day's worth of sweat, hat-head, and tourist-funk, so a shower is mandatory. Somehow we apparently fold time, as we both sprint out the front door of the hotel, fully dressed and well-gussied, some 17 minutes later. The Red Chevy POS stands waiting, we dive in, and I smile. "Hold on. We shall now violate several traffic laws."
I can tell you from personal experience that Santa Monica Boulevard is interesting at 74 MPH. I was frankly a bit surprised that we neither killed anyone nor drew the ire of the local constabularies, but God was, for once it seemed, on our side, and we slide into the breezeway of the Regent Beverly Wilshire "only" 40 minutes late.
We spring into the dining room, find everyone already seated and I note that the salad course is still in service, with entrees just starting to roll from the kitchen. I spot Joan, Greg's assistant in the Nicholl office, and she chokes, waves, and runs to me.
"THERE you are! Come on -- you're table is right over here."
We find our seats, apologize to the 8 or so people at our table, and I spin some quick and ridiculous retelling of our day as our salads and wine appear. I glance around the room and spot the other finalists. Lisa Gold shakes her head at me to say "you're an idiot!". Dave Mango's slight smile and shake of disbelief says much the same. I toast my wine glass to them and commence to socializing with my locals.
The rest of the evening goes off splendidly: apparently guests are seated at the tables of finalists based upon some scheme whereby your biggest fans sit elbow to elbow with you. At least, that's how I have to assume it works, or else there was some seriously weird juju at work. The gentleman seated to my right introduces himself and makes some small talk, then asks me if I was an entrant, and I say yes and he asks what my script was, and I tell him and he drops his mouth open and stares at me for a beat and then says "You're KIDDING me! THAT was yours? YOU wrote QUEEN OF THE SKY?"
For a moment I wonder if perhaps he intends to stab me with an unused shrimp fork—clearly there is something weird afoot.
He turns to his wife and grabs her by the arm: "Dear! Remember that script I was telling you about—the Russian pilot one? This young man wrote it!"
He then proceeds to spend the next 20 minutes of the dinner praising me to the heavens and explaining what a miraculous bit of fortune this is for him as he thinks that's his favorite script he's ever read in 8 years of reading for the Nicholls and my god it's amazing that I was able to generate such sympathy for a COMMUNIST flyer as he hates the goddamned Communists and I toast him to hating goddamned Communists and he absolutely will drink to that and he goes on and on and I look at The Wife and she's smiling and to hr left there's another slightly older couple who seems late in coming to understand that I actually wrote that script about the (goddamned) Communist flyer and then HE starts singing my praises and there's this very weird lovefest going where I am seated off to one side of the room, away from the winners of the evening, and yet I am being tongue bathed by total strangers who claim to have been deeply moved my some words I once scribbled on a page.
I gotta tell ya, people: if that feeling were available in pill form, I can see myself becoming seriously hooked on it, as it is nothing short of amazing. I glance around the room and check the other finalists, and in most cases I can see they are experiencing something of the same: strangers, industry players, people who know movies and writing and drama, all hosing us down with the sort of genuine respect and approval and validation that you never get on a regular basis. I start to get a little weirdly emotional as it finally fully starts to sink in where I am, what I've done, what this all means.
The new Fellows are introduced and step forward to receive their award certificates and the little white envelope that contains the great big check. Various industry pros—Susanna Grant, Dan Petry, etc.—introduce my friends with words and respect which would have seemed totally far-fetched a week or two previous. I see them stand at the podium and offer some fumbling words to try and convey what this means, what this feels like, and I see them take their turns posing in front of the huge Oscar statues as press photos are snapped. I smile and feel truly happy for and proud of my friends as they claim their honors. The Wife puts a hand on my knee and smiles. "You doing OK?"
I smile and shrug, and nudge my chin towards the podium where Amy and Cecilia are accepting their goodies. "I really wanted to win."
She leans over and smiles "I think you'll do OK."
Phil Alden Robinson, writer of Field of Dreams, one of my all-time favorite flicks, offers some brief fun comments as the keynote speaker, we have a few other very brief speakers, and before you know it dinner winds down and we all applaud a great evening done well. My new old goddamned Commie hating fan grabs my hand and says "Come on—I want to introduce you to someone."
I turn to try and say something to The Wife, but she just giggles and waves me away, saying "go do whatcha gotta do, man...". New old fan pulls me down front, and I wave at a few of my pal Fellows and they laugh that I again seem tangled in some goofy situation.
"Brett? I want you to meet Sid Ganis, President of the Academy."
Sid turns and smiles. "Hey, Brett. Glad to see you made it. Enjoy the evening?"
"Good to see you again, Sid. The evening was great. Thanks for all this, truly."
New old fan stares at me. "You know Sid?
I shrug. "We've met."
New old fan humphs, grabs my hand and drags me into the crowd again. He pulls me up to a large man with his back turned, and he taps on the gentleman's shoulder.
Dan Petry turns around, looks at new old fan, sees me, smiles. "Brett! What are you doing in here? I was hurrying to try and catch up to you in the bar! You gonna stick around and have a drink?"
"What do YOU think, Dan?"
Dan and I laugh, as new old fan again seems slack jawed. "Do you know EVERYBODY?" he asks.
"Not just yet."
