"Placemat Blues," by Slobberbone
Get up from the table and just walk away
There's nothing for me anyway
No reason that I should stay
Where's the place at the table for folks like me?
There's not one that I can see
Not one I can see
Used to be nothing sweeter than the signals it could send
The musical hand it could lend
Could be a lonely man's best friend
Where's the place at the table for folks like them?
Do you not want what they can spend?
Where's your place for them?
Now don't tell me that you don't see these things all sideways
I wish that you might one day see things my way
I know what you say, you say you serve the youth
You serve them Bizkits and Korn with a spoon
But I think you just serve you
Where's the place at the table for folks like us
When there's no one that we can trust?
Where's the place for us?
Now don't tell me that you don't see these things all sideways
I hope that you might one day see these things my way
That's my rant, I bet it don't make a dent
I waste all these little laments
And wait for accidents
So go on buy it all, buy it all and sell it off
The towers, the meters, the speakers, the knobs
Send it back to God
Just don't tell me that you don't see these things all sideways
And don't tell me that I might one day see things your way
We should kick your ass from here to Friday
Then maybe you might one day see these things my way
-----
Defiance is its own reward.
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too dumb to know better B
just another online spittoon
14 July 2010
11 July 2010
a great deal remains unreported
Stuff is going on.
For now it still feels more like leaves swirling in a dust devil -- lots of commotion, fluttering, interesting to watch -- but not a lot of form or purpose.
Maybe stuff will coalesce into stuff worth publicly commenting upon.
Maybe it will continue to not.
Maybe a blimp will fall on me.
Life is funny that way: whatever bad news you think you're prepared for, you get the other kind.
Onwards.
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B
For now it still feels more like leaves swirling in a dust devil -- lots of commotion, fluttering, interesting to watch -- but not a lot of form or purpose.
Maybe stuff will coalesce into stuff worth publicly commenting upon.
Maybe it will continue to not.
Maybe a blimp will fall on me.
Life is funny that way: whatever bad news you think you're prepared for, you get the other kind.
Onwards.
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B
11 June 2010
25 May 2010
one more time
And so it ends again.
Trailing by 3 with two men on, a 9-year old strikes out, an umpire says "BALLGAME!", and we clear the dugout, trudge to meet beneath the big oak tree near the third base field gate, and I again tell the kids "I'm proud of you, you played hard, it was a tough game..."
Blah blah blah.
I'm not minimizing the message or even the delivery, but after a point -- after so many seasons and so many end of the year final post-game speeches -- it all starts to seem... anticlimactic.
We gathered into a circle to call out the team name, as per tradition, and as we all had our hands in the circle, I found myself just pausing. Hesitating. Refusing to pull the trigger on that last gesture which would, officially, end our season.
Some of the guys looked up me, noticing in their own minds the odd delay, the hiccup in the normal sequence and timing of the ceremony. All I could do was force out a half smile.
"OK, guys -- this is the last time we will ever be us. This is the last moment that this team will ever exist. Any of you guys who decide to come back and play again next season, I will do what I can to get you back on my team, but there are no guarantees, and the chances of this same group of twelve ever suiting up as teammates again is basically zero. So if you have any desire to tell the world what team you are on this season, here it is: your one last and final chance. Tell those bums who they just beat."
One, two three... a shout, and we're dissolved.
---
I make a point to go to each player and shake their hands, say "I love you, man" and "thank you for playing for me," and thank the parents for all their time and effort. I pour the equipment bag out onto the grass and do one more final inventory to make sure I have all the proper gear stowed and ready to turn in. I fart around and pick up a few stray pieces of trash -- gum wrappers, a drink cup, an empty bottle of Gatorade -- but then chuckle at myself as I recognize what I am doing: stalling. Delaying that inevitable next step, where I carry the equipment bag back to the storage barn, open the door, and add my team's bag to the pile of other team bags already growing in the corner, bags from teams like mine who have now completed their season and played every game on the schedule and every game allowed by the playoff structure and who have now come to... the end.
I toss the bag onto the pile and look around the room. Dusty old catcher's masks which only a few short months ago were shiny and new and still sporting their tags from the warehouse. Some leftover uniforms from Opening Day which were extras and never issued. A few sponsor and manager "thank you" plaques waiting to be handed out. Racks of trophies which will be distributed to some of the teams whose bags are not yet in this pile, whose seasons have not yet crashed to earth, who still cling to that delicious thing known as Hope.
I sigh, turn and walk out, making sure the door is well secured behind me, and I hear a burst of insane screaming of the sort that I laugh to recognize as unique to parents of 5-year old tee-ballers. I look to the tee-ball field to my right and see what look like large toddlers in oversized uniforms -- the Cubs and the Cardinals, blue versus red -- as a ball rolls somewhere towards a centerfielder who is watching an adjacent field, as a runner waddles as fast as he can manage toward second base. Surely one of the best hit balls of the entire season in that age group, as it actually left the infield. Dugouts are screeching. Parents are going wild. Kids are running around in what seems the earliest onset of panic. Coaches are bellowing "GO! GO GO!" or "THROW THE BALL! THROW THE BALL!"
I laugh and clap for the play, then turn and head back to my wagon full of gear: extra bats and buckets of practice balls and wiffle balls and scorebooks and folder of schedules and waivers and rosters. I pat my son on the head and say "let's get going -- it's a school night" and we walk past the next 9-year old game, already in progress after ours.
Past the 8-year olds where this is the season where they learn just how much anguish a scoreboard can deliver.
Past the Majors field where the 11s and 12s are suddenly starting to look and play like the young men we will see on high school fields, college fields, pro fields. In each case, on every field, one set of fans is always screaming, the other always pleading with uncaring gods to somehow deliver some impossible redemption.
We head to the van, and I notice how we've left the silver-white glare of the vapor lamps and are now heading deeper into the gloom of the parking lot, and how our shadows grow darker and longer out in front of us as the field lights fall farther and farther behind us with each step, and I laugh to myself for noting the drama of "leaving baseball." And I again remember my favorite baseball message:
By that measure, I guess this season was a success, as I find myself heading home, broken hearted yet longing to do it all again, just one more time. Please. Just one more time.
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simple creature B
Trailing by 3 with two men on, a 9-year old strikes out, an umpire says "BALLGAME!", and we clear the dugout, trudge to meet beneath the big oak tree near the third base field gate, and I again tell the kids "I'm proud of you, you played hard, it was a tough game..."
Blah blah blah.
I'm not minimizing the message or even the delivery, but after a point -- after so many seasons and so many end of the year final post-game speeches -- it all starts to seem... anticlimactic.
We gathered into a circle to call out the team name, as per tradition, and as we all had our hands in the circle, I found myself just pausing. Hesitating. Refusing to pull the trigger on that last gesture which would, officially, end our season.
Some of the guys looked up me, noticing in their own minds the odd delay, the hiccup in the normal sequence and timing of the ceremony. All I could do was force out a half smile.
"OK, guys -- this is the last time we will ever be us. This is the last moment that this team will ever exist. Any of you guys who decide to come back and play again next season, I will do what I can to get you back on my team, but there are no guarantees, and the chances of this same group of twelve ever suiting up as teammates again is basically zero. So if you have any desire to tell the world what team you are on this season, here it is: your one last and final chance. Tell those bums who they just beat."
One, two three... a shout, and we're dissolved.
---
I make a point to go to each player and shake their hands, say "I love you, man" and "thank you for playing for me," and thank the parents for all their time and effort. I pour the equipment bag out onto the grass and do one more final inventory to make sure I have all the proper gear stowed and ready to turn in. I fart around and pick up a few stray pieces of trash -- gum wrappers, a drink cup, an empty bottle of Gatorade -- but then chuckle at myself as I recognize what I am doing: stalling. Delaying that inevitable next step, where I carry the equipment bag back to the storage barn, open the door, and add my team's bag to the pile of other team bags already growing in the corner, bags from teams like mine who have now completed their season and played every game on the schedule and every game allowed by the playoff structure and who have now come to... the end.
I toss the bag onto the pile and look around the room. Dusty old catcher's masks which only a few short months ago were shiny and new and still sporting their tags from the warehouse. Some leftover uniforms from Opening Day which were extras and never issued. A few sponsor and manager "thank you" plaques waiting to be handed out. Racks of trophies which will be distributed to some of the teams whose bags are not yet in this pile, whose seasons have not yet crashed to earth, who still cling to that delicious thing known as Hope.
I sigh, turn and walk out, making sure the door is well secured behind me, and I hear a burst of insane screaming of the sort that I laugh to recognize as unique to parents of 5-year old tee-ballers. I look to the tee-ball field to my right and see what look like large toddlers in oversized uniforms -- the Cubs and the Cardinals, blue versus red -- as a ball rolls somewhere towards a centerfielder who is watching an adjacent field, as a runner waddles as fast as he can manage toward second base. Surely one of the best hit balls of the entire season in that age group, as it actually left the infield. Dugouts are screeching. Parents are going wild. Kids are running around in what seems the earliest onset of panic. Coaches are bellowing "GO! GO GO!" or "THROW THE BALL! THROW THE BALL!"
I laugh and clap for the play, then turn and head back to my wagon full of gear: extra bats and buckets of practice balls and wiffle balls and scorebooks and folder of schedules and waivers and rosters. I pat my son on the head and say "let's get going -- it's a school night" and we walk past the next 9-year old game, already in progress after ours.
Past the 8-year olds where this is the season where they learn just how much anguish a scoreboard can deliver.
Past the Majors field where the 11s and 12s are suddenly starting to look and play like the young men we will see on high school fields, college fields, pro fields. In each case, on every field, one set of fans is always screaming, the other always pleading with uncaring gods to somehow deliver some impossible redemption.
We head to the van, and I notice how we've left the silver-white glare of the vapor lamps and are now heading deeper into the gloom of the parking lot, and how our shadows grow darker and longer out in front of us as the field lights fall farther and farther behind us with each step, and I laugh to myself for noting the drama of "leaving baseball." And I again remember my favorite baseball message:
That is why it breaks my heart, that game--not because [they] they could win because [we] lost; in that, there is a rough justice, and a reminder to [the other team] of how slight and fragile are the circumstances that exalt one group of human beings over another. It breaks my heart because it was meant to, because it was meant to foster in me again the illusion that there was something abiding, some pattern and some impulse that could come together to make a reality that would resist the corrosion; and because, after it had fostered again that most hungered-for illusion, the game was meant to stop, and betray precisely what it promised.
Of course, there are those who learn after the first few times. They grow out of sports. And there are others who were born with the wisdom to know that nothing lasts. These are the truly tough among us, the ones who can live without illusion, or without even the hope of illusion. I am not that grown-up or up-to-date. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patterns and cycles. I need to think something lasts forever, and it might as well be that state of being that is a game; it might as well be that, in a green field, in the sun.
-- A. Bartlett Giamatti, "The Green Fields of the Mind"
By that measure, I guess this season was a success, as I find myself heading home, broken hearted yet longing to do it all again, just one more time. Please. Just one more time.
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simple creature B
21 April 2010
Happy San Jacinto Day
"On this field on April 21, 1836 the Army of Texas commanded by General Sam Houston, and accompanied by the Secretary of War, Thomas J. Rusk, attacked the larger invading army of Mexicans under General Santa Anna. The battle line from left to right was formed by Sidney Sherman's regiment, Edward Burleson's regiment, the artillery commanded by George W. Hockley, Henry Millard's infantry and the cavalry under Mirabeau B. Lamar. Sam Houston led the infantry charge.
With the battle cry, "Remember the Alamo! Remember Goliad!" the Texans charged. The enemy taken by surprise, rallied for a few minutes then fled in disorder. The Texans had asked no quarter and gave none. The slaughter was appalling, victory complete, and Texas free! On the following day General Antonio Lopez De Santa Anna, self-styled "Napoleon of the West," received from a generous foe the mercy he had denied Travis at the Alamo and Fannin at Goliad.
Citizens of Texas and immigrant soldiers in the Army of Texas at San Jacinto were natives of Alabama, Arkansas, Connecticut, Georgia, Illinois, Indiana, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, New Hampshire, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas, Vermont, Virginia, Austria, Canada, England, France, Germany, Ireland, Italy, Mexico, Poland, Portugal and Scotland.
Measured by its results, San Jacinto was one of the decisive battles of the world. The freedom of Texas from Mexico won here led to annexation and to the Mexican-American War, resulting in the acquisition by the United States of the states of Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, California, Utah and parts of Colorado, Wyoming, Kansas and Oklahoma. Almost one-third of the present area of the American Nation, nearly a million square miles of territory, changed sovereignty."
Saaaaaaaaa-lute.
Happy San Jacinto Day, y'all.
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under the "A" in "TEXAS" B
20 April 2010
once upon a time at starbucks
FADE IN
INT. STARBUCKS COUNTER INSIDE TARGET - DAY
BRETT (40-ish, pissy, ruggedly handsome) wanders to the
counter, sighs.
STARBUCKS LADY
Good afternoon! How can I help you?
BRETT
Medium latté, please.
STARBUCKS LADY
Oooooo, I'm sorry! My cash register
is broken...
Starbucks Lady gestures towards register like some
hostess on The Price Is Right.
STARBUCKS LADY (cont.)
... so I can't make any coffee
drinks...
Starbucks Lady now gestures towards coffee maker, again
like some hostess on The Price Is Right.
STARBUCKS LADY (cont.)
... but is there anything else I can
offer you?
Starbucks Lady gives a Stepford smile. Brett glowers.
BRETT
You mean, besides this scintillating
conversation?
Starbucks Lady smiles and tilts her head in confusion,
a la RCA Victor dog.
BRETT (cont.)
Ya know, a Starbucks that doesn't offer
coffee really doesn't require a worker
in an apron, does it? It would get a lot
more use from a sign saying CLOSED --
NO COFFEE.
Starbucks Lady still smiles, head still cocked.
World music soothingly annoys from somewhere.
Brett still glowers, then turns to leave.
BRETT (cont.)
(to self)
I'm surrounded by idiots...
STARBUCKS LADY
Thank you! Please come again!
FADE OUT
19 April 2010
A Momentary Bout of Clarity
It happens sometimes that when writing on some project you will find some odd clue or hint of bit of cosmic guidance from nowhere -- a trail of cookie crumbs the Universe seems content to leave every once in a while if only to foll you into thinking that the great slobbering beast called "Reality" gives a fig for your happiness and well-being.
So here I am, contentedly banging my face onto the keyboard in an effort to make beauty fall out my ears and eye sockets and arranges themselves into words on a screen, and iTunes per usual is cranking through a random play of a few thousand songs, when that weird thing happens yet again: some totally random song cues up which not only fits the mood but actually totally describes the entire damned story in a way more perfect than you'd ever manage if you sat there face-banging for a hundred years nonstop.
No, this doesn't describe any specific story to you, but trust me -- it *is* this story I am working on, totally nailing the emotional core that I was trying to describe to some... well, "persons of surpassing relevance."