New old fan and I wander back to the table, and we exchange business cards and I promise that I will keep him informed is this script manages to grab any success in the coming months and years. "Well, it was an real pleasure to meet you," he says. "I look forward to bragging that I met you way back when."
He leaves, and I catch The Wife giving me that look—the "don't even try making it seem like you weren't loving every minute of that" look. I shrug, give her a peck on the lips, and drag her back to the front to try and see some of my pals before they all get sucked into the night.
I manage to catch up to most of the other finalists, and I use the moment with each to forward Terry's invite to his little house party the following evening. Most seem thrilled by the possibility of meeting a writer like Rossio who is, for now, pretty much sitting on top of the moneymaking mountain for screenwriters. He is the impossible absurd fantasy that most of us are too scared to admit ever having: what if I not only sell a script, but sell several, and they become hits, and folks line up to haul truckloads of cash to my door to write yet more movies which become even bigger hits?
Things wind down and we start to ease into the Beverly Wilshire bar, but on the way I spot Phil Alden Robinson saying his goodbyes and heading to the door as well. I push over and grab some eye contact. "I just had to say 'god damn you, Phil Robinson'."
He looks at me with a moment of confusion.
"Damn you for the final four minutes of FIELD OF DREAMS, 'cuz it makes me blubber like an injured first grader to this day whenever it comes on. I can’t not watch it and I cant not cry when I do. So damn you."
Robinson laughs. "It does the same thing to me! What can I say? We got lucky and had a perfect execution to some of the best writing I've managed. It makes me cry and I wrote the goddamned thing!"
We shake hands and go our separate ways, and again I see The Wife smirking at me. "You’re actually very good at this. You now that, right?”
I smile. We head for the bar. After this day, there's drinkin' to be done.
- - -
In the crowded bar we wind up spending an hour or so hanging out with the Petry’s and most of the other finalists. I wind up with Dave Mango where we again debate the weirdness of this environment and whether or not this is really where and how we want to work. We both agree that we miss our kids, and that Hollyweird seems a truly terrifying place to try and raise kids, and we agree that neither of us would wish for that specific situation.
We polish off our various libations, shake what hands need shaking and make what hugs need making. I snap my fingers and the valet brings up the Red POS between a big mean Hammer-tricked Benz sedan and gorgeous Bentley drop top.
Yeah, I’m total fuckin’ money, baybee.
We head back to the fabo Renaissance, make the obligatory brief stop at the World’s Worst Hotel Bar, chuckle that last call comes down at 11:43, then polish off our drinks and retire to our rooms, wiped out by the day’s fun.
The Wife brushes her teeth as I stand and stare out at Hollywood, wondering if the view ever stops seeming surreal.
‘Cuz it damned sure hasn’t yet.
(to be continued...)
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drifting between worlds B
23 January 2008
the new awesome post
So I spent all day working on this great new post.
Quotes?
Oh, I worked in some good ones for the new post.
Epic themes of love and loss and revenge and endurance and survival?
Bucket loads.
Bucket loads.
Wild analogies and weird metaphors and twisted looping turns of phrase that leave your tongue and mind in a textual Kama Sutra display?
Oh yeah, rolled those into the mix as well.
But then I got bored and decided to post this pointless update instead.
We're mired in a cold week of soul-sucking drizzle hereabouts, and all I can do is sit and stare at oily raindrops as they roll down the windows.
I have some fun new projects starting to get ramped up, and I likely could stand to adjust some progress bars and update some links, but instead I'll just sigh and grumble.
Man that was a great post I almost made. You kids woulda loved it.
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B
Quotes?
Oh, I worked in some good ones for the new post.
Epic themes of love and loss and revenge and endurance and survival?
Bucket loads.
Bucket loads.
Wild analogies and weird metaphors and twisted looping turns of phrase that leave your tongue and mind in a textual Kama Sutra display?
Oh yeah, rolled those into the mix as well.
But then I got bored and decided to post this pointless update instead.
We're mired in a cold week of soul-sucking drizzle hereabouts, and all I can do is sit and stare at oily raindrops as they roll down the windows.
I have some fun new projects starting to get ramped up, and I likely could stand to adjust some progress bars and update some links, but instead I'll just sigh and grumble.
Man that was a great post I almost made. You kids woulda loved it.
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B
18 January 2008
UPDATE: things seem trending suspiciously upwards
Greetings, pissants.
Been a weird week or so hereabouts, as all manner of odd project seems coming to a head one way or t'uther.
–– Had a good convo with the agents wherein they expressed their interest and support of a project I've been threatening to write since... oh. the final years of the Reagan administration. I had to laugh at their discussion, as it's not at all the sort of thing one would expect as a follow-up to a Nicholls-finalist drama, but then, I s'pose few expected that piece to become a finalist, so if we dismiss THAT as the truly odd event in the string then most anything else which follows then becomes slightly more sensible.
Sounds good, anyway.
I already have loads of old notes and ideas and a rough idea of the structure of this piece, but I'll need to sit down and get medieval on this thing if I hope to deliver pages this spring as is my hope and fervent desire.
-- am having entirely too much fun throwing ideas down for a truly warped project I am brainstorming with a longtime buddy. I'll not give away any details, but every time I sit and think on this one I suffer simultaneous pangs of "oh, that's just too damned childish to actually say, much less write down..." and "oh god that would be fun to see in a movie...". Overall, there are huge dollops of some classic movies thrown in there as homages, but this is also something I can;t recall having seen before. If it continues apace, I'll either be thrilled that we came up with it or ashamed that I wasted time upon it. Or maybe some combination of both.