And there most surely is joy in Mudville tonight.
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B
So here I am, contentedly banging my face onto the keyboard in an effort to make beauty fall out my ears and eye sockets and arranges themselves into words on a screen, and iTunes per usual is cranking through a random play of a few thousand songs, when that weird thing happens yet again: some totally random song cues up which not only fits the mood but actually totally describes the entire damned story in a way more perfect than you'd ever manage if you sat there face-banging for a hundred years nonstop.
I -- I wish you could swim
Like the dolphins, like dolphins can swim
Though nothing
nothing will keep us together
We can beat them, for ever and ever
Oh we can be Heroes
just for one day
I -- I will be king
And you -- you will be queen
Though nothing will drive them away
We can be Heroes, just for one day
We can be Us
just for one day
I -- I can remember (I remember)
Standing, by the wall (by the wall)
And the guns shot above our heads (over our heads)
And we kissed
So nothing could fall (nothing could fall)
And the shame was on the other side
Oh we can beat them, for ever and ever
Then we could be Heroes
just for one day
We can be Heroes
We can be Heroes
We can be Heroes
Just for one day
We can be Heroes
No, this doesn't describe any specific story to you, but trust me -- it *is* this story I am working on, totally nailing the emotional core that I was trying to describe to some... well, "persons of surpassing relevance."
And there most surely is joy in Mudville tonight.
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B
13 April 2010
Greatest Song Lyrics Ever, vol. 63-A
"Bubble Gum," from Adam Carroll
Three sixty-five for a can of snuff was money poorly spent
Didn't see a girl or a car around so I threw it on the hot cement
Well I parked the car and I went to school when I came back in haste
There was a big ol' wad of bubble gum that was stuck there in its place
The sticky side of the yin and yang on my shoes cramps my style
Some joker's chompin' on a big league chew with a big fat Buddha smile
Countin' out my change from the I Ching I can't help but hold a grudge
Was it bubble gum or bad karma? Let my guru be the judge
Was it bubble gum or bad karma? Let my guru be the judge
My foot got stuck when I hit the gas and I swerved to miss a skunk
And I ran into a bus load full of ten Tibetan monks
Their bus was wrecked, nobody got hurt, but they cussed me really loud
This had to be the first time that they broke their silence vow
I said please don't call the cops and I offered them some wine
We played chinese checkers and they beat me every single time
They stole the car and they grabbed the wine they said "you were bound to lose"
And I got left on the side of the road with bubble gum on my shoes
The sticky side of the yin and yang on my shoes cramps my style
Some joker's chompin' on a big league chew with a big fat Buddha smile
Countin out my change from the I Ching I can't help but hold a grudge
Was it bubble gum or bad karma? Let my guru be the judge
Was it bubble gum or bad karma? Let my guru be the judge
Stumbled my way back to town and the blues came down on me
I couldn't get back to my humble home cause the monks had took my keys
I sat down on the doormat -- I hung my head and wept
I spent the night trying to meditate out on my front porch steps
The days go by with the sun and the moon, no better or no worse
Bubble gum and bad karma is gonna be my dyin' curse
Well I might come back as the Dalai Lama -- I might come back as a clown
I hope that things are different in my next time around
I might come back as the Dalai Lama -- I might not come back at all
I might come back as a holy cow that's grazin' in Nepal
I think Ho Chi Minh's got herpes but Confucious he was cool
Bubble gum makes you stutter and snuff just makes you drool
Well I might come back as an outlaw rickshaw driver named Omar
But if I had things the way I wanted them...
I'd be picking the hindu blues...
with Keith Richards and Ravi Shankar
The sticky side of the yin and yang on my shoes cramps my style
Some joker's chompin on a big league chew with a big fat Buddha smile
Countin out my change from the I Ching I can't help but hold a grudge
Was it bubble gum or bad karma? Let my guru be the judge
Was it bubble gum or bad karma? Let my guru be the judge
-=-=-
Think about it, darlin....
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B
Three sixty-five for a can of snuff was money poorly spent
Didn't see a girl or a car around so I threw it on the hot cement
Well I parked the car and I went to school when I came back in haste
There was a big ol' wad of bubble gum that was stuck there in its place
The sticky side of the yin and yang on my shoes cramps my style
Some joker's chompin' on a big league chew with a big fat Buddha smile
Countin' out my change from the I Ching I can't help but hold a grudge
Was it bubble gum or bad karma? Let my guru be the judge
Was it bubble gum or bad karma? Let my guru be the judge
My foot got stuck when I hit the gas and I swerved to miss a skunk
And I ran into a bus load full of ten Tibetan monks
Their bus was wrecked, nobody got hurt, but they cussed me really loud
This had to be the first time that they broke their silence vow
I said please don't call the cops and I offered them some wine
We played chinese checkers and they beat me every single time
They stole the car and they grabbed the wine they said "you were bound to lose"
And I got left on the side of the road with bubble gum on my shoes
The sticky side of the yin and yang on my shoes cramps my style
Some joker's chompin' on a big league chew with a big fat Buddha smile
Countin out my change from the I Ching I can't help but hold a grudge
Was it bubble gum or bad karma? Let my guru be the judge
Was it bubble gum or bad karma? Let my guru be the judge
Stumbled my way back to town and the blues came down on me
I couldn't get back to my humble home cause the monks had took my keys
I sat down on the doormat -- I hung my head and wept
I spent the night trying to meditate out on my front porch steps
The days go by with the sun and the moon, no better or no worse
Bubble gum and bad karma is gonna be my dyin' curse
Well I might come back as the Dalai Lama -- I might come back as a clown
I hope that things are different in my next time around
I might come back as the Dalai Lama -- I might not come back at all
I might come back as a holy cow that's grazin' in Nepal
I think Ho Chi Minh's got herpes but Confucious he was cool
Bubble gum makes you stutter and snuff just makes you drool
Well I might come back as an outlaw rickshaw driver named Omar
But if I had things the way I wanted them...
I'd be picking the hindu blues...
with Keith Richards and Ravi Shankar
The sticky side of the yin and yang on my shoes cramps my style
Some joker's chompin on a big league chew with a big fat Buddha smile
Countin out my change from the I Ching I can't help but hold a grudge
Was it bubble gum or bad karma? Let my guru be the judge
Was it bubble gum or bad karma? Let my guru be the judge
-=-=-
Think about it, darlin....
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.
.
B
26 March 2010
another dawn breaks foul
So I'd been told that we -- The Wife and I -- needed to be at the elementary in time for the "televised" morning announcements this morning. She said Daughter was being mentioned in the announcements, and I shrugged and mumbled and said "yeah fine whatever..." as I am wont to do.
We rise, get the kids prepped and loaded and fired out the tubes toward their respective targets, and then The Wife and I then turn our focus to getting into clothes presentable to normal humans.
I'm culling through the t-shirts, looking for one that won't draw *too* many stares of unspoken complaint (but still won't draw *none* -- there is a required balance in such calculations...), and I then grab a favorite (iow, "ratty") faded sweatshirt to pull over that, as it's a "brisk" morning.
"You're not going to wear that, are you? she asks in that way women do when they pose a question in the form of a complaint.
"What -- would that leave me looking not pretty enough to stand against a wall, uninvolved and wishing for coffee?"
"Why not wear this?" she instructs, pulling a nice oxblood sweatshirt that still has the tag it's had since I opened it as a Christmas gift at some point in the past decade.
She hands me the sweatshirt and retreats to finish her own prep. putting on a blouse which seems oddly... nice just for a walk to the school and back.
At that point I groan, as it becomes clear that I am being "handled" -- something is afoot, and I'm the lucky surprise recipient-to-be.
"Crap," grumbles I.
-=-=-
I hate awards and acclaim.
It's all surely tied into a host of bizarre and for-purposes-here-unimportant childhood episodes, but the gist of it is I simply do not trust public shows of acclaim and approval. They make my skin crawl, make me want to dig a hole, drop into it and shudder like a flounder to cover myself with a concealing layer of silt and grit.
Some people seem to not understand that, as I am (admittedly and proudly) the possessor of one of the world's truly great Egos. It's not that I think I'm all that and a bag of chips. It's that I am, baybee, and I don't need no silly damned trophy or certificate or round of applause to give me additional unneeded proof of such. BUT -- and here's where it gets screwy and demented -- I am also sufficiently aware of my own overlooming arrogance and Ego freakitude that I very much dislike feeding that particular monkey. I therefore make great effort to remain detached from my Ego, and I like to yank its leash every once in a while to remind the beast that I remain (mostly) in control.
And so, rather than allow that Ego to further inflate with stupid moments of self-adoring public adoration, I avoid them. Instead, into mine own ear I whisper that old warning, that "all glory is fleeting." Every new victory and elevation just gives me that much more which I will surely soon lose through clumsiness, arrogance, and gross staggering stupefying incompetence.
Yeah, yeah, this whacked-out little internal balance of terror is demented and twisted and surely deserving of professional corrective attention and analysis, but in the mean time it's also just who I am.
Deal with it.
-=-=-
Earlier this school year I once again volunteered (with the usual scowling and complaining) to head up the design and construction of all the stage sets and props for the school musical.
Stagecraft is a goofy and largely unprofitable skill, so of course it's precisely the kind of thing I love and excel at. I started helping with stage stuff when I was maybe 10 years old and my mom was in charge of the local small-town beauty pageant, and we'd be part of a volunteer crew that would be tasked with turning a junior high stage into a fantasy castle or a Ziegfeld visual using nothing but spit, toilet paper cartons, and 73 pounds of duct tape.
I helped there annually for years, and eventually became the defacto stage director. I was in charge of pretty much everything from the curtains on back. (If any wonder WHY I would be interested in this, remember that by that point I was 17 years old and the gig put me solo backstage for a few long nights with 40+ totally nervous totally hot high school girls in low-cut evening gowns -- it was a good gig, guys.)
So I honed (stagecraft and other) skills there, and over the next few decades I'd duplicate that kind of creative silliness in the name of a dozen other similar crafty things like Cub Scouts and PTA and dance class, where I'd be the dad tasked with making a giant teacup or a pirate ship or a Viking longboat or a jungle or Monument valley, all built from chicken wire and whatever I could pull from a dumpster.
And 73 pounds of duct tape.
The local elementary stages two musicals every year -- for the fourth graders in the fall, and for the second graders in the spring. With four kids having passed through the halls there, all spaced just right, it's worked out that I've had a kid in line for a musical pretty much every year for the past decade, so years back when they posted a call for folks interested or experienced with designing stage sets, I said "sure, why not."
And done it again almost every year since.
Thus I've become a sort of annual tradition. I internally giggle at how the PTA ladies seem not totally thrilled to share my air, as I am a grumpy grumbling snarling hissyfit in human form most times when I am compelled to endure the butt-puckering bureacracy of the public school system (where it usually feels that I need to have my ID checked and two forms approved before I even think about bending at the waist or scratching my backside), but by the same token they are always totally stunned and overjoyed by whatever insane construction I ultimately reveal on Opening Night. It's not my Ego talking when I say I'm good at this stuff. Damned good.
And I know that. And I don't need or want anyone else's approval or celebration in order to know that and take pride in it. Making castles from cardboard and jungles from cheesecloth is just one of those totally odd things I am way better at than most normal people.
As he says in LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, "I cannot fiddle, but I can make a great state from a little city." Or a Mother Goose fairy tale land using finger paints and butcher paper.
And 73 pounds of duct tape.
-=-=-
So there I stand in the AV Room "studio" for the CCTV "broadcast" the kids make every school day as part of the morning announcements. I see my daughter standing there, dressed slightly nicer than normal, ostensibly to look good for "her" moment onscreen. And I notice my 4th grader son also there, grinning, and I just roll my eyes at the attempted deception: why would he be here just to see his sister when she is being broadcasted into his classroom? Why did The Wife uncharacteristically give a fig what I wore today? Why were all the front office folks greeting me by name when I did the required handprint, retinal scan and voice analysis to gain entrance to NORAD Elementary?
Come on, guys. Credit me with SOME snap here.
One of the cool little traditions at the elementary is the award of commemorative boomerangs to the "Outbacker of the Month." (The school has a pervasive Aussie/Koala/Outback theme). 'Rangs are awarded to students who do exceptional stuff in volunteer service, or who have some spectacular achievement in academics or service or whatever. They also hand out a boomerang monthly to the parent volunteer of the month.
My kids have long remarked that it seems strange that I've never been awarded one of these Outbacker of the Month boomerangs, given the insane work I've done over the past eight years in building sets and installing props and building stuff for the PTA carnival and building 3D bulletin boards and blah blah blah.
"I don't do that stuff so I can win a silly danged boomerang. I do that so you guys love going to that school and take pride in what you attempt there."
"Yeah, but people need to respect you for your work!"
"I'd rather they just respect the work itself. I'll respect the exhausted fool who did it."
So I am standing there, dressed nicer than I'd like to be dressed (per The Wife's command) and I see both my kids standing there grinning at me like a pair of Wonder Twin Idjits, and I see there are six kids in line to be awarded Outbacker Boomerangs, and I see there are seven boomerangs lined up to be handed out, and I see Daughter covering her mouth like she knows a secret and then pointing to the boomerangs being handed out and then raising her eyebrows as if to say "golly I wonder what's going on today" and the whole damned charade is just so clumsy and pathetic that I am half-tempted to duck out a side door and diminish into the west before I am forced to come up and listen to a bunch of noise and feel Ego writhing around in disgusting appalling self-adoring paroxysms of ecstasy.
But I don't.
'Cuz these silly people all mean well and want to enjoy their little game, and making me squirm and feel totally uncomfortable apparently brings great joy to folks, so I get called onscreen by the Principal and she reads some maudlin overblown and entirely too grandiose bit of niceness to/for/at me, and I accept the silly piece of painted wood (which is not even a real damned boomerang, BTW -- totally useless for throwing or hunting) and we all wave and smile to the camera as the announcements wrap up and we then get photographed for the newsletter or yearbook or whatever and my kids say "were you SURPRISED, daddy?" and I smile and lie and blah blah blah get me the hell outta here NOW.
I understand that I'm supposed to be thrilled and happy about all this, and I guess on some level that's hard for me to access and enjoy like normal people apparently do I am, but on the whole I'd be far far happier with just a casual nudge as we look at the work itself, and maybe one quiet yet sincere "that'll do, pig. That'll do."
And I could really use a new roll of duct tape.
We rise, get the kids prepped and loaded and fired out the tubes toward their respective targets, and then The Wife and I then turn our focus to getting into clothes presentable to normal humans.
I'm culling through the t-shirts, looking for one that won't draw *too* many stares of unspoken complaint (but still won't draw *none* -- there is a required balance in such calculations...), and I then grab a favorite (iow, "ratty") faded sweatshirt to pull over that, as it's a "brisk" morning.
"You're not going to wear that, are you? she asks in that way women do when they pose a question in the form of a complaint.
"What -- would that leave me looking not pretty enough to stand against a wall, uninvolved and wishing for coffee?"
"Why not wear this?" she instructs, pulling a nice oxblood sweatshirt that still has the tag it's had since I opened it as a Christmas gift at some point in the past decade.
She hands me the sweatshirt and retreats to finish her own prep. putting on a blouse which seems oddly... nice just for a walk to the school and back.
At that point I groan, as it becomes clear that I am being "handled" -- something is afoot, and I'm the lucky surprise recipient-to-be.
"Crap," grumbles I.
-=-=-
I hate awards and acclaim.
It's all surely tied into a host of bizarre and for-purposes-here-unimportant childhood episodes, but the gist of it is I simply do not trust public shows of acclaim and approval. They make my skin crawl, make me want to dig a hole, drop into it and shudder like a flounder to cover myself with a concealing layer of silt and grit.
Some people seem to not understand that, as I am (admittedly and proudly) the possessor of one of the world's truly great Egos. It's not that I think I'm all that and a bag of chips. It's that I am, baybee, and I don't need no silly damned trophy or certificate or round of applause to give me additional unneeded proof of such. BUT -- and here's where it gets screwy and demented -- I am also sufficiently aware of my own overlooming arrogance and Ego freakitude that I very much dislike feeding that particular monkey. I therefore make great effort to remain detached from my Ego, and I like to yank its leash every once in a while to remind the beast that I remain (mostly) in control.
And so, rather than allow that Ego to further inflate with stupid moments of self-adoring public adoration, I avoid them. Instead, into mine own ear I whisper that old warning, that "all glory is fleeting." Every new victory and elevation just gives me that much more which I will surely soon lose through clumsiness, arrogance, and gross staggering stupefying incompetence.
Yeah, yeah, this whacked-out little internal balance of terror is demented and twisted and surely deserving of professional corrective attention and analysis, but in the mean time it's also just who I am.
Deal with it.
-=-=-
Earlier this school year I once again volunteered (with the usual scowling and complaining) to head up the design and construction of all the stage sets and props for the school musical.
Stagecraft is a goofy and largely unprofitable skill, so of course it's precisely the kind of thing I love and excel at. I started helping with stage stuff when I was maybe 10 years old and my mom was in charge of the local small-town beauty pageant, and we'd be part of a volunteer crew that would be tasked with turning a junior high stage into a fantasy castle or a Ziegfeld visual using nothing but spit, toilet paper cartons, and 73 pounds of duct tape.
I helped there annually for years, and eventually became the defacto stage director. I was in charge of pretty much everything from the curtains on back. (If any wonder WHY I would be interested in this, remember that by that point I was 17 years old and the gig put me solo backstage for a few long nights with 40+ totally nervous totally hot high school girls in low-cut evening gowns -- it was a good gig, guys.)
So I honed (stagecraft and other) skills there, and over the next few decades I'd duplicate that kind of creative silliness in the name of a dozen other similar crafty things like Cub Scouts and PTA and dance class, where I'd be the dad tasked with making a giant teacup or a pirate ship or a Viking longboat or a jungle or Monument valley, all built from chicken wire and whatever I could pull from a dumpster.
And 73 pounds of duct tape.
The local elementary stages two musicals every year -- for the fourth graders in the fall, and for the second graders in the spring. With four kids having passed through the halls there, all spaced just right, it's worked out that I've had a kid in line for a musical pretty much every year for the past decade, so years back when they posted a call for folks interested or experienced with designing stage sets, I said "sure, why not."
And done it again almost every year since.
Thus I've become a sort of annual tradition. I internally giggle at how the PTA ladies seem not totally thrilled to share my air, as I am a grumpy grumbling snarling hissyfit in human form most times when I am compelled to endure the butt-puckering bureacracy of the public school system (where it usually feels that I need to have my ID checked and two forms approved before I even think about bending at the waist or scratching my backside), but by the same token they are always totally stunned and overjoyed by whatever insane construction I ultimately reveal on Opening Night. It's not my Ego talking when I say I'm good at this stuff. Damned good.
And I know that. And I don't need or want anyone else's approval or celebration in order to know that and take pride in it. Making castles from cardboard and jungles from cheesecloth is just one of those totally odd things I am way better at than most normal people.
As he says in LAWRENCE OF ARABIA, "I cannot fiddle, but I can make a great state from a little city." Or a Mother Goose fairy tale land using finger paints and butcher paper.
And 73 pounds of duct tape.
-=-=-
So there I stand in the AV Room "studio" for the CCTV "broadcast" the kids make every school day as part of the morning announcements. I see my daughter standing there, dressed slightly nicer than normal, ostensibly to look good for "her" moment onscreen. And I notice my 4th grader son also there, grinning, and I just roll my eyes at the attempted deception: why would he be here just to see his sister when she is being broadcasted into his classroom? Why did The Wife uncharacteristically give a fig what I wore today? Why were all the front office folks greeting me by name when I did the required handprint, retinal scan and voice analysis to gain entrance to NORAD Elementary?
Come on, guys. Credit me with SOME snap here.
One of the cool little traditions at the elementary is the award of commemorative boomerangs to the "Outbacker of the Month." (The school has a pervasive Aussie/Koala/Outback theme). 'Rangs are awarded to students who do exceptional stuff in volunteer service, or who have some spectacular achievement in academics or service or whatever. They also hand out a boomerang monthly to the parent volunteer of the month.
My kids have long remarked that it seems strange that I've never been awarded one of these Outbacker of the Month boomerangs, given the insane work I've done over the past eight years in building sets and installing props and building stuff for the PTA carnival and building 3D bulletin boards and blah blah blah.
"I don't do that stuff so I can win a silly danged boomerang. I do that so you guys love going to that school and take pride in what you attempt there."
"Yeah, but people need to respect you for your work!"
"I'd rather they just respect the work itself. I'll respect the exhausted fool who did it."
So I am standing there, dressed nicer than I'd like to be dressed (per The Wife's command) and I see both my kids standing there grinning at me like a pair of Wonder Twin Idjits, and I see there are six kids in line to be awarded Outbacker Boomerangs, and I see there are seven boomerangs lined up to be handed out, and I see Daughter covering her mouth like she knows a secret and then pointing to the boomerangs being handed out and then raising her eyebrows as if to say "golly I wonder what's going on today" and the whole damned charade is just so clumsy and pathetic that I am half-tempted to duck out a side door and diminish into the west before I am forced to come up and listen to a bunch of noise and feel Ego writhing around in disgusting appalling self-adoring paroxysms of ecstasy.
But I don't.
'Cuz these silly people all mean well and want to enjoy their little game, and making me squirm and feel totally uncomfortable apparently brings great joy to folks, so I get called onscreen by the Principal and she reads some maudlin overblown and entirely too grandiose bit of niceness to/for/at me, and I accept the silly piece of painted wood (which is not even a real damned boomerang, BTW -- totally useless for throwing or hunting) and we all wave and smile to the camera as the announcements wrap up and we then get photographed for the newsletter or yearbook or whatever and my kids say "were you SURPRISED, daddy?" and I smile and lie and blah blah blah get me the hell outta here NOW.
I understand that I'm supposed to be thrilled and happy about all this, and I guess on some level that's hard for me to access and enjoy like normal people apparently do I am, but on the whole I'd be far far happier with just a casual nudge as we look at the work itself, and maybe one quiet yet sincere "that'll do, pig. That'll do."
And I could really use a new roll of duct tape.
20 March 2010
I'm still here
The itch to post new content to the blog...?
Not so much.
(shrug)
What happens, happens. What don't, doesn't.
Such is life.
Not so much.
(shrug)
What happens, happens. What don't, doesn't.
Such is life.
30 January 2010
sometimes i miss this thing
The blog.
The feeling usually comes on at some odd moment spurred by some odd impetus or provocation -- some totally random encounter with the name of a long-misplaced friend, some flicker of memory relating to some curiously powerful moment from a decade or three mostly forgotten, some up close and personal encounter with a mouth-breathing dipshit at some local business or office -- and suddenly I feel an instinctive need to blather on about it.
I have no idea if most people understand this urge, or if this is a strange affliction seen in only that verbose and pale minority known as "writers," but for me somehow dissembling a thing and grinding it into mnemonic paste and then mixing the resultant slop back into a meatloaf of memory, spiced with whatever I feel like throwing into the bowl and fluffed up by what breadcumbs I can find and then kinda sorta held together by spit and egg whites.
Drizzled in ketchup.
A hundred odd questions I want to ask myself and then hang around and hope I bother to answer.
Strange connections between stuff I'd forgotten I'd once felt to stuff I didn't know I now was feeling.
Grievances and complaints and grumblings and assorted pissy little blurts and burps which as often as not are a reminder to myself to shut up and laugh off the minor complaint and remain more aware and thankful for the big ticket items which far far more often than not still seem to break in my favor.
Song lyrics that make me laugh, frustrations that make me want to punch a nun, and obscure admissions of things most folks will never even suspect.
I still have no idea what the purpose of a blog is. I still have no clue why anyone reads these things. I still lack any understanding of how to turn this waste of words and bandwidth into anything potentially useful or lucrative.
Yet still I come back, urping up words.
On the bright side, maybe I'll become rich and famous at some point and all the crap smeared about here will then become a lovely ego-crushing embarrassment.
Now *that* would be amusing.
.
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B
The feeling usually comes on at some odd moment spurred by some odd impetus or provocation -- some totally random encounter with the name of a long-misplaced friend, some flicker of memory relating to some curiously powerful moment from a decade or three mostly forgotten, some up close and personal encounter with a mouth-breathing dipshit at some local business or office -- and suddenly I feel an instinctive need to blather on about it.
I have no idea if most people understand this urge, or if this is a strange affliction seen in only that verbose and pale minority known as "writers," but for me somehow dissembling a thing and grinding it into mnemonic paste and then mixing the resultant slop back into a meatloaf of memory, spiced with whatever I feel like throwing into the bowl and fluffed up by what breadcumbs I can find and then kinda sorta held together by spit and egg whites.
Drizzled in ketchup.
A hundred odd questions I want to ask myself and then hang around and hope I bother to answer.
Strange connections between stuff I'd forgotten I'd once felt to stuff I didn't know I now was feeling.
Grievances and complaints and grumblings and assorted pissy little blurts and burps which as often as not are a reminder to myself to shut up and laugh off the minor complaint and remain more aware and thankful for the big ticket items which far far more often than not still seem to break in my favor.
Song lyrics that make me laugh, frustrations that make me want to punch a nun, and obscure admissions of things most folks will never even suspect.
I still have no idea what the purpose of a blog is. I still have no clue why anyone reads these things. I still lack any understanding of how to turn this waste of words and bandwidth into anything potentially useful or lucrative.
Yet still I come back, urping up words.
On the bright side, maybe I'll become rich and famous at some point and all the crap smeared about here will then become a lovely ego-crushing embarrassment.
Now *that* would be amusing.
.
.
.
B
10 January 2010
Ursula K. Leguin resigns Authors Guild
And the legendary fantasy writer's reasons for doing so should be of extreme interest and urgency to pretty much anyone out there who now or ever has cuddled close to the fast-fading fantasy of making money from the printed word.
This new "Inter-net" thing you may have heard the kids rapping about is a wonder: all the information and text of the world, available 24/7 for free on pretty much any computer anywhere.
Huge companies like Google racing to continue to convert every piece of visual information -- words, drawings, photos -- to digital form which might then be rammed down the wire or radio waves to anyone wanting that info.
Libraries will no longer need to invest in monstrous collections of books and magazines and journals and newspapers and microfiche copies of such, instead now free merely to subscribe to streams of ever-expanding collections of digitized material.
But what about the lowly authors in this? What happens when suddenly there is no incentive for anyone to actually purchase copies of their work -- when any book that previously needed to be "purchased" can now just be downloaded from some online archive? What happens when Google is actually granted free rein to ignore issues of copyright and to start scanning copies of existing books and turn those loose onto the uncontrollable 'net, with no royalties or restitution to the creators?
That's exactly what's already going on, and (like many) Le Guin is rightly upset -- so much so that she's now resigned from the Author's Guild which negotiated with Google on this unprecedented land grab of of intellectual property. Le Guin is not content merely to voice her discontent on her blog -- she's actually collecting "signatures" from other published authors who share her disappointment and anger at the Guild's decision (published authors be sure to add your names on her site).
If you're a published author or wish to be one (or have a scintilla of respect for those poor pathetic souls cursed by such aspirations), this is a truly terrifying development, and you need to understand it -- NOW -- and speak your peace while there's a snowball's chance of it still mattering.
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B
———
BookViewCafe.com: Le Guin On The Google Settlement
UrsulaKLeGuin.com: "My letter of resignation from the Authors Guild"
(And thanks to Pooks for her post which brought this to my attention: Ursula Is Rallying The Troops!)
This new "Inter-net" thing you may have heard the kids rapping about is a wonder: all the information and text of the world, available 24/7 for free on pretty much any computer anywhere.
Huge companies like Google racing to continue to convert every piece of visual information -- words, drawings, photos -- to digital form which might then be rammed down the wire or radio waves to anyone wanting that info.
Libraries will no longer need to invest in monstrous collections of books and magazines and journals and newspapers and microfiche copies of such, instead now free merely to subscribe to streams of ever-expanding collections of digitized material.
But what about the lowly authors in this? What happens when suddenly there is no incentive for anyone to actually purchase copies of their work -- when any book that previously needed to be "purchased" can now just be downloaded from some online archive? What happens when Google is actually granted free rein to ignore issues of copyright and to start scanning copies of existing books and turn those loose onto the uncontrollable 'net, with no royalties or restitution to the creators?
That's exactly what's already going on, and (like many) Le Guin is rightly upset -- so much so that she's now resigned from the Author's Guild which negotiated with Google on this unprecedented land grab of of intellectual property. Le Guin is not content merely to voice her discontent on her blog -- she's actually collecting "signatures" from other published authors who share her disappointment and anger at the Guild's decision (published authors be sure to add your names on her site).
If you're a published author or wish to be one (or have a scintilla of respect for those poor pathetic souls cursed by such aspirations), this is a truly terrifying development, and you need to understand it -- NOW -- and speak your peace while there's a snowball's chance of it still mattering.
.
.
.
B
———
BookViewCafe.com: Le Guin On The Google Settlement
UrsulaKLeGuin.com: "My letter of resignation from the Authors Guild"
(And thanks to Pooks for her post which brought this to my attention: Ursula Is Rallying The Troops!)
12 December 2009
"Why?"
Occasionally the cacophonous riot of voices in my head will for whatever reason all take a breath at the same moment and leave one of those odd semi-awkward quiet moments hanging in my interior monolog, giving one or two of the normally obscured whimpering voices a rare opportunity to be heard (if not heeded).
It happened again this morning (8:47am CST for those scoring along in the home edition) when a lull hit town and I heard this Cindy Lou Who voice in my head ask "Why, Brett, why? Why do you want to make movies?"