-- the monster-advemture romp came out fairly much as I'd hope. What few trusted folks have read it have all come back with solid praise, and what comments and concerns they've voiced have all been 100% in line with what I expected, so the problems are as initially observed and well within my capabilities to be fixed without much major effort.
-- the agents also gave some more praise to the QUEEN OF THE SKY project and repeated their hopes to get some traction just as soon as this damned WGA-AMPTP thing goes away. The currently unfolding DGA accord seems potentially useful, but already in looking at the terms there it seems clear that any WGA deal will require a good deal more negotiation and compromise. Still, I hold out hope that I'll have reason and opportunity to return to LA sometime in the next few months.
-- a pair of other backburner ideas continue to intrigue me, so I'll keep them on low simmer and see if perhaps they suddenly bloom into Ideas Which Cannot Be Ignored.
Baseball sign-ups just started, karate now involves one of my kids, Cubs and Boy Scouts continue to call for time, and there's the usual smorgasbord of random assorted bullshit eating my time at every turn, so thing remain as hectic as ever round here.
But somehow it all feels slightly optimistic, which is alien and spooky.
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B
Been a weird week or so hereabouts, as all manner of odd project seems coming to a head one way or t'uther.
–– Had a good convo with the agents wherein they expressed their interest and support of a project I've been threatening to write since... oh. the final years of the Reagan administration. I had to laugh at their discussion, as it's not at all the sort of thing one would expect as a follow-up to a Nicholls-finalist drama, but then, I s'pose few expected that piece to become a finalist, so if we dismiss THAT as the truly odd event in the string then most anything else which follows then becomes slightly more sensible.
Sounds good, anyway.
I already have loads of old notes and ideas and a rough idea of the structure of this piece, but I'll need to sit down and get medieval on this thing if I hope to deliver pages this spring as is my hope and fervent desire.
-- am having entirely too much fun throwing ideas down for a truly warped project I am brainstorming with a longtime buddy. I'll not give away any details, but every time I sit and think on this one I suffer simultaneous pangs of "oh, that's just too damned childish to actually say, much less write down..." and "oh god that would be fun to see in a movie...". Overall, there are huge dollops of some classic movies thrown in there as homages, but this is also something I can;t recall having seen before. If it continues apace, I'll either be thrilled that we came up with it or ashamed that I wasted time upon it. Or maybe some combination of both.
-- the monster-advemture romp came out fairly much as I'd hope. What few trusted folks have read it have all come back with solid praise, and what comments and concerns they've voiced have all been 100% in line with what I expected, so the problems are as initially observed and well within my capabilities to be fixed without much major effort.
-- the agents also gave some more praise to the QUEEN OF THE SKY project and repeated their hopes to get some traction just as soon as this damned WGA-AMPTP thing goes away. The currently unfolding DGA accord seems potentially useful, but already in looking at the terms there it seems clear that any WGA deal will require a good deal more negotiation and compromise. Still, I hold out hope that I'll have reason and opportunity to return to LA sometime in the next few months.
-- a pair of other backburner ideas continue to intrigue me, so I'll keep them on low simmer and see if perhaps they suddenly bloom into Ideas Which Cannot Be Ignored.
Baseball sign-ups just started, karate now involves one of my kids, Cubs and Boy Scouts continue to call for time, and there's the usual smorgasbord of random assorted bullshit eating my time at every turn, so thing remain as hectic as ever round here.
But somehow it all feels slightly optimistic, which is alien and spooky.
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B
11 January 2008
Like The Phone Call From A Long Lost Friend
My best buddy called me on the phone from his apartment three doors down and I could hear him gasping for air and laughing at the same time.
“Man, you gotta come see this.”
“What?”
“Just... just come on over.”
I trotted to his place, barged in and saw him on his pizza-stained bachelor sofa, wiping tears from his eyes as he pointed at some strange image on his television: a 1960s-era Japanese monster movie was playing, and at the base of the screen were silhouetted a trio of heads, like we were in a movie theater behind these guys. As I listened in, I heard three horrendously smart-assed guys just shredding the movie, mocking and insulting the schlockfest in a manner disturbingly similar to the way I and best friend had done for years when we were bored and armed only with basic cable and a seemingly endless supply of cheap beer, halllmarks of our existence in those hazy bachelor days of the late 1980s.
And thus began my love for Mystery Science Theater 3000 (or MST3K for us hip kids).
Joel Hodgson and his robot pals on the Satellite of Love immediately became a Saturday night tradition for a few years after. Even when Joel was replaced by Mike we stayed true, and in time grew to love Mike just as much as Joel (I refuse to choose between the two, though I understand and respect that for many Mysties this is as divisive as Coke v Pepsi).
But like all good things, this too ended. Comedy Central aired the episodes for most of the late 90s, but by the turn of the century the show had slipped in the ratings and the show bounced around various timeslots and then right off the air. Sure, we had some old VHS tapes we watched and rewatched til the magneticnous (sorry to get all scientific on you kids) had been watched clean off the tapes.
And thus MST faded from my life except as a memory.
Until now.