And then iTunes randomly provided me the answer, as a certain music cue cranked and reminded me of one of my all-time favorite movie sequences, one of those that allowed me to just smile and point and say "There. That's why. Just once I want to be able to say that I helped make something like that happen on a screen."
I dunno if I'll ever get there. But dammit, at least there's a goal of sorts.
Onwards.
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B
It happened again this morning (8:47am CST for those scoring along in the home edition) when a lull hit town and I heard this Cindy Lou Who voice in my head ask "Why, Brett, why? Why do you want to make movies?"
And then iTunes randomly provided me the answer, as a certain music cue cranked and reminded me of one of my all-time favorite movie sequences, one of those that allowed me to just smile and point and say "There. That's why. Just once I want to be able to say that I helped make something like that happen on a screen."
I dunno if I'll ever get there. But dammit, at least there's a goal of sorts.
Onwards.
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B
07 December 2009
pimpin ain't easy
Lisa Gold, a friend of mine I met back in the '07 Nicholl fiasco, is helping put on a cool discussion panel/party as a fundraiser for her short film project, "The Death Of Toys."
If you're in LA, looking for something cool to do on Thursday and interested in hearing and talking to some pretty damned smart and interesting screenwriters (it's called "networking," you weasels-- crawl out of your damned burrows and meet some actual people in the flesh...)
Cool event. Good cause. Great networking opp. Stop listening to your punk rock records and talkin' bad about your country and come out of your hole for something useful for a change.
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B
If you're in LA, looking for something cool to do on Thursday and interested in hearing and talking to some pretty damned smart and interesting screenwriters (it's called "networking," you weasels-- crawl out of your damned burrows and meet some actual people in the flesh...)
Tales From The Trenches: A Film Panel to support "The Death Of Toys" (Lisa Gold's short film project)
Date: Thursday, December 10, 2009
Time: 7:00pm - 10:00pm
Location: CineSpace
Street: 6356 Hollywood Blvd - street parking or valet
City/Town: Los Angeles, CA
View Map
Please come out and support director Lisa Gold's AFI DWW project, THE DEATH OF TOYS (produced by Molly Kasch and Brenda Blair).
Write Brothers Inc. is sponsoring this great event which features a Blockbuster Panel and a Raffle for screenwriting software.
Panel includes:
-- Terry Rossio, screenwriter (Pirates of the Caribbean franchise, Shrek)
-- Mark Fergus, screenwriter (Children of Men, Iron Man)
-- John Turman, screenwriter (Hulk, Fantastic Four II: Rise of the Silver Surfer)
-- Karen McCullah Lutz, screenwriter (10 Things I Hate About You, Legally Blonde)
-- Allison Rayne, Head of Development 2S, Hilary Swank's production company
Tickets in advance $25
Tickets at the door $30
To purchase tickets, go to:
http://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/91709
== BIOS on PANELISTS ==
Academy Award© nominated for co-writing SHREK, the first ever Oscar© winner for Best Animated Film, TERRY ROSSIO co-wrote the three PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN films, two of which currently rank among the Top 10 all time highest grossing films worldwide. Other credits include ALADDIN (1992’s highest grossing film); THE MASK OF ZORRO; DEJA VU; NATIONAL TREASURE BOOK OF SECRETS; G-FORCE (as an Associate Producer); and SHREK 2 (as a Creative Consultant), currently the highest grossing animated film ever.
MARK FERGUS received an Academy Award© nomination for Best Adapted Screenplay for CHILDREN OF MEN; he also co-wrote IRON MAN. He is currently working on the screenplay for COWBOYS AND ALIENS (teaming again with Robert Downey Jr. and director Jon Favreau), and is co-writing the intensely anticipated live-action re-make of Katsuhiro Otomo’s AKIRA.
JOHN TURMAN is a writer for film and television (HULK, FANTASTIC FOUR II: RISE OF THE SILVER SURFER). He has created half-hour comedy and one-hour drama pilots and writes and consults on one-hour series television. He wrote “BEN 10: ALIEN SWARM,” which premiered on Cartoon Network last month, and he will soon begin production on an original feature, TICKING CLOCK.
ALLISON RAYNE heads development at 2S, a production company managed by partners Molly Smith (producer, P.S. I LOVE YOU, THE BLIND SIDE) and Academy Award© winning actress and producer Hilary Swank (BOYS DON’T CRY, MILLION DOLLAR BABY, P.S. I LOVE YOU and AMELIA). Previously, Allison worked in marketing and publicity for Miramax Films, then transitioned into feature development and production, working for Stratus Film Company (producers Mark Gordon, Bob Yari and Mark Gill). Later, Allison worked for Warner Independent Pictures for over three years where she played a part in the company’s day-to-day operations.
Moderator JOE FORTE writes original content for both film and TV. Having worked with nearly every major studio, Joe has written scripts for Academy Award© winner Jodie Foster, producer Lorenzo DiBonaventura (Transformers), and Harrison Ford, who starred in Joe's 2006 thriller, FIREWALL. Most recently, Joe adapted the award-winning Japanese novel OUT by Natsuo Kirino for New Line, and is currently under contract with 20th Century Fox where he is developing a one-hour drama for network TV.
Cool event. Good cause. Great networking opp. Stop listening to your punk rock records and talkin' bad about your country and come out of your hole for something useful for a change.
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22 November 2009
saaaaalute
The South Austin Jug Band is no more -- after nine years of making some glorious string-powered noise, they've decided to go their various ways. I wish them all the best, and hope they all continue making their particular brand of magical racket.
Here they are from a year or so ago at McGonigel's Mucky Duck here in Houston, putting their own spin on the Hendrix classic, "Little Wing."
Shut up and learn something, kids.
Damn.
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Here they are from a year or so ago at McGonigel's Mucky Duck here in Houston, putting their own spin on the Hendrix classic, "Little Wing."
Shut up and learn something, kids.
Damn.
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B
09 November 2009
austin film fest 2009 -- "Saturday"
I've noticed a funny development in recent trips to AFF: where once I had to set alarm clocks (yes, plural) in order to wake myself for morning panels, now I find that I tend to wake up around 7:30 no matter what time I slimed back into my rack the night previous. Likely as not this is just the pain in the ass habits hammered into my brain as part of parenting -- I've been waking to wrestle kids out of bed and through breakfast and to the bus stop and off to school for so long that it's alien to not have that duty hanging every morning.
So there I am again in the Driskill Lounge by 9am, bushy tailed if not overly bright eyed, and yet again I find there's no one panel really screaming for my attention, so again I'm left to do some actual useful work on the laptop, slurping back coffee and gnawing on a CLIF bar ("blueberry asphalt dryer lint", I think it was...) for breakfast.
Second session found me packed into the always-crowded Maximillian room to hear Shane Black, Billy Brown, Chris McQuarrie, and Dan Petrie hold forth on "Write What You Know; Crime & Suspense." Again I'll point out to any relative newbs that very often the best panels are chosen not so much by topic as by panelist, and I know from experience that every one of these guys "gives good panel." They know their stuff, they love what they do, and they're able to make that love and ability clear and accessible to anyone in the audience. Fun stories, useful insights, some silly banter and self-deprecating humor... good stuff, and it's all over way too soon.
Saturday is "Awards Luncheon" day at AFF, and while I attended the luncheon one year (mainly just to see what it was about), more often nowadays I skip that added expense in order to have just a few more minutes of playtime with my friends. Our Saturday tradition now seems to be a stroll over to Stubb's BBQ 8 or so blocks away, where a dozen or so of us pile around and swap nibbles of meat and soul food veggie.
It's these odd moments that I always end up missing most in those 360-day stretches of desert between festivals, as it's these moments when I look around the table and see all these faces of people who can so easily make me laugh and think and feel happy about this miserable damned impossible pursuit, yet I know that I'll obly have these few minutes with these people all gathered in one place. There's a rush of excitement, but also a melancholy background counter melody of desperation and sadness: the clock is ticking... and this moment is already passing into the past....
Yeah, that's likely a twisted and morbid way to look at things, but then, if we were normal, we'd not be writers. We'd instead be plumbers or CPAs or astronauts or shark wranglers or some simple occupation where you do the job and you don't spend 95% of every experience off alone in the corner doing a vivisection on that still-breathing experience, deconstructing every memory and flicker of happiness into its component molecules (and thereby reduce it to... nothing).
What is it about this damned pursuit that makes me want it so badly -- need it so badly -- that I am content to torture myself in this way even while getting the exact experience I hoped to find? As much as anything, this is what I come to Austin to learn: "how can I better steer this unwieldy contraption known as Me?"
Lunch ends -- it always does, dammit -- and we then wander back towards the festival where I and a few hundred other folks all pack into the main ballroom at the Stephen F Austin Hotel to hear Ron Howard talk about his career and output. Howard is a warm and laid back guy, but he comes across (to me, at least) as so casual and laid-back that there's not a great deal of useful passion or insight to be had. He grew up in the biz, with parents and siblings in the business, and his entire life has been spent in Hollywood, so he lacks any sort of outside experience or perspective to use as contrast to what he's always known.
Great guy, generous honorable gentleman whom I've never heard a single unkind word about, and in the few demo-moments I have any interaction with him he seems a genuinely decent fellow... who somehow lacks any of the pungency and sharp edges and thorns that always seem present in the folks I most closely identify with. I mean, "tortured" is not a word that comes to mind when you meet or listen to Howard, and at this stage of the game I understand that sane well-adjusted people are just not going to have much I can use, advice wise.
I then opt to head over to the gorgeous old Paramount "movie palace" where Howard, Steve Zaillian, and Mitchell Hurwitz share the stage, swapping stories about their careers and projects together. Hurwitz is a nut, so he keeps the proceedings ever from becoming too staid and stuffy, so again the panel flies by way too quickly.
Another swing through the Driskill Bar, another round or two, more old friends and new friends, then off the the Pitch Finale.
Now, while I am a huge fan of and believer in the Austin Film Fest, the pitch contest remains that one part of the weekend which leaves me totally and in all ways unimpressed and uninterested. Some people seem to enjoy it, but for my money it's a near-total waste of time and goodwill, as 1) the environment and experience has nothing whatsoever to do with real pitching, 2) the "judges" are seldom ever actual industry types accustomed to or experienced with taking actual pitches, and 3) no matter how 'well" anyone does, it still means jack squat as nobody is there to listen to a pitch in the hopes of finding one to option, purchase, or pursue in much any form or fashion.
Add in the fact that the finale almost always takes place in a venue with overpriced alcohol coupled limited opportunity for interesting or useful conversation, and it kinda sorta starts to amaze me that I wind up at the event every year... usually just long enough to look around and ask "what the hell were we thinking?"
Luckily, the annoyance was short-lived, as we grabbed some food (double stuffed gyro w/ extra feta), swung back through the Driskill to hobnob til time for the late party, then wandered down to the Belmont for the Conference Wrap Party ("hosted by Shane Black," as if Shane were lugging in kegs and cups from the trunk of his own car...).
First time I can recall The Belmont hosting an AFF event, and I really really hope the venue stays in rotation, as it was a great place and hosted a great shindig. The lower floor was a dark and undersized place with lots of booths for private... whatever... but upstairs was a great rooftop patio under a tent, with a long bar along one side, and a railed overlooked into the neighboring open-air alleyway patio where a decent cover band was still banging out Pixies tunes. Below the rooftop and accessible by two sets of wrought iron stairs was a second hanging balcony stretching the length of that alleyway, giving a cool "special access" sort of space for those daring enough to claim it.
Dos Equis was again flowing free and easy, and by 11:30 the joint was jumpin', with Woody Harrelson proving a great sport by posing near endlessly for party pics with oodles of new friends (most of whom seemed female and attractive, it seems worth noting...). I hung out with Richard and Derek and Rebecca for a bit, swapped smirks with Julie O at several moments, saw Eilis (again) at the bar (again), finally caught up with Matt "I'm a Lil' T-Sip" Summers and swapped updated contact info with him.
At some point I find myself leaning over the balcony, enjoying some surprisingly left-field cover (don't blame me for forgetting which -- people kept handing me beer), and I look down to see Maggie Biggar on the balcony below, chatting it up with Robert "Star Trek/Transformers/Eagle Eye/MI:3" Orci. I lean over to my buddy of the moment (don't blame me for forgetting which -- people kept handing me beer) and say "hey -- isn't that Robert Orci with Maggie Biggar?" to which vague and unnameable buddy says "yeah -- how you gonna swing an invite into THAT conversation?", to which I remember smiling, leaning over the rail and whistling loudly down to the balcony
Maggie looked up, startled.
"Hi, Maggie!" I waved with my best beer-happy idiot smile. She chuckled and waved me down to the balcony.
I smiled at anonymous buddy and said "any other questions?" and trotted off to the stairs.
Orci and Biggar seemed in an actual conversation, so I merely said hi and stood back so as to not impinge, then Orci took a phone call and excused himself, so I nudged in.
"Hey, Brett. Enjoying the party?" Maggie asked, and I said 'Yeah, it's great. So... why are you being so visibly nice to me this weekend? It's great for my ego -- don't get me wrong -- but it's confused me that you've been so familiar and friendly to me throughout this festival when -- and correct me if I am wrong -- this current exchange is far and away our lengthiest conversation ever."
She laughed, we talked, and she said some ridiculously nice stuff that made me want to run around screaming victory (I didn't, cuz I'm cool like dat), and I related the story of how, the day before, I'd been on Sixth Street when Maggie had walked by and made some friendly comment as I was in a phone conversation with The Wife. Wife, hearing some female making some friendly comment and then me making an at least equivalently friendly response to said comment, had asked "OK< and who was THAT?"
"Maggie Biggar. Sandra Bullock's producing partner. We're just being silly."
"You have my permission to give her a baby if it helps get a deal done."
The Wife remains a pragmatic woman.
Maggie laughed at the story -- no deals were done or even proposed, dear readers and friends of The Wife, so fear not -- but it was a very good conversation and one that ranks up there with The Kasdan Incident as personal highlights for this year's festival, but things were not done yet.
As Maggie and I both turned our separate ways to give some love to other folks, I fall into a fun little conversation with another producer whom I know, one who I know and like a lot and who seems to know and like me, but for whom I've never yet managed to find a project to spark major interest (we just have very different passions and interests in movies). Producer mentions a pressing desire to find a specific sort of holiday movie.
I say "Well... as it just so happens that i've had an odd idea for a specific sort of holiday movie, and Producer presses me for details, so I give a totally off-the-cuff and totally unprepared pitch for a project I have at best maybe 75% clear in my head. Producer looks at me for a moment, asks "who else have you pitched that to?" and I laugh "Pitched? Hell, I dunno that I've ever even thought it through as clearly as what I just did in trying to describe the idea to you just now!
"Well, go home. Start writing. I want pages on that as fast as you can deliver. I've had maybe 220 pitches for this project, and that was easily the most interesting and original."
So again I stifle that urge to strip off my shirt and run around doing a full-on Brandy Chastain re-enactment -- "YYEEEEEESSSSSS!!!" -- cuz, ya know, I'm cool like dat.
More beers. More love. More good times. Someone asks "wouldn't it be great if every night was like this?" and for various reasons I understand what they mean, but I say "If every night felt like this, it wouldn't feel like this, cuz what makes this feeling so great is the fact that it never feels like this, so when it does feel this great, you remember how great it felt and hold that memory special."
The party peaks, then ebbs, and then ends, and at some point a crew of us is again doing the Sixth Street Crawl sometime well past last call, and we're wandering in a large happy crowd of strangers, all milling and goofing with friends, all trying to squeeze just a few more drops of juice out of this lovely night, and we wind up buying street pizza at 3 am and sitting on a broken concrete wall, giggling madly and huddling against one another and giving private thanks that we are in this place, in this moment.
It's that kind of moment that makes me love AFF: that moment of total exhaustion and total exuberance and total happiness that comes when you are completely content and totally unthreatened by and unconcerned with any of the usual real world fear and paranoia and inadequacies and doubts. Here, for one glorious flickering and totally fictitious moment, we poor lonely unknown pathetic writers become the god-kings of our little worlds, the heroes of our own absurd little comic dramas, and we find ourselves surrounded by those who understand exactly what we are feeling, what we are wanting and hoping, and we can all dance naked around the bonfire of our crazy screenwriting dreams secure in the understanding that on this night, at least, this crazy dream, this impossible pursuit, is perhaps not so crazy, not so impossible, not so totally insane and demented and isolating.
So there I am again in the Driskill Lounge by 9am, bushy tailed if not overly bright eyed, and yet again I find there's no one panel really screaming for my attention, so again I'm left to do some actual useful work on the laptop, slurping back coffee and gnawing on a CLIF bar ("blueberry asphalt dryer lint", I think it was...) for breakfast.
Second session found me packed into the always-crowded Maximillian room to hear Shane Black, Billy Brown, Chris McQuarrie, and Dan Petrie hold forth on "Write What You Know; Crime & Suspense." Again I'll point out to any relative newbs that very often the best panels are chosen not so much by topic as by panelist, and I know from experience that every one of these guys "gives good panel." They know their stuff, they love what they do, and they're able to make that love and ability clear and accessible to anyone in the audience. Fun stories, useful insights, some silly banter and self-deprecating humor... good stuff, and it's all over way too soon.
Saturday is "Awards Luncheon" day at AFF, and while I attended the luncheon one year (mainly just to see what it was about), more often nowadays I skip that added expense in order to have just a few more minutes of playtime with my friends. Our Saturday tradition now seems to be a stroll over to Stubb's BBQ 8 or so blocks away, where a dozen or so of us pile around and swap nibbles of meat and soul food veggie.
It's these odd moments that I always end up missing most in those 360-day stretches of desert between festivals, as it's these moments when I look around the table and see all these faces of people who can so easily make me laugh and think and feel happy about this miserable damned impossible pursuit, yet I know that I'll obly have these few minutes with these people all gathered in one place. There's a rush of excitement, but also a melancholy background counter melody of desperation and sadness: the clock is ticking... and this moment is already passing into the past....
Yeah, that's likely a twisted and morbid way to look at things, but then, if we were normal, we'd not be writers. We'd instead be plumbers or CPAs or astronauts or shark wranglers or some simple occupation where you do the job and you don't spend 95% of every experience off alone in the corner doing a vivisection on that still-breathing experience, deconstructing every memory and flicker of happiness into its component molecules (and thereby reduce it to... nothing).
What is it about this damned pursuit that makes me want it so badly -- need it so badly -- that I am content to torture myself in this way even while getting the exact experience I hoped to find? As much as anything, this is what I come to Austin to learn: "how can I better steer this unwieldy contraption known as Me?"
Lunch ends -- it always does, dammit -- and we then wander back towards the festival where I and a few hundred other folks all pack into the main ballroom at the Stephen F Austin Hotel to hear Ron Howard talk about his career and output. Howard is a warm and laid back guy, but he comes across (to me, at least) as so casual and laid-back that there's not a great deal of useful passion or insight to be had. He grew up in the biz, with parents and siblings in the business, and his entire life has been spent in Hollywood, so he lacks any sort of outside experience or perspective to use as contrast to what he's always known.
Great guy, generous honorable gentleman whom I've never heard a single unkind word about, and in the few demo-moments I have any interaction with him he seems a genuinely decent fellow... who somehow lacks any of the pungency and sharp edges and thorns that always seem present in the folks I most closely identify with. I mean, "tortured" is not a word that comes to mind when you meet or listen to Howard, and at this stage of the game I understand that sane well-adjusted people are just not going to have much I can use, advice wise.
I then opt to head over to the gorgeous old Paramount "movie palace" where Howard, Steve Zaillian, and Mitchell Hurwitz share the stage, swapping stories about their careers and projects together. Hurwitz is a nut, so he keeps the proceedings ever from becoming too staid and stuffy, so again the panel flies by way too quickly.
Another swing through the Driskill Bar, another round or two, more old friends and new friends, then off the the Pitch Finale.
Now, while I am a huge fan of and believer in the Austin Film Fest, the pitch contest remains that one part of the weekend which leaves me totally and in all ways unimpressed and uninterested. Some people seem to enjoy it, but for my money it's a near-total waste of time and goodwill, as 1) the environment and experience has nothing whatsoever to do with real pitching, 2) the "judges" are seldom ever actual industry types accustomed to or experienced with taking actual pitches, and 3) no matter how 'well" anyone does, it still means jack squat as nobody is there to listen to a pitch in the hopes of finding one to option, purchase, or pursue in much any form or fashion.
Add in the fact that the finale almost always takes place in a venue with overpriced alcohol coupled limited opportunity for interesting or useful conversation, and it kinda sorta starts to amaze me that I wind up at the event every year... usually just long enough to look around and ask "what the hell were we thinking?"
Luckily, the annoyance was short-lived, as we grabbed some food (double stuffed gyro w/ extra feta), swung back through the Driskill to hobnob til time for the late party, then wandered down to the Belmont for the Conference Wrap Party ("hosted by Shane Black," as if Shane were lugging in kegs and cups from the trunk of his own car...).
First time I can recall The Belmont hosting an AFF event, and I really really hope the venue stays in rotation, as it was a great place and hosted a great shindig. The lower floor was a dark and undersized place with lots of booths for private... whatever... but upstairs was a great rooftop patio under a tent, with a long bar along one side, and a railed overlooked into the neighboring open-air alleyway patio where a decent cover band was still banging out Pixies tunes. Below the rooftop and accessible by two sets of wrought iron stairs was a second hanging balcony stretching the length of that alleyway, giving a cool "special access" sort of space for those daring enough to claim it.
Dos Equis was again flowing free and easy, and by 11:30 the joint was jumpin', with Woody Harrelson proving a great sport by posing near endlessly for party pics with oodles of new friends (most of whom seemed female and attractive, it seems worth noting...). I hung out with Richard and Derek and Rebecca for a bit, swapped smirks with Julie O at several moments, saw Eilis (again) at the bar (again), finally caught up with Matt "I'm a Lil' T-Sip" Summers and swapped updated contact info with him.
At some point I find myself leaning over the balcony, enjoying some surprisingly left-field cover (don't blame me for forgetting which -- people kept handing me beer), and I look down to see Maggie Biggar on the balcony below, chatting it up with Robert "Star Trek/Transformers/Eagle Eye/MI:3" Orci. I lean over to my buddy of the moment (don't blame me for forgetting which -- people kept handing me beer) and say "hey -- isn't that Robert Orci with Maggie Biggar?" to which vague and unnameable buddy says "yeah -- how you gonna swing an invite into THAT conversation?", to which I remember smiling, leaning over the rail and whistling loudly down to the balcony
Maggie looked up, startled.
"Hi, Maggie!" I waved with my best beer-happy idiot smile. She chuckled and waved me down to the balcony.
I smiled at anonymous buddy and said "any other questions?" and trotted off to the stairs.
Orci and Biggar seemed in an actual conversation, so I merely said hi and stood back so as to not impinge, then Orci took a phone call and excused himself, so I nudged in.
"Hey, Brett. Enjoying the party?" Maggie asked, and I said 'Yeah, it's great. So... why are you being so visibly nice to me this weekend? It's great for my ego -- don't get me wrong -- but it's confused me that you've been so familiar and friendly to me throughout this festival when -- and correct me if I am wrong -- this current exchange is far and away our lengthiest conversation ever."
She laughed, we talked, and she said some ridiculously nice stuff that made me want to run around screaming victory (I didn't, cuz I'm cool like dat), and I related the story of how, the day before, I'd been on Sixth Street when Maggie had walked by and made some friendly comment as I was in a phone conversation with The Wife. Wife, hearing some female making some friendly comment and then me making an at least equivalently friendly response to said comment, had asked "OK< and who was THAT?"
"Maggie Biggar. Sandra Bullock's producing partner. We're just being silly."
"You have my permission to give her a baby if it helps get a deal done."
The Wife remains a pragmatic woman.
Maggie laughed at the story -- no deals were done or even proposed, dear readers and friends of The Wife, so fear not -- but it was a very good conversation and one that ranks up there with The Kasdan Incident as personal highlights for this year's festival, but things were not done yet.
As Maggie and I both turned our separate ways to give some love to other folks, I fall into a fun little conversation with another producer whom I know, one who I know and like a lot and who seems to know and like me, but for whom I've never yet managed to find a project to spark major interest (we just have very different passions and interests in movies). Producer mentions a pressing desire to find a specific sort of holiday movie.
I say "Well... as it just so happens that i've had an odd idea for a specific sort of holiday movie, and Producer presses me for details, so I give a totally off-the-cuff and totally unprepared pitch for a project I have at best maybe 75% clear in my head. Producer looks at me for a moment, asks "who else have you pitched that to?" and I laugh "Pitched? Hell, I dunno that I've ever even thought it through as clearly as what I just did in trying to describe the idea to you just now!
"Well, go home. Start writing. I want pages on that as fast as you can deliver. I've had maybe 220 pitches for this project, and that was easily the most interesting and original."
So again I stifle that urge to strip off my shirt and run around doing a full-on Brandy Chastain re-enactment -- "YYEEEEEESSSSSS!!!" -- cuz, ya know, I'm cool like dat.
More beers. More love. More good times. Someone asks "wouldn't it be great if every night was like this?" and for various reasons I understand what they mean, but I say "If every night felt like this, it wouldn't feel like this, cuz what makes this feeling so great is the fact that it never feels like this, so when it does feel this great, you remember how great it felt and hold that memory special."
The party peaks, then ebbs, and then ends, and at some point a crew of us is again doing the Sixth Street Crawl sometime well past last call, and we're wandering in a large happy crowd of strangers, all milling and goofing with friends, all trying to squeeze just a few more drops of juice out of this lovely night, and we wind up buying street pizza at 3 am and sitting on a broken concrete wall, giggling madly and huddling against one another and giving private thanks that we are in this place, in this moment.
It's that kind of moment that makes me love AFF: that moment of total exhaustion and total exuberance and total happiness that comes when you are completely content and totally unthreatened by and unconcerned with any of the usual real world fear and paranoia and inadequacies and doubts. Here, for one glorious flickering and totally fictitious moment, we poor lonely unknown pathetic writers become the god-kings of our little worlds, the heroes of our own absurd little comic dramas, and we find ourselves surrounded by those who understand exactly what we are feeling, what we are wanting and hoping, and we can all dance naked around the bonfire of our crazy screenwriting dreams secure in the understanding that on this night, at least, this crazy dream, this impossible pursuit, is perhaps not so crazy, not so impossible, not so totally insane and demented and isolating.
Our happy little herd wanders back to the Driskill for one last night of pretend relevance, and as we enter the lounge, we find one of those Austin moments that is hard to fully describe: Shane Black, Terry Rossio, Danny Rubin, plus a dozen aspiring writers, all piled around the rawhide sofas and lounge chairs of the deserted lounge. Talking about writing.
Repeat that previous paragraph for a moment and pause to consider how amazing and wonderful and totally bizarre that experience is for most of us. For most of us aspiring nobodies, we spend the vast majority of the year locked in an imaginary world inside our own heads. By day we are housewives and husbands. Paralegals and purchasing officers. Schoolteachers, little league coaches, quiet neighbors next door whose office windows are lit well past that hour nightly when those of other folks on the block go dark.
But suddenly it's 3 am in Austin, Texas in the deserted closed down lounge of a 120-year-old hotel, and suddenly we're talking to peers -- new friends -- who've accounted for a few billion dollars in box office, writers who have actually penned several of those movies that have made you announce even if only to yourself "THAT'S what I want to do....".
And, miracle of miracles, these guys are not at all alien. They are, in fact, staggeringly familiar, describing exactly the same difficulties and obstacles in their own writing as what you know only too well from your own. Their fears are the same as yours. Their thrills are the same as yours. In fact, aside from the fact that some of them have monster credits to their name on IMDB, they are almost disturbingly familiar and recognizable.
And that's when it hits you that "Hollywood" is not some distant imaginary planet which exists only in movies and legends. It's a business, same as any other, and if you can just work your ass off and maybe catch the right kind of luck and have the defiant pugnacious pig-headed tenacity to just stand tough and keep on digging when it all seems the most impossible... then maybe you wake up and find yourself not just writing some impossible fiction, but actually living it.
And it's that idiot spark of hope which sustains your soul for one more year. You walk away that last night swearing private oaths to yourself: "Next year, By God, I will be here not as some nobody, but as one of the chosen few. I will make this happen, and I will not quit until I do."
In terms of "end of conference impressions" to take home and pin to your psychic cork board, that's not an awful one to claim.
(to be continued...)
05 November 2009
status: active projects today
Someone noted the other day that the progress bars on the left sidebar here have changed, and they asked if there was anything worth reporting. Clearly, if I had reason to gloat or complain specifically, I think it's been established by now that By God I would be gloating or complaining.
More likely, both at once.
Short answer is "no, there remains as yet no specific irrefutable reason to gloat."
But rumblings and bubblings continue:
"QUEEN OF THE SKY", the big bio-pic about WW2 Soviet aviatrix Lilya Litvyak, remains very much an impossible dream. Yes, there is (allegedly) a similar/parallel project in development, and yes I have been in contact with the folks behind that project, but for now I'm neither involved nor does there seem a tremendous amount of forward momentum on the competing project. My script, meanwhile and totally unrelated, is somewhere over in Europe with a well-respected prodco who requested it not that long ago. The producer there would be a great fan to have, but we shall see....
[CRITTER-COMEDY THING] I'm still not giving up the title for this one (it's too stupidly childishly delicious), but there seems possible reason for possible excitement. Possibly. SyFy seems to be looking at it, and there's a possible director looking at it, and if those two locii of interest happen to meet and realize their shared interests... who knows....