Bouncing around the internet, I stumbled across a ref to a new project I’d not heard of:
When I clicked on the link, I found myself watching a grainy old horror movie as a crew of silhouetted characters just shredding the movie, mocking and insulting the schlockfest in a manner disturbingly familiar way.
And I smiled.
It turns out that most all of the original MST crew — Joel, Josh “Tom Servo” Weinstein”, Trace “Crow” Beaulieu, Mary Jo “Pearl” pehl, and even “TV’s Frank” Conniff — have reunited to pick up the MST cause and skewer an entire new crop of crappy movies. Thanks to the internet, instead of grainy worn out VHS taps, these new episodes will be streamed online, available for download, and available for direct purchase on DVD as standalone episodes.
And there most surely is joy in Mudville tonight.
.
.
.
B
“Man, you gotta come see this.”
“What?”
“Just... just come on over.”
I trotted to his place, barged in and saw him on his pizza-stained bachelor sofa, wiping tears from his eyes as he pointed at some strange image on his television: a 1960s-era Japanese monster movie was playing, and at the base of the screen were silhouetted a trio of heads, like we were in a movie theater behind these guys. As I listened in, I heard three horrendously smart-assed guys just shredding the movie, mocking and insulting the schlockfest in a manner disturbingly similar to the way I and best friend had done for years when we were bored and armed only with basic cable and a seemingly endless supply of cheap beer, halllmarks of our existence in those hazy bachelor days of the late 1980s.
And thus began my love for Mystery Science Theater 3000 (or MST3K for us hip kids).
Joel Hodgson and his robot pals on the Satellite of Love immediately became a Saturday night tradition for a few years after. Even when Joel was replaced by Mike we stayed true, and in time grew to love Mike just as much as Joel (I refuse to choose between the two, though I understand and respect that for many Mysties this is as divisive as Coke v Pepsi).
But like all good things, this too ended. Comedy Central aired the episodes for most of the late 90s, but by the turn of the century the show had slipped in the ratings and the show bounced around various timeslots and then right off the air. Sure, we had some old VHS tapes we watched and rewatched til the magneticnous (sorry to get all scientific on you kids) had been watched clean off the tapes.
And thus MST faded from my life except as a memory.
Until now.
Bouncing around the internet, I stumbled across a ref to a new project I’d not heard of:
When I clicked on the link, I found myself watching a grainy old horror movie as a crew of silhouetted characters just shredding the movie, mocking and insulting the schlockfest in a manner disturbingly familiar way.
And I smiled.
It turns out that most all of the original MST crew — Joel, Josh “Tom Servo” Weinstein”, Trace “Crow” Beaulieu, Mary Jo “Pearl” pehl, and even “TV’s Frank” Conniff — have reunited to pick up the MST cause and skewer an entire new crop of crappy movies. Thanks to the internet, instead of grainy worn out VHS taps, these new episodes will be streamed online, available for download, and available for direct purchase on DVD as standalone episodes.
And there most surely is joy in Mudville tonight.
.
.
.
B
05 January 2008
Love works best in a waltz-time song
One of my fave songs ever is "Catch The Wind" by Donovan, and one of my fave covers ever of this song is the one below, recorded live in Bora Bora by Shawn Colvin, accompanied by a breeze and a few seagulls.
When I listen to this song, I want to write the movie it ought to be a part of.
When sundown pales the sky,
I wanna hide a while, behind your smile,
And everywhere I'd look, your eyes I'd find.
.
.
.
B
When I listen to this song, I want to write the movie it ought to be a part of.
When sundown pales the sky,
I wanna hide a while, behind your smile,
And everywhere I'd look, your eyes I'd find.
.
.
.
B
Tom Cruise To The Rescue?
Rumors started going around on Friday afternoon about a huge bit of good news for writers: United Artists is poised sign a deal with the WGA, marking the first major studio to split from the pack at the AMPTP.
United Artists is now headed by one Tom Cruise, and given that this deal (if true) would be a major victory for the screenwriter's side in the WGA-AMPTP war, I'll refrain from making any Cruise jokes.
Meanwhile, Wired News is reporting that indie studio Lionsgate also appears close to inking a pact with the Guild.
Could this mark the beginning of a slew of companies breaking from the company line to start protecting their own interests? Could their greed be greater than their loyalty to their robber baron brethren? If so, then Gordon gekko is again proven right:
"Greed... is good. Greed works."
.
.
.
B
United Artists is now headed by one Tom Cruise, and given that this deal (if true) would be a major victory for the screenwriter's side in the WGA-AMPTP war, I'll refrain from making any Cruise jokes.
Meanwhile, Wired News is reporting that indie studio Lionsgate also appears close to inking a pact with the Guild.
Could this mark the beginning of a slew of companies breaking from the company line to start protecting their own interests? Could their greed be greater than their loyalty to their robber baron brethren? If so, then Gordon gekko is again proven right:
"Greed... is good. Greed works."
.
.
.
B
01 January 2008
2007 -- The Year That Was
Jeezmachrist. Are we done with ’07 already?
Things have been hectic ‘round these parts for years — since right around the time the second or maybe third kid appeared on the scene — but this year... this one was something out of a bad sci-fi movie, one where a time warp shoves everything into super-hyper-mega-overdrive and months last only two weeks each.
I used my own blog as a sort of journal to help me remember all that’s come down the pipe, and I was stunned to realize how quickly things have blown by this year.
I guess time flies when you’re hanging on for dear life.
Some highlights:
• I bought the wrong toilet paper
• I committed myself to completing three screenplays and to getting some traction on QUEEN OF THE SKY, the bio-drama about Soviet aviatrix Lilya Litvyak. For various reasons relating to more good fortune than I could have imagined relating to the second goal, I fell a tiny bit short on that first goal, But on the whole, I can live with that.
• As manager of my #2 son’s 9-year old Little League Baseball team (“the Brewers”) I drafted the best team I likely will ever see. I had one of the deepest pitching staffs in the league, more left-handed bats than righties, and three starter-grade catchers. We ended the season eliminated in the first round of the playoffs when our opponent’s #4 pitcher threw the game of his life, hurling three shutout innings despite having never logged a win all season long. You win some, you lose some.
• I made the first of three trips to Hollywood. This LA trip started with an overnighter to Austin (to catch both All The Boys Love Mandy Lane (produced by buddy Keith Calder) and Black Sheep (written and directed by buddy Jonathan King), which means I was of course obligated to imbibe a bit at pre-screening bar sessions and then at parties between the two screenings and then of course at the after party, so I arrived at my motel room well-blitzed at 3 am, which means I was still rattling badly when I woke at 7 am to make the drive back to Houston in time to catch a flight to LAX, and I had a beer en route there just to avoid coming off that wave, which means I hit Hollywood on the tail end of a 24-hour drunk, and went straight to a party and started drinking.
• As part of that LA trip, I had a great meeting at Paramount, hung with friends, did lunch dates with three different producers, and enjoyed myself tremendously, wondering when I’d have a chance to get back. Little did I know...
• lost (as in “the computer ate”) a very well detailed and almost complete outline to a new monster-comedy project I’d been scrambling to ready for contest season. The loss set be back a few weeks, and put me at serious risk for not having this new project ready for Nicholl deadline.
• started outlining seriously on a large epic historical piece with potential four-quadrant appeal. One of my best and most trusted pro peers laughed at me and called this project a fool’s errand, the sort of thing likely to suck a lot of time and energy on a lost cause, as in his professional and very knowledgeable opinion this particular form is fatally flawed from the outset. This advice of course only made me more eager and excited to work on the project.
• missed the Nicholl deadline for the new monster-com and had decided that I’d just not enter anything, but then, with literally one hour to spare before the postal deadline, I decided to toss in another copy of QUEEN OF THE SKY, the war drama that had been dinked in the first round in the two previous runs at Nicholl glory. ”There’s 30 bucks pissed down a hole...” I said to myself as I dropped the entry into the postal chute. And again, somewhere Dame Irony snickers....
• missed the Robert Earl Keen Texas Uprising Music Festival for the first time ever. Little league tournament action coupled with the dance recital of #1 son conspired to eat my Memorial Day weekend availability, so in the festival’s eighth year, I was a no-show for the first time ever, and yes I am still bummed.
• Grand Cayman, baybee. The inlaws finally made good on a decade-long threat to send the entire famn damily on a fancy vacation, so we wound up spending a week in a beachfront condo on the sands of Seven Mile Beach. Great weather, great food, great beach, great snorkeling, and a fantastic time, all on the in-laws dime as Grandma sat on the beach and smiled and laughed and soaked it up.
• returned from Cayman just in time to get seriously into summer tournament baseball with the team I helped co-found. Again, we had more talent than ever before, but the chemistry just wasn’t there, plus I think I missed too much practice time due to travel demands, so I was unable to help smooth out some weird interpersonal issues which contributed to that chemistry issue. We had fun, but not nearly so much fun as the year before, and we never performed as well as we’d expected to based upon the talent in the dugout. Again, you win some and you lose some.
• Received notice I’d advanced to the Quarterfinals of the 2007 Nicholl Fellowships competition.
• Spent a week on Catalina Island for Boy Scout summer camp, then slid over to Hollywood on the return leg of the trip. As part of the trip I met with some potential partners in an internet project, and then led them in a meeting with a producer excited by the prospects for that project.
• Youth football (aka, “the great suck”) started. I thought I was being smart by refusing to be head coach, saying that I’d setp back and let someone else take the hit for a change. As the season progressed, however, I hated this decision more and more with each passing week, as I found myself (and my family) victimized by crappy management, poor planning, hideously inept communication, painfully immature interpersonal fiascos, and a near-comical series of juvenile temper tantrums and power grabs by the gentlemen who were tasked with running things. It was so bad that we seriously considered just dropping out of the league before the mid-point of the season, but I refused to start teaching my son that the proper response is to give up and run away. I’m still not sure if that was the right move.
• I got word that I was a Nicholl semifinalist
• the family and a few other families all went on our annual “Tubin’ down the Blanco” river trip, which turned out to be a nice low-key ending to one crazy hectic summer.
• decided to use the “soon to disappear” heat and notoriety of being an accidental Nicholl semifinalist to try and market QUEEN OF THE SKY my own self, and actually met with decent results, getting the script in to a few name actresses, as well as a cool management company.
• looked up and realized that it was already time again to start prepping for my annual pilgrimage to the Austin Film Festival, which always seems to be a million years away until suddenly it’s right on top of us all, back again far sooner than seems possible. One of the weird things about getting older is the way the years start to fly by.