"AMAZON", the "Romancing The Stone" style action romance comedy thing, has been around to a few folks as a sample, and consensus always seems to be "we like the concept and the writing, but can't see making this movie." (Shrug.) It's been sent to one name director for use as a writing demo/sample for the purpose of maybe getting Yours Truly onto a new project as a hired gun, and maybe something breathtakingly amazing might happen there. Or maybe not....
[HOLIDAY COMEDY THING] is now the new "#1 with a bullet" project in the works, as I have at least one producer clamoring to get this ASAP in order to maybe get it working at a major cable TV network for 2010 holiday season. I have a great concept, a workable outline, and am banging away on pages, but who knows if I'll get it readable in time to actually wow anyone before the 2010 decisions are already made....
[COLLEGE COMEDY THING] is gurgling along at the 80 page mark, and likely needs to get done just so I can finally say "OK-- I wrote it," but for now there is that other project where a producer is excited and motivating, and then there's this one where nobody has yet seemed totally pre-sold, and where the writer just can't seem to get the story clear in his head....
"Twelve Days" [romcom] remains a project which I very much like for a variety of reasons, and I am now gearing up to do a thorough re-work on this one to hopefully get it into a specific actress whom i loe and who would be perfect for the female lead. More news in the weeks to come, hopefully....
[UN-NAMED HISTORICAL ACTION THING] now boasts 40+ pages, but it's slow going mainly as I know the other more commercial projects absolutely deserve my best attention and effort for now. Still, this one gnaws at my soul....
[UN-NAMED SPAGHETTI WESTERN THING] continues to drive me batty, as those who have seen the brief snippets all scream that I need to be working on this ASAP, but for now I tend to suck on it and wonder what would be involved in producing this one as a low-budget effort of our own. I doubt that will happen anytime soon, but a lot of people seem to really really love the core concept.
Everything else is so far on the backburner as to not even really be in the kitchen,
.
.
.
B
More likely, both at once.
Short answer is "no, there remains as yet no specific irrefutable reason to gloat."
But rumblings and bubblings continue:
"QUEEN OF THE SKY", the big bio-pic about WW2 Soviet aviatrix Lilya Litvyak, remains very much an impossible dream. Yes, there is (allegedly) a similar/parallel project in development, and yes I have been in contact with the folks behind that project, but for now I'm neither involved nor does there seem a tremendous amount of forward momentum on the competing project. My script, meanwhile and totally unrelated, is somewhere over in Europe with a well-respected prodco who requested it not that long ago. The producer there would be a great fan to have, but we shall see....
[CRITTER-COMEDY THING] I'm still not giving up the title for this one (it's too stupidly childishly delicious), but there seems possible reason for possible excitement. Possibly. SyFy seems to be looking at it, and there's a possible director looking at it, and if those two locii of interest happen to meet and realize their shared interests... who knows....
"AMAZON", the "Romancing The Stone" style action romance comedy thing, has been around to a few folks as a sample, and consensus always seems to be "we like the concept and the writing, but can't see making this movie." (Shrug.) It's been sent to one name director for use as a writing demo/sample for the purpose of maybe getting Yours Truly onto a new project as a hired gun, and maybe something breathtakingly amazing might happen there. Or maybe not....
[HOLIDAY COMEDY THING] is now the new "#1 with a bullet" project in the works, as I have at least one producer clamoring to get this ASAP in order to maybe get it working at a major cable TV network for 2010 holiday season. I have a great concept, a workable outline, and am banging away on pages, but who knows if I'll get it readable in time to actually wow anyone before the 2010 decisions are already made....
[COLLEGE COMEDY THING] is gurgling along at the 80 page mark, and likely needs to get done just so I can finally say "OK-- I wrote it," but for now there is that other project where a producer is excited and motivating, and then there's this one where nobody has yet seemed totally pre-sold, and where the writer just can't seem to get the story clear in his head....
"Twelve Days" [romcom] remains a project which I very much like for a variety of reasons, and I am now gearing up to do a thorough re-work on this one to hopefully get it into a specific actress whom i loe and who would be perfect for the female lead. More news in the weeks to come, hopefully....
[UN-NAMED HISTORICAL ACTION THING] now boasts 40+ pages, but it's slow going mainly as I know the other more commercial projects absolutely deserve my best attention and effort for now. Still, this one gnaws at my soul....
[UN-NAMED SPAGHETTI WESTERN THING] continues to drive me batty, as those who have seen the brief snippets all scream that I need to be working on this ASAP, but for now I tend to suck on it and wonder what would be involved in producing this one as a low-budget effort of our own. I doubt that will happen anytime soon, but a lot of people seem to really really love the core concept.
Everything else is so far on the backburner as to not even really be in the kitchen,
.
.
.
B
01 November 2009
a brief pause in the playback
I've still got more than a few fistfuls of noise to throw regarding the recent conference at AFF2009, but today will be another distraction.
Due to a slew (perhaps even a slew and a half) of events and responsibilities having recently been cleared from the Great Mental Dry Erase List Of "Crap I Somehow Got Myself Into," I find myself in a mood and state conducive to writing. Of course, I'm not yet yet truly free to set all sheets and run before the wind, as I still have one more Major Event looming, one more deadline with responsibility.
Today is our Boy Scout troop's annual recruiting event, the "New Scout Adventure Day!", and yours truly is the organizer and ring leader.
Yes, I will be in full Fred MacMurray mode today, acting G-rated (well... mostly) and Optimistic and Nurturing and Compassionate and Supportive and Friendly and Courteous Kind Oblong Isometric and all those other scoutly things. For some reason that visual always seems to cause my writer friends to pause and then offer a strange little headshake of disbelief, as if they can't quite reconcile what they think they know and understand of me with what they assume and presume about Scouting.
Which is completely fine and harmless, as on the flip side my Scouting peers will spend the day looking at me offering very much the same disbelieving headshake whenever I happen to describe scenes and personalities and events from Hollywood and writing endeavors.
And in both cases, I will have people offer some variation of "wow -- I just can't imagine you fitting in with that scene...."
Thing is, I don't fit in with that scene -- either scene. At least, not entirely. When I am with the Scouts, I'm tremendously proud to see the young guys learning to conduct themselves with honor and integrity and respect and confidence and dependability, and I am tremendously proud to have a chance to work with and for other dads who put their money where their mouth is, who sacrifice time and money and effort from their own petty interests to help teach the next wave of would-be leaders what it is to be a decent and useful Man.
To me, this stuff is real. This stuff is valid. This stuff is Important.
But so is that whole "world of the mind" thing of being a screenwriter. As I've tried to explain to some folks, this idiot quest for screenwriting glory is also real for me. It also is valid. It, too, is Important. We tell our kids things like "follow your dreams" and "go out and make your life something amazing" and "pick something you care about and then commit yourself to achieving excellence in that thing," but how often do we truly heed the advice we give our kids?
What kind of example would I be if I told my kids "go out and change the world" if I reserved the right for my own self to sit on my ass and do little, dream little, dare little?
For me, the whole Scouting thing is almost inseparable from the Screenwriting thing. In both guises I am trying to find some way to lead those I care about closer to a point where they can do what they were born to do, where they are empowered and encouraged and enabled and ennobled to to stand firm in the face of the withering discouragement and cynicism and cowardice our modern society is hell-bent to deliver in the majority of its messages and morals.
So, today I wake and feel the restless urge to write, but first I gear up and commit to yet another day of Scouting activities. And I can smirk happily to myself knowing that the two concerns -- "writing" and "family" -- are just the two different sides of the same coin. In either case, I am willing a better and more satisfying reality into being.
Tiring? Exhausting? Irrelevant. I got things to do, dammit -- miracles to make happen, impossibilities to hammer into existence -- and my own feeble whininess cannot be tolerated.
"You alright, Roy?"
"Let's play ball."
Due to a slew (perhaps even a slew and a half) of events and responsibilities having recently been cleared from the Great Mental Dry Erase List Of "Crap I Somehow Got Myself Into," I find myself in a mood and state conducive to writing. Of course, I'm not yet yet truly free to set all sheets and run before the wind, as I still have one more Major Event looming, one more deadline with responsibility.
Today is our Boy Scout troop's annual recruiting event, the "New Scout Adventure Day!", and yours truly is the organizer and ring leader.
Yes, I will be in full Fred MacMurray mode today, acting G-rated (well... mostly) and Optimistic and Nurturing and Compassionate and Supportive and Friendly and Courteous Kind Oblong Isometric and all those other scoutly things. For some reason that visual always seems to cause my writer friends to pause and then offer a strange little headshake of disbelief, as if they can't quite reconcile what they think they know and understand of me with what they assume and presume about Scouting.
Which is completely fine and harmless, as on the flip side my Scouting peers will spend the day looking at me offering very much the same disbelieving headshake whenever I happen to describe scenes and personalities and events from Hollywood and writing endeavors.
And in both cases, I will have people offer some variation of "wow -- I just can't imagine you fitting in with that scene...."
Thing is, I don't fit in with that scene -- either scene. At least, not entirely. When I am with the Scouts, I'm tremendously proud to see the young guys learning to conduct themselves with honor and integrity and respect and confidence and dependability, and I am tremendously proud to have a chance to work with and for other dads who put their money where their mouth is, who sacrifice time and money and effort from their own petty interests to help teach the next wave of would-be leaders what it is to be a decent and useful Man.
To me, this stuff is real. This stuff is valid. This stuff is Important.
But so is that whole "world of the mind" thing of being a screenwriter. As I've tried to explain to some folks, this idiot quest for screenwriting glory is also real for me. It also is valid. It, too, is Important. We tell our kids things like "follow your dreams" and "go out and make your life something amazing" and "pick something you care about and then commit yourself to achieving excellence in that thing," but how often do we truly heed the advice we give our kids?
What kind of example would I be if I told my kids "go out and change the world" if I reserved the right for my own self to sit on my ass and do little, dream little, dare little?
For me, the whole Scouting thing is almost inseparable from the Screenwriting thing. In both guises I am trying to find some way to lead those I care about closer to a point where they can do what they were born to do, where they are empowered and encouraged and enabled and ennobled to to stand firm in the face of the withering discouragement and cynicism and cowardice our modern society is hell-bent to deliver in the majority of its messages and morals.
So, today I wake and feel the restless urge to write, but first I gear up and commit to yet another day of Scouting activities. And I can smirk happily to myself knowing that the two concerns -- "writing" and "family" -- are just the two different sides of the same coin. In either case, I am willing a better and more satisfying reality into being.
Tiring? Exhausting? Irrelevant. I got things to do, dammit -- miracles to make happen, impossibilities to hammer into existence -- and my own feeble whininess cannot be tolerated.
"You alright, Roy?"
"Let's play ball."
29 October 2009
austin film fest 2009 -- "Friday"
One of my odd points of pride w/r/t the AFF conference is that I have never yet missed a morning panel. Despite all the nights which bled into early pre-dawn mornings, the afterparties and overnighters and whatnot, all the drink and all the fun, I have, for whatever reason, always always always answered the bell and been cleaned up, dressed, caffeinated and able to be a part of that following morning's first panel.
Same this year. Despite Cabernet w/ Kasdan to cap a long hard night of indulging, by 9 AM Friday I was already deep into tapping notes into the laptop and scanning to determine which panel I'd take in. The fact that I finally decided to not do ANY of the 9AM panels had nothing to do with my readiness and everything to do with my familiarity with the panelists in the one or two panels there which seemed interesting: I already know and have relationships with most of the folks I might choose to see, so what would be the real point, especially given that I had some work to do on the laptop.
By the second panel (10:45 AM) I was ready to get cranking again. I opted to not see Kasdan and Turman do their SciFi panel (hey-- they're now old pals, right?...) so instead took in the "Turning Webisodes Into A Film Career" discussion. I did this for a few reasons, not the least of which was that one of teh panelists was Jocelyn "Jolly" Stamat, aka, Rossio's girlfriend and one of my fave females. Jolly is funny and beautiful and romantically linked to a friend which means that I thus have easy means to annoy said friend by continually hitting on said female, plus she's smart (as in "Harvard MD" smart). Plus she's now a panelist here thanks to a great experience this year producing and directing the "Turbo Dates" series of webisodes.
She and very funny Dan French talk about their respective efforts and experiences at finding a way to use this whole inter-webs thingy (you may have read about it...?) as a back/side/basement/cat door into the film biz. Two things become apparent in all the discussion: 1) there's tremendous freedom and opportunity in online filmmaking, and 2) nobody yet has a clue how to squeeze a nickel from it. Still, good fun panel, and a silly thrill to sit on the front row and see Jolly smile at me a few times with an expression that clearly says "Jeezus -- look at me! I'm a PANELIST!"
Afterwards, a bunch of our gang decides to try and scurry off for a group-lunch, and again somehow "Larry" winds up in our midst, but I have no idea what happened at that lunch as The Gods sniggered and denied me a seat at the grownup table this time, instead sending me to the back room with another group. I'll not dwell on this other than to say "Brett has anger issues, and Brett knows this, and on this day Brett managed to deal with these issues in a mature, responsible, and almost totally non-homicidal manner."
(Uh huh. Sure.)
The afternoon panels started (for me) with "The Art of Storytelling", featuring Peter "Gilbert Grape" Hedges, Dan "Dan" Petrie, and Lawrence "Larry" Kasdan. Moderator was one Marcia Nasatir, who clearly had a long relationship to Petrie and Kasdan which apparently predated even the beginnings of their careers, so that was a sweet little touch. Every one of the guys on stage had a slightly different take on things, and each had a different path to success to relate, but there was one consistent repeated thought connecting all of their stories and advice: "just keep writing." No matter what bullshit and insults and insanity this damned business tries to hurl at you, just keep writing. Keep believing in your own particular brand of magic, because in the final analysis, that's all you really have anyway. That surely might not seem like a huge shattering breakthrough wad of advice, but to hear it from these guys, all of whom have managed to sustain a career in a business known for chewing people up and spitting them aside like human bubble gum, it was good advice to note.
Final panel of the day was my scheduled round-table discussion -- "Producers & Executives" -- wherein attendees array themselves around several large tables (yes, they are in fact round...) as a group of lectures work their way from table to table for 15-20 minute close up discussion on whatever topics the people can manage to claim. It's always luck of the draw which of the slated panelists happen to hit your table, but I get lucky and draw some of the folks I most wanted to see: Julianna Farrell, a former lit manager turned indie producer whom I've spoken to on a few occasions and who seems totally tolerant of my bellicosity; Curtis Burch, indie producer based out of Dallas; and Jessica Julius, development exec for Disney Feature Animation. Farrell is her usual to the point smart self, Burch seems like a crusty old pro who's been around the wrong side of town a few times, and Farrell is a delightfully blunt no-bullshit pro who clearly explains what does impress her team and what doesn't. After the panel, I heard some folks at my table mumble that they found Julius a tad brusque or even cranky, but I found her take totally great and respectful, as she clearly spent no time trying to sugarcoat her answers: here's what it is, and here's what it ain't.