• was totally impressed with the way my kids handled their obligations and responsibilities. Oldest son remains a totally squirrelly punk of a 13 year old, but he also is among the most dependable and decent kids his age I’ve ever met. #2 son blew me away with his maturity and leadership as the ONLY quarterback on his team (the coaching staff refused to help me as I tried to teach some other kids how to play the position, leaving my son as the only player to take any snaps at that position all year). #3 son, meanwhile, stunned me with his interest in and dedication to Cub Scouting, learning ALL his required promises and oaths and mottos and such in just two days time, and the volunteering to lead their first den meeting “cuz I know how to do all this stuff!” Daughter meanwhile, the youngest of the brood, started kindergarten and showed no timidity or reticence at all, hitting the ground running and loving every aspect of the daily school grind. Sometimes I guess the lessons and work actually work out as intended, but I’m quite content to chalk it all up to blind stupid luck.
• In probably the biggest and most unexpected twist of 2007, I was named a Finalist in the 2007 Nicholl competition. That still seems something of a werid dream rather than an actual memory, but it’s a happy dream and I’m glad to have dreamt it.
• Due mainly to that Nicholl news, this year’s Austin Film Festival experience was... well... surreal. I never did have a chance to blog about the AFF this year, and I dunno that I ever will have the time and energy now, but it was a completely freaky yet wonderful experience to be fielding literally hundreds of calls and emails from interested producers and prodcos and managers and agents and lawyers and such even as you are stumbling around ina huge screenwriting festival trying to “network” in order to possibly... make contact with the very producers and prodcos and managers and agents and lawyers who are contacting you.
• A very close second place to “Nicholl” in the Biggest Weirdest News Of The Year was when I found myself >offered representation the Brant Rose Agency as a direct result of the Nicholl finalist thing.
• found myself in the very odd position of granting an interview to my old hometown newspaper
• realized with some chagrin that the looming WGA strike would likely fuck me royally in my all-expense paid trip to LA for Nicholl’s Week (and was soon proven painfully right)
• the aforementioned WGA strike came to pass, and it was as bad as advertised
• got word that I was dinked in the Finals of the Nicholls. IOW, “no cash award.” Oh well.
Dinked in the finals
• spent a week building some insanely cool stage pieces for the 4th grade musical, “GO WEST”, including a locomotive, a steamboat, a covered wagon, a caboose, a waterwheel, a mountain range, a setting sun, and some clouds. I had a half dozen housewives content to take orders and do whatever I told them even though they initially could not figure out at all what my plans were, but when it all came together... well, even I was impressed, and I’m never impressed.
• traveled to Hollywood for the big Nicholls Week Trip, and that turned out to be such a cool week that it’s ballooned into a still-running series of posts herebouts:
• I battled with smoke detector batteries
• at #2 son’s final youth football game, I was threatened with an ass-kicking twice in the spane of about 12 minutes, the first time from a fellow coach on my team who was furiously angry that I substituted for his son in the closing minutes of a 21-point loss when his sonrefused to run any more plays and decided to instead stand there hands on his hips in the backfield and not run any play called. After the game,I went to congratulate the winning coach in the parking lot, and he started screaming at me claiming that I’d been talking about him behind his back. To this day neither I nor anyone I’ve spoken to has even the slightest clue what the hell he was talking about.
• In the annual A&M vs UT football game (aka, “the texas game”), the Aggies won, and (just as importantly), the ‘horns lost.
• got a full archive of (almost) all the scripts on this year’s Black List. Of those I’ve so far read, none has blown me away to the point that I find myself saying ”I can never compete with this sort of talent!” Instead, I find myself thinking that I can and will and already do do work at least this good, if not much better. Yeah, I have an ego. Bite me.
• despite the best efforts of my relatives and fellow humans, I again somehow managed to get into the Christmas Spirit
• saw Juno, the feature debut of screenwriter/blogger Diablo Cody, and loved it totally and truly. Wizard.
• did some work on my monster comedy, my historical epic, developed a cool family holiday movie idea, and started an outline on a potentially hilarious new idea co-thunk up with a longtime writer friend. Hopefully, all of these will be completed and eradable by the mid-point of 2008.
• I composed the blog entry you are now reading (a project which turned out to be a far bigger pain in the ass chore than it seemed to be when I started...)
So.
On the whole, 2007 turned out to be one hellaciously wild and wooly ride for me. I made more headway in the screenwriting than I probably expected to, but then found that progress stopped as suddenly as if I’d hit a wall when the strike slammed the gate closed on ALL business.
I have some trivial heat in the biz.
I have some cool properties tidied up and ready to read, and a lot of cool material almost ready in the wings.
I have an agent (and I have the same stupid grin when saying that now as the first time back in October).
I have a stupidly supportive wife and kids, and a crew of friends I would die for.
And I have a Viking helmet, which is always cool.
Happy 2008, you weasels.
Now rise, sally forth, and kick ass.
.
.
.
B
Things have been hectic ‘round these parts for years — since right around the time the second or maybe third kid appeared on the scene — but this year... this one was something out of a bad sci-fi movie, one where a time warp shoves everything into super-hyper-mega-overdrive and months last only two weeks each.