Friday evening means "BBQ At The French Legation" if you are a Producer Pass holder, so our crew piles onto shuttle busses and heads over the old French embassy, a gorgeous antebellum mansion inside a 2-acre stonewalled compound. There's a huge tented seating area with tables and chairs, a pair of buffet lines serving adequate though unspectacular BBQ, several drink stations handing out comped sponsor wine or Dos Equis, plus wall to wall Hollywood people. More than maybe any other event at the conference, the BBQ gives you a fighting chance to press the flesh and work it, baybee, with damned near anyone on the conference's roster, so I grab some vittles with my pals, then split off to wander and circulate.
I run into Rossio and Jocelyn, and it still blows my mind a bit to think that Terry is now not some pro that I try to approach for any specific insight or bit of wisdom (I know better... pppfftt), but because... well, because he's just another good friend here. We seldom talk at all about movies, instead playing verbal slap and tickle in that way competitive guys often do, usually because of an in front of and for teh approval of some woman. Jolly remains an eternally good sport about this idiotically reptilian behavior, and tosses me just enough bones and scraps to keep me interested in the game but not so many that I (or Terry) ever has even a moment's pause to wonder if there is in fact some other game afoot. "She gives good flirt," in other words, and that's a talent to be valued and respected in this damned fool gathering, where so many seem incapable of playing that harmless yet lovely game.
[Brett & Terry, Here To Cause No Concern At All. Really. You Can Trust Us.]
I wander around and bump into Greg "Mr. Nicholl" Beal, and he has in tow one of this year's golden show ponies, a 2009 Fellow (whose name escapes me -- mea culpa). He and I swap happy memories of the day the phone starts ringing like crazy with news of the FInalist announcement, and I give him a few quick notes of avice for his pending LA trip ("do not go drinking in Venice with a mad Mason on the afternoon of the big awards banquet...").
Ron "Please Don't Call Me Opie" Howard is led in, my old pal Linnea as his "handler," and I see a crowd of reluctant hesitant folks trailing behind like those tiny fish that follow big sharks, eager for a scrap but wary of becoming a snack themselves. Braced by my cervezas (stay thirsty, my friend) I opt for the frontal assault, so I plot an intercept and scramble.
Linnea sees me, and she gets that look that handlers always get: "Oh, no-- please! Don't approach him! My job is to make sure he has zero direct contact with humans!" She steps in to block me, and I smile, pat her on the shoulder as if to make it seem that I thought she was merely greeting me rather than trying to block me, then I defeat the jam at the line and break for the ball.
"A Yomiuri man? I would not have guessed that!" I say, and suddenly Howard beams widely and nods -- he was wearing a Yomiuri Giants Japan League baseball cap, and suddenly Ron Howard and I are chatting baseball for a few seconds as a crowd of other folks all keep a respectful/terrified distance. I do that thing I learned to do long ago -- I pull out of the convo early, long before it seems that we've now run out of all possible topics to fill the conversational void. I see new guy Marlon munching on a mondo plate of meat, nodding and chewing approvingly as he scopes the scene. I see Julie O making eye contact with me and pointing toward Peter Hedges, who just arrived late. I nod, and we link up in position for a gang intro.
Hedges winds up being a super decent guy. He's chatty and self-deprecating and demonstrative and reactive and exuberant, and more than anything he seems to exude a certain kind of sweetness. That always seems vaguely demeaning or perhaps just condescending, but it is what it is: he has an innocent sort of delight about the fun stuff happening around him, and he makes you feel happy just being close enough to hear him talk. Or, in my case, close enough to wind up holding his pigskin jacket so that he doesn't accidentally drop grease on it as he chows majorly on a huge late of chicken.
Apparently this is his first time back in Austin after a first/only visit a decade ago, and he looks around, shaking his head. "This is so wonderful! Is it always like this?"... "Oh, I am so coming back. I love this. This is all just so fun!"
A few minutes later, as I am standing around talking to some guys I vaguely know via bloggery, I feel a hand drag across my lower back as some woman walks past.
"Hey, Brett!" says Maggie Biggar, the very sweet and very cute but very shy red-head producing partner for Sandra Bullock.
I nod, "hey, Maggie!". She tosses her hair in that way women do that always makes men just shiver a little and smile.
"DUDE... says one of the guys I am with. "That was MAGGIE BIGGAR! How the hell do you know her like that?"
"The judge said we're not really supposed to talk about the details, but the gist of it is we respect each other, and the kids always come first."
The dudes swap weird looks and then just stare at me. Oh, I have fun, sometimes.
Bigtime agent David Boxerbaum continues his long-running disinterest in anything I might choose to say, but producer Dawn Wolfrom seems to counterbalance that with her almost-completely-camouflaged lust for me. Petrie gives me another hug. Rossio, Turman and me stand around playing dueling complainers. Diedrech Bader says hi. Conference director Maya Perez chases her kid around the grounds. Familiar faces abound wherever I turn, and every conversation seems to then fold into a reference to someone else, and the whole scene starts to get a really sweet roll to it just as it's time to shutter the scene and pack up to return to the Driskill for whatever comes next.
Back at HQ there's some interest in the movie PRECIOUS -- some folks are saying "it's this year's SLUMDOG!" -- but I can't quite bring myself to go sit in a dark room when there are friends around to play with, so we opt to set up shop at the Driskill Bar 'til it's time to do something else. We manage to burn the candle til time to head off to the late party at Ruth's Chris (no food -- just booze), and again somehow "Larry" winds up in tow. I decide to wander around and see what else is up, where I meet Mike and then Eilis the Mad Irish Lass and again see Richard and Derek and lots of other fine folk, and then I wander back and find myself chatting up "Larry" again.
"I was asking around about you," he says. "Everyone here seems to have a different Brett story they are fond of -- it's like you're at the center of this entire fiasco. What are you, Keyser fuckin Söze?"
OK, so at that moment all I could do was lean back and smirk with painful happiness -- this isn't really happening... I recall mumbling to myself. Except it just kept on happening. Kasdan and I sneak in some quiet private exchanges about movies and women and fear and passion and women and writing and women (a certain consistency of theme started to develop...) and then again too quickly the lights start to come up and it's time to turn back onto the street, and "Larry" says "OK, Keyser -- now what?", so we wind up doing that laughably adolescent thing where you "sneak" past the suspicious judgmental doorman late at night, trying poorly to not seem well and truly snookered, and then giggle all the way to the elevator as if you really pulled one over. And we find an afterparty in the suite of a friend there in the Driskill, and we hang out for a bit before "Larry" suddenly realizes that he has a 9AM departure back to LA, so he bails "early" (3:15 AM), waving goodbye to the room, and -- glory -- giving me a slight smirk and a wink just as the door closes behind him.
I sit exhausted and bleary-eyed over my PowerBook back in my room a half hour or so later, grinning stupidly, fumbling to tap out some soggy thoughts on what it all felt like. The best I seem able to come up with is "fuckin awesome."
In hindsight here nearly a week later, I think that still pretty much nails it.
(to be continued...)
Same this year. Despite Cabernet w/ Kasdan to cap a long hard night of indulging, by 9 AM Friday I was already deep into tapping notes into the laptop and scanning to determine which panel I'd take in. The fact that I finally decided to not do ANY of the 9AM panels had nothing to do with my readiness and everything to do with my familiarity with the panelists in the one or two panels there which seemed interesting: I already know and have relationships with most of the folks I might choose to see, so what would be the real point, especially given that I had some work to do on the laptop.
By the second panel (10:45 AM) I was ready to get cranking again. I opted to not see Kasdan and Turman do their SciFi panel (hey-- they're now old pals, right?...) so instead took in the "Turning Webisodes Into A Film Career" discussion. I did this for a few reasons, not the least of which was that one of teh panelists was Jocelyn "Jolly" Stamat, aka, Rossio's girlfriend and one of my fave females. Jolly is funny and beautiful and romantically linked to a friend which means that I thus have easy means to annoy said friend by continually hitting on said female, plus she's smart (as in "Harvard MD" smart). Plus she's now a panelist here thanks to a great experience this year producing and directing the "Turbo Dates" series of webisodes.
She and very funny Dan French talk about their respective efforts and experiences at finding a way to use this whole inter-webs thingy (you may have read about it...?) as a back/side/basement/cat door into the film biz. Two things become apparent in all the discussion: 1) there's tremendous freedom and opportunity in online filmmaking, and 2) nobody yet has a clue how to squeeze a nickel from it. Still, good fun panel, and a silly thrill to sit on the front row and see Jolly smile at me a few times with an expression that clearly says "Jeezus -- look at me! I'm a PANELIST!"
Afterwards, a bunch of our gang decides to try and scurry off for a group-lunch, and again somehow "Larry" winds up in our midst, but I have no idea what happened at that lunch as The Gods sniggered and denied me a seat at the grownup table this time, instead sending me to the back room with another group. I'll not dwell on this other than to say "Brett has anger issues, and Brett knows this, and on this day Brett managed to deal with these issues in a mature, responsible, and almost totally non-homicidal manner."
(Uh huh. Sure.)
The afternoon panels started (for me) with "The Art of Storytelling", featuring Peter "Gilbert Grape" Hedges, Dan "Dan" Petrie, and Lawrence "Larry" Kasdan. Moderator was one Marcia Nasatir, who clearly had a long relationship to Petrie and Kasdan which apparently predated even the beginnings of their careers, so that was a sweet little touch. Every one of the guys on stage had a slightly different take on things, and each had a different path to success to relate, but there was one consistent repeated thought connecting all of their stories and advice: "just keep writing." No matter what bullshit and insults and insanity this damned business tries to hurl at you, just keep writing. Keep believing in your own particular brand of magic, because in the final analysis, that's all you really have anyway. That surely might not seem like a huge shattering breakthrough wad of advice, but to hear it from these guys, all of whom have managed to sustain a career in a business known for chewing people up and spitting them aside like human bubble gum, it was good advice to note.
Final panel of the day was my scheduled round-table discussion -- "Producers & Executives" -- wherein attendees array themselves around several large tables (yes, they are in fact round...) as a group of lectures work their way from table to table for 15-20 minute close up discussion on whatever topics the people can manage to claim. It's always luck of the draw which of the slated panelists happen to hit your table, but I get lucky and draw some of the folks I most wanted to see: Julianna Farrell, a former lit manager turned indie producer whom I've spoken to on a few occasions and who seems totally tolerant of my bellicosity; Curtis Burch, indie producer based out of Dallas; and Jessica Julius, development exec for Disney Feature Animation. Farrell is her usual to the point smart self, Burch seems like a crusty old pro who's been around the wrong side of town a few times, and Farrell is a delightfully blunt no-bullshit pro who clearly explains what does impress her team and what doesn't. After the panel, I heard some folks at my table mumble that they found Julius a tad brusque or even cranky, but I found her take totally great and respectful, as she clearly spent no time trying to sugarcoat her answers: here's what it is, and here's what it ain't.
Friday evening means "BBQ At The French Legation" if you are a Producer Pass holder, so our crew piles onto shuttle busses and heads over the old French embassy, a gorgeous antebellum mansion inside a 2-acre stonewalled compound. There's a huge tented seating area with tables and chairs, a pair of buffet lines serving adequate though unspectacular BBQ, several drink stations handing out comped sponsor wine or Dos Equis, plus wall to wall Hollywood people. More than maybe any other event at the conference, the BBQ gives you a fighting chance to press the flesh and work it, baybee, with damned near anyone on the conference's roster, so I grab some vittles with my pals, then split off to wander and circulate.
I run into Rossio and Jocelyn, and it still blows my mind a bit to think that Terry is now not some pro that I try to approach for any specific insight or bit of wisdom (I know better... pppfftt), but because... well, because he's just another good friend here. We seldom talk at all about movies, instead playing verbal slap and tickle in that way competitive guys often do, usually because of an in front of and for teh approval of some woman. Jolly remains an eternally good sport about this idiotically reptilian behavior, and tosses me just enough bones and scraps to keep me interested in the game but not so many that I (or Terry) ever has even a moment's pause to wonder if there is in fact some other game afoot. "She gives good flirt," in other words, and that's a talent to be valued and respected in this damned fool gathering, where so many seem incapable of playing that harmless yet lovely game.
[Brett & Terry, Here To Cause No Concern At All. Really. You Can Trust Us.]
I wander around and bump into Greg "Mr. Nicholl" Beal, and he has in tow one of this year's golden show ponies, a 2009 Fellow (whose name escapes me -- mea culpa). He and I swap happy memories of the day the phone starts ringing like crazy with news of the FInalist announcement, and I give him a few quick notes of avice for his pending LA trip ("do not go drinking in Venice with a mad Mason on the afternoon of the big awards banquet...").
Ron "Please Don't Call Me Opie" Howard is led in, my old pal Linnea as his "handler," and I see a crowd of reluctant hesitant folks trailing behind like those tiny fish that follow big sharks, eager for a scrap but wary of becoming a snack themselves. Braced by my cervezas (stay thirsty, my friend) I opt for the frontal assault, so I plot an intercept and scramble.
Linnea sees me, and she gets that look that handlers always get: "Oh, no-- please! Don't approach him! My job is to make sure he has zero direct contact with humans!" She steps in to block me, and I smile, pat her on the shoulder as if to make it seem that I thought she was merely greeting me rather than trying to block me, then I defeat the jam at the line and break for the ball.
"A Yomiuri man? I would not have guessed that!" I say, and suddenly Howard beams widely and nods -- he was wearing a Yomiuri Giants Japan League baseball cap, and suddenly Ron Howard and I are chatting baseball for a few seconds as a crowd of other folks all keep a respectful/terrified distance. I do that thing I learned to do long ago -- I pull out of the convo early, long before it seems that we've now run out of all possible topics to fill the conversational void. I see new guy Marlon munching on a mondo plate of meat, nodding and chewing approvingly as he scopes the scene. I see Julie O making eye contact with me and pointing toward Peter Hedges, who just arrived late. I nod, and we link up in position for a gang intro.
Hedges winds up being a super decent guy. He's chatty and self-deprecating and demonstrative and reactive and exuberant, and more than anything he seems to exude a certain kind of sweetness. That always seems vaguely demeaning or perhaps just condescending, but it is what it is: he has an innocent sort of delight about the fun stuff happening around him, and he makes you feel happy just being close enough to hear him talk. Or, in my case, close enough to wind up holding his pigskin jacket so that he doesn't accidentally drop grease on it as he chows majorly on a huge late of chicken.
Apparently this is his first time back in Austin after a first/only visit a decade ago, and he looks around, shaking his head. "This is so wonderful! Is it always like this?"... "Oh, I am so coming back. I love this. This is all just so fun!"
A few minutes later, as I am standing around talking to some guys I vaguely know via bloggery, I feel a hand drag across my lower back as some woman walks past.
"Hey, Brett!" says Maggie Biggar, the very sweet and very cute but very shy red-head producing partner for Sandra Bullock.