I used my own blog as a sort of journal to help me remember all that’s come down the pipe, and I was stunned to realize how quickly things have blown by this year.
I guess time flies when you’re hanging on for dear life.
Some highlights:
JANUARY
• I bought the wrong toilet paper
• I committed myself to completing three screenplays and to getting some traction on QUEEN OF THE SKY, the bio-drama about Soviet aviatrix Lilya Litvyak. For various reasons relating to more good fortune than I could have imagined relating to the second goal, I fell a tiny bit short on that first goal, But on the whole, I can live with that.
FEBRUARY
• As manager of my #2 son’s 9-year old Little League Baseball team (“the Brewers”) I drafted the best team I likely will ever see. I had one of the deepest pitching staffs in the league, more left-handed bats than righties, and three starter-grade catchers. We ended the season eliminated in the first round of the playoffs when our opponent’s #4 pitcher threw the game of his life, hurling three shutout innings despite having never logged a win all season long. You win some, you lose some.
MARCH
• I made the first of three trips to Hollywood. This LA trip started with an overnighter to Austin (to catch both All The Boys Love Mandy Lane (produced by buddy Keith Calder) and Black Sheep (written and directed by buddy Jonathan King), which means I was of course obligated to imbibe a bit at pre-screening bar sessions and then at parties between the two screenings and then of course at the after party, so I arrived at my motel room well-blitzed at 3 am, which means I was still rattling badly when I woke at 7 am to make the drive back to Houston in time to catch a flight to LAX, and I had a beer en route there just to avoid coming off that wave, which means I hit Hollywood on the tail end of a 24-hour drunk, and went straight to a party and started drinking.
• As part of that LA trip, I had a great meeting at Paramount, hung with friends, did lunch dates with three different producers, and enjoyed myself tremendously, wondering when I’d have a chance to get back. Little did I know...
APRIL
• lost (as in “the computer ate”) a very well detailed and almost complete outline to a new monster-comedy project I’d been scrambling to ready for contest season. The loss set be back a few weeks, and put me at serious risk for not having this new project ready for Nicholl deadline.
• started outlining seriously on a large epic historical piece with potential four-quadrant appeal. One of my best and most trusted pro peers laughed at me and called this project a fool’s errand, the sort of thing likely to suck a lot of time and energy on a lost cause, as in his professional and very knowledgeable opinion this particular form is fatally flawed from the outset. This advice of course only made me more eager and excited to work on the project.
MAY
• missed the Nicholl deadline for the new monster-com and had decided that I’d just not enter anything, but then, with literally one hour to spare before the postal deadline, I decided to toss in another copy of QUEEN OF THE SKY, the war drama that had been dinked in the first round in the two previous runs at Nicholl glory. ”There’s 30 bucks pissed down a hole...” I said to myself as I dropped the entry into the postal chute. And again, somewhere Dame Irony snickers....
• missed the Robert Earl Keen Texas Uprising Music Festival for the first time ever. Little league tournament action coupled with the dance recital of #1 son conspired to eat my Memorial Day weekend availability, so in the festival’s eighth year, I was a no-show for the first time ever, and yes I am still bummed.
JUNE
• Grand Cayman, baybee. The inlaws finally made good on a decade-long threat to send the entire famn damily on a fancy vacation, so we wound up spending a week in a beachfront condo on the sands of Seven Mile Beach. Great weather, great food, great beach, great snorkeling, and a fantastic time, all on the in-laws dime as Grandma sat on the beach and smiled and laughed and soaked it up.
• returned from Cayman just in time to get seriously into summer tournament baseball with the team I helped co-found. Again, we had more talent than ever before, but the chemistry just wasn’t there, plus I think I missed too much practice time due to travel demands, so I was unable to help smooth out some weird interpersonal issues which contributed to that chemistry issue. We had fun, but not nearly so much fun as the year before, and we never performed as well as we’d expected to based upon the talent in the dugout. Again, you win some and you lose some.
JULY
• Received notice I’d advanced to the Quarterfinals of the 2007 Nicholl Fellowships competition.
• Spent a week on Catalina Island for Boy Scout summer camp, then slid over to Hollywood on the return leg of the trip. As part of the trip I met with some potential partners in an internet project, and then led them in a meeting with a producer excited by the prospects for that project.
AUGUST
• Youth football (aka, “the great suck”) started. I thought I was being smart by refusing to be head coach, saying that I’d setp back and let someone else take the hit for a change. As the season progressed, however, I hated this decision more and more with each passing week, as I found myself (and my family) victimized by crappy management, poor planning, hideously inept communication, painfully immature interpersonal fiascos, and a near-comical series of juvenile temper tantrums and power grabs by the gentlemen who were tasked with running things. It was so bad that we seriously considered just dropping out of the league before the mid-point of the season, but I refused to start teaching my son that the proper response is to give up and run away. I’m still not sure if that was the right move.
• I got word that I was a Nicholl semifinalist
• the family and a few other families all went on our annual “Tubin’ down the Blanco” river trip, which turned out to be a nice low-key ending to one crazy hectic summer.
SEPTEMBER
• decided to use the “soon to disappear” heat and notoriety of being an accidental Nicholl semifinalist to try and market QUEEN OF THE SKY my own self, and actually met with decent results, getting the script in to a few name actresses, as well as a cool management company.