I nod, "hey, Maggie!". She tosses her hair in that way women do that always makes men just shiver a little and smile.
"DUDE... says one of the guys I am with. "That was MAGGIE BIGGAR! How the hell do you know her like that?"
"The judge said we're not really supposed to talk about the details, but the gist of it is we respect each other, and the kids always come first."
The dudes swap weird looks and then just stare at me. Oh, I have fun, sometimes.
Bigtime agent David Boxerbaum continues his long-running disinterest in anything I might choose to say, but producer Dawn Wolfrom seems to counterbalance that with her almost-completely-camouflaged lust for me. Petrie gives me another hug. Rossio, Turman and me stand around playing dueling complainers. Diedrech Bader says hi. Conference director Maya Perez chases her kid around the grounds. Familiar faces abound wherever I turn, and every conversation seems to then fold into a reference to someone else, and the whole scene starts to get a really sweet roll to it just as it's time to shutter the scene and pack up to return to the Driskill for whatever comes next.
Back at HQ there's some interest in the movie PRECIOUS -- some folks are saying "it's this year's SLUMDOG!" -- but I can't quite bring myself to go sit in a dark room when there are friends around to play with, so we opt to set up shop at the Driskill Bar 'til it's time to do something else. We manage to burn the candle til time to head off to the late party at Ruth's Chris (no food -- just booze), and again somehow "Larry" winds up in tow. I decide to wander around and see what else is up, where I meet Mike and then Eilis the Mad Irish Lass and again see Richard and Derek and lots of other fine folk, and then I wander back and find myself chatting up "Larry" again.
"I was asking around about you," he says. "Everyone here seems to have a different Brett story they are fond of -- it's like you're at the center of this entire fiasco. What are you, Keyser fuckin Söze?"
OK, so at that moment all I could do was lean back and smirk with painful happiness -- this isn't really happening... I recall mumbling to myself. Except it just kept on happening. Kasdan and I sneak in some quiet private exchanges about movies and women and fear and passion and women and writing and women (a certain consistency of theme started to develop...) and then again too quickly the lights start to come up and it's time to turn back onto the street, and "Larry" says "OK, Keyser -- now what?", so we wind up doing that laughably adolescent thing where you "sneak" past the suspicious judgmental doorman late at night, trying poorly to not seem well and truly snookered, and then giggle all the way to the elevator as if you really pulled one over. And we find an afterparty in the suite of a friend there in the Driskill, and we hang out for a bit before "Larry" suddenly realizes that he has a 9AM departure back to LA, so he bails "early" (3:15 AM), waving goodbye to the room, and -- glory -- giving me a slight smirk and a wink just as the door closes behind him.
I sit exhausted and bleary-eyed over my PowerBook back in my room a half hour or so later, grinning stupidly, fumbling to tap out some soggy thoughts on what it all felt like. The best I seem able to come up with is "fuckin awesome."
In hindsight here nearly a week later, I think that still pretty much nails it.
(to be continued...)
28 October 2009
austin film fest 2009 -- "Thursday"
Thursday at the conference always feels like Round One of a big fight: you know there's going to be action, but early on it always feels like everyone is sorta gauging things, feeling things out, getting a sense of how it all will fit together this year.
More handshakes. More introductions. More excited happy reunions. Bill True, aka "The Nicest Guy In The World." Shane Black, aka, "Mr Self-Torture."
Some of our crew have been doing this Austin thing together for so long that some odd informal traditions seem to have developed. Among those are "Thursday is Irish Pub Day." I really have no idea how or when we started, but we once went strolling for lunch along Sixth Street and found a convenient and totally decent pub grub place just a block from the Driskill ("ground zero" for all AFF action). Now it's become a standard and accepted part of the routine, so a pile of 8 or so of us head off to grab burgers or shepherd's pie or fish tacos.
Julie O has to bail early, cuz she's no longer civilian like the rest of us, but instead she's now Miz Fancypants Paid Pro, having sold a script and seen it produced into an actual by god movie. In salute of this, she now rates invitation to participate in the festival not as a drooling noob, but instead as a wise old pro. The fact that we all laugh hysterically at how we all know how very little real difference there is between those two groups doesn't detract from our collective pride and happiness for her achievement: one of ours has made it up the mountain, and that's proof that it can be done. She waves and hustles off to get set up on her panel, while the rest of us snigger and brainstorm embarrassingly dumb questions to pose to her from the audience.
Her panel -- "How To Work The Austin Film Festival" -- is actually rather fantastic. She and Karl Williams -- another Austin long-timer whom I've watched grow from innocuous attendee into acclaimed up and comer and then into now hard working new pro -- both do an great job of explaining not just how to take advantage of the insane possibilities of this event, but why. At the risk of rankling the AFF officials, the real draw and value of Austin is not the panels and roundtables -- which are uniformly very good and often brilliant -- but instead in the social networking opportunities afforded as part and parcel.
In this day and age, the answer to pretty much any technical question one might ever have about the craft and business of screenwriting is only a Google search away. What Austin provides is a chance to connect not to just answers, but answerers -- the people behind that information, the personalities that give that information texture and flavor and relevance and specific application. It's the difference between seeing pictures of Yosemite and actually being there to smell the breeze and feel the sun on your skin. It's the difference between printing a recipe versus tasting a well-prepared meal.
Austin gives you recipes, but then turns you loose in a huge well-appointed kitchen staffed with chefs.
-=-=-
After laughing through Julie's try at seeming "expert" (she reads this, so I am allowed these juvenile sorts of stabs...), I catch Dan Petrie and Matt Weiner in "A Shot Of Inspiration." As Weiner, the rather hilarious and talented creator of MAD MEN, explained bits of his work history and experience, Dan -- whom I know and who recognizes me on sight now -- wanders around the room pouring actual shots of "liquid inspiration" ("Canadian Club" for those scoring along at home...). Petrie takes time from the beverage service to spin great tales from his days as a mailroom flunky at ICM, through his start with BEVERLY HILLS COP and THE BIG EASY and on through his time as WGA president.
After that, we head off to a club called Mohawk for the Opening Night Party where we hook up with yet more friends, and grab a few bottles of free Dos Equis, the official beer of the festival, so it's comped at all parties and thus the drink of choice (stay thirsty, my friends). smile to see new crew member Marlon from Atlanta with that "first year smile" as he starts to feel the vibe and realize how cool the opportunities are.
'Course, we were all about to be reminded of that fact when we returned to the Driskill Bar after the party at Mohawk, as we walk in and see James V. Hart and Lawrence Kasdan.
Or, as he is known in my head, "Lawrence FUCKING Kasdan."
It is no exaggeration at all for me to say that Kasdan is *the* guy who made me want to be a screenwriter. I recall coming home from THE BIG CHILL once upon a time way gone by and sitting down to try and write something... something that cool. 'Course, he's also done a few other little movies in there... BODY HEAT... RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK... THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK... SILVERADO... GRAND CANYON... WYATT EARP... IMMEDIATE FAMILY... THE ACCIDENTAL TOURIST...
Kasdan is simply The Man.
And he's standing there in front of me.
Now, I've met Kasdan before. In fact, once upon a time I kinda sorta made comically inappropriate comments to his wife (she laughed), and the year after that I think I slobbered on him (literally) as I called him my hero, to which he sorta sighed and said "'K, that's nice." But here he is, in the Driskill Bar, hanging out around and among my class of doofus, so of course we (our group) sorta adopts him as ours, just as if he was a wayward spaniel.
We wind up dragging him across the street to the Late Night Welcome Party, hosted by Dan Petrie at Buffalo Billiards on Sixth St., and then, in a typically weird yet beautiful turn, he just kinda sorta stays with us. "Larry" hangs out and chatters and chuckles and tells tales and laughs at other's tales and in general drops right into formation as "one of the guys." At one point I'm sitting there, wedged in between Petrie and Kasdan, sipping beers and laughing and telling hideous slanderous lies about my friends, and it starts to get weird on me: "I grew up watching the movies these guys wrote, and now I'm sitting here blabbing away like I'm part of their world. And they're treating me like I am. And the weird part is... it doesn't feel weird...."
The party rumbles on, and I circulate around, and am forced to giggle at how many pros I find myself familiar and friendly and on old terms with. Eventually, the lights come up and it's 2 am and the party is shuttering, so we start blundering out into the Sixth St chaos, Kasdan still in tow and still treating us like we're worthy (which we are most certainly not). We're all standing around, swaying in the breeze of alcohol we all feel in our heads, as Lauren, one of my other great and gorgeous Austin pals, waves goodnight and disappears into the madding crowd to find a cab. I had a mouthful of kraut dog at that precise moment, so could not shout after her to come over to the Driskill where the valet might more easily hail her a cab. She disappears, and Kasdan slaps at me, smiling madly:
"What the hell, man? She was in your care! You dropped the ball! Brett, her husband told you to take care of her!"
I smiled through a mouthful of kraut dog. "Hey, he fucked up -- he trusted me!"
"Larry" laughed loudly, said "excellent quote," and I felt really stupid calling him "Larry" as I scribbled jumbo crayon notes in my internal diary.
So "Larry" continues to tag along with us. We decide to go back to the Driskill -- this despite the fact that the bar is now closed, and that the security is annoyingly tight and requires some creative fiction to get everyone past the guards ("writers"), and seven or eight of us -- including "Larry" -- plop down around the fireplace in the darkened deserted bar, and someone produces two bottles of red wine from their room, and we sit around sipping vino with "Larry" 'til 4 am or so.
And that was the day that was, Thursday, 22 October, 2009.
And as I ballroom dance back across 7th Street to the SFA, I can only laugh maniacally at the way the evening went. Sometimes -- just occasionally, and always without warning -- Reality well and truly kicks Fantasy's ass.
(to be continued...)
More handshakes. More introductions. More excited happy reunions. Bill True, aka "The Nicest Guy In The World." Shane Black, aka, "Mr Self-Torture."
Some of our crew have been doing this Austin thing together for so long that some odd informal traditions seem to have developed. Among those are "Thursday is Irish Pub Day." I really have no idea how or when we started, but we once went strolling for lunch along Sixth Street and found a convenient and totally decent pub grub place just a block from the Driskill ("ground zero" for all AFF action). Now it's become a standard and accepted part of the routine, so a pile of 8 or so of us head off to grab burgers or shepherd's pie or fish tacos.
Julie O has to bail early, cuz she's no longer civilian like the rest of us, but instead she's now Miz Fancypants Paid Pro, having sold a script and seen it produced into an actual by god movie. In salute of this, she now rates invitation to participate in the festival not as a drooling noob, but instead as a wise old pro. The fact that we all laugh hysterically at how we all know how very little real difference there is between those two groups doesn't detract from our collective pride and happiness for her achievement: one of ours has made it up the mountain, and that's proof that it can be done. She waves and hustles off to get set up on her panel, while the rest of us snigger and brainstorm embarrassingly dumb questions to pose to her from the audience.
Her panel -- "How To Work The Austin Film Festival" -- is actually rather fantastic. She and Karl Williams -- another Austin long-timer whom I've watched grow from innocuous attendee into acclaimed up and comer and then into now hard working new pro -- both do an great job of explaining not just how to take advantage of the insane possibilities of this event, but why. At the risk of rankling the AFF officials, the real draw and value of Austin is not the panels and roundtables -- which are uniformly very good and often brilliant -- but instead in the social networking opportunities afforded as part and parcel.
In this day and age, the answer to pretty much any technical question one might ever have about the craft and business of screenwriting is only a Google search away. What Austin provides is a chance to connect not to just answers, but answerers -- the people behind that information, the personalities that give that information texture and flavor and relevance and specific application. It's the difference between seeing pictures of Yosemite and actually being there to smell the breeze and feel the sun on your skin. It's the difference between printing a recipe versus tasting a well-prepared meal.
Austin gives you recipes, but then turns you loose in a huge well-appointed kitchen staffed with chefs.
-=-=-
After laughing through Julie's try at seeming "expert" (she reads this, so I am allowed these juvenile sorts of stabs...), I catch Dan Petrie and Matt Weiner in "A Shot Of Inspiration." As Weiner, the rather hilarious and talented creator of MAD MEN, explained bits of his work history and experience, Dan -- whom I know and who recognizes me on sight now -- wanders around the room pouring actual shots of "liquid inspiration" ("Canadian Club" for those scoring along at home...). Petrie takes time from the beverage service to spin great tales from his days as a mailroom flunky at ICM, through his start with BEVERLY HILLS COP and THE BIG EASY and on through his time as WGA president.
After that, we head off to a club called Mohawk for the Opening Night Party where we hook up with yet more friends, and grab a few bottles of free Dos Equis, the official beer of the festival, so it's comped at all parties and thus the drink of choice (stay thirsty, my friends). smile to see new crew member Marlon from Atlanta with that "first year smile" as he starts to feel the vibe and realize how cool the opportunities are.
'Course, we were all about to be reminded of that fact when we returned to the Driskill Bar after the party at Mohawk, as we walk in and see James V. Hart and Lawrence Kasdan.
Or, as he is known in my head, "Lawrence FUCKING Kasdan."
It is no exaggeration at all for me to say that Kasdan is *the* guy who made me want to be a screenwriter. I recall coming home from THE BIG CHILL once upon a time way gone by and sitting down to try and write something... something that cool. 'Course, he's also done a few other little movies in there... BODY HEAT... RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK... THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK... SILVERADO... GRAND CANYON... WYATT EARP... IMMEDIATE FAMILY... THE ACCIDENTAL TOURIST...
Kasdan is simply The Man.
And he's standing there in front of me.
Now, I've met Kasdan before. In fact, once upon a time I kinda sorta made comically inappropriate comments to his wife (she laughed), and the year after that I think I slobbered on him (literally) as I called him my hero, to which he sorta sighed and said "'K, that's nice." But here he is, in the Driskill Bar, hanging out around and among my class of doofus, so of course we (our group) sorta adopts him as ours, just as if he was a wayward spaniel.
We wind up dragging him across the street to the Late Night Welcome Party, hosted by Dan Petrie at Buffalo Billiards on Sixth St., and then, in a typically weird yet beautiful turn, he just kinda sorta stays with us. "Larry" hangs out and chatters and chuckles and tells tales and laughs at other's tales and in general drops right into formation as "one of the guys." At one point I'm sitting there, wedged in between Petrie and Kasdan, sipping beers and laughing and telling hideous slanderous lies about my friends, and it starts to get weird on me: "I grew up watching the movies these guys wrote, and now I'm sitting here blabbing away like I'm part of their world. And they're treating me like I am. And the weird part is... it doesn't feel weird...."
The party rumbles on, and I circulate around, and am forced to giggle at how many pros I find myself familiar and friendly and on old terms with. Eventually, the lights come up and it's 2 am and the party is shuttering, so we start blundering out into the Sixth St chaos, Kasdan still in tow and still treating us like we're worthy (which we are most certainly not). We're all standing around, swaying in the breeze