• looked up and realized that it was already time again to start prepping for my annual pilgrimage to the Austin Film Festival, which always seems to be a million years away until suddenly it’s right on top of us all, back again far sooner than seems possible. One of the weird things about getting older is the way the years start to fly by.
• was totally impressed with the way my kids handled their obligations and responsibilities. Oldest son remains a totally squirrelly punk of a 13 year old, but he also is among the most dependable and decent kids his age I’ve ever met. #2 son blew me away with his maturity and leadership as the ONLY quarterback on his team (the coaching staff refused to help me as I tried to teach some other kids how to play the position, leaving my son as the only player to take any snaps at that position all year). #3 son, meanwhile, stunned me with his interest in and dedication to Cub Scouting, learning ALL his required promises and oaths and mottos and such in just two days time, and the volunteering to lead their first den meeting “cuz I know how to do all this stuff!” Daughter meanwhile, the youngest of the brood, started kindergarten and showed no timidity or reticence at all, hitting the ground running and loving every aspect of the daily school grind. Sometimes I guess the lessons and work actually work out as intended, but I’m quite content to chalk it all up to blind stupid luck.
OCTOBER
• In probably the biggest and most unexpected twist of 2007, I was named a Finalist in the 2007 Nicholl competition. That still seems something of a werid dream rather than an actual memory, but it’s a happy dream and I’m glad to have dreamt it.
• Due mainly to that Nicholl news, this year’s Austin Film Festival experience was... well... surreal. I never did have a chance to blog about the AFF this year, and I dunno that I ever will have the time and energy now, but it was a completely freaky yet wonderful experience to be fielding literally hundreds of calls and emails from interested producers and prodcos and managers and agents and lawyers and such even as you are stumbling around ina huge screenwriting festival trying to “network” in order to possibly... make contact with the very producers and prodcos and managers and agents and lawyers who are contacting you.
• A very close second place to “Nicholl” in the Biggest Weirdest News Of The Year was when I found myself >offered representation the Brant Rose Agency as a direct result of the Nicholl finalist thing.
• found myself in the very odd position of granting an interview to my old hometown newspaper
• realized with some chagrin that the looming WGA strike would likely fuck me royally in my all-expense paid trip to LA for Nicholl’s Week (and was soon proven painfully right)
NOVEMBER
• the aforementioned WGA strike came to pass, and it was as bad as advertised
• got word that I was dinked in the Finals of the Nicholls. IOW, “no cash award.” Oh well.
Dinked in the finals
• spent a week building some insanely cool stage pieces for the 4th grade musical, “GO WEST”, including a locomotive, a steamboat, a covered wagon, a caboose, a waterwheel, a mountain range, a setting sun, and some clouds. I had a half dozen housewives content to take orders and do whatever I told them even though they initially could not figure out at all what my plans were, but when it all came together... well, even I was impressed, and I’m never impressed.
• traveled to Hollywood for the big Nicholls Week Trip, and that turned out to be such a cool week that it’s ballooned into a still-running series of posts herebouts:
First Day
Second Day morning
Second Day afternoon
Third Day
Fourth Day
(more to come...)
• I battled with smoke detector batteries
• at #2 son’s final youth football game, I was threatened with an ass-kicking twice in the spane of about 12 minutes, the first time from a fellow coach on my team who was furiously angry that I substituted for his son in the closing minutes of a 21-point loss when his sonrefused to run any more plays and decided to instead stand there hands on his hips in the backfield and not run any play called. After the game,I went to congratulate the winning coach in the parking lot, and he started screaming at me claiming that I’d been talking about him behind his back. To this day neither I nor anyone I’ve spoken to has even the slightest clue what the hell he was talking about.
• In the annual A&M vs UT football game (aka, “the texas game”), the Aggies won, and (just as importantly), the ‘horns lost.
DECEMBER
• got a full archive of (almost) all the scripts on this year’s Black List. Of those I’ve so far read, none has blown me away to the point that I find myself saying ”I can never compete with this sort of talent!” Instead, I find myself thinking that I can and will and already do do work at least this good, if not much better. Yeah, I have an ego. Bite me.
• despite the best efforts of my relatives and fellow humans, I again somehow managed to get into the Christmas Spirit
• saw Juno, the feature debut of screenwriter/blogger Diablo Cody, and loved it totally and truly. Wizard.
• did some work on my monster comedy, my historical epic, developed a cool family holiday movie idea, and started an outline on a potentially hilarious new idea co-thunk up with a longtime writer friend. Hopefully, all of these will be completed and eradable by the mid-point of 2008.
• I composed the blog entry you are now reading (a project which turned out to be a far bigger pain in the ass chore than it seemed to be when I started...)
So.
On the whole, 2007 turned out to be one hellaciously wild and wooly ride for me. I made more headway in the screenwriting than I probably expected to, but then found that progress stopped as suddenly as if I’d hit a wall when the strike slammed the gate closed on ALL business.
I have some trivial heat in the biz.
I have some cool properties tidied up and ready to read, and a lot of cool material almost ready in the wings.
I have an agent (and I have the same stupid grin when saying that now as the first time back in October).
I have a stupidly supportive wife and kids, and a crew of friends I would die for.
And I have a Viking helmet, which is always cool.
Happy 2008, you weasels.
Now rise, sally forth, and kick ass.
.
.
.
B
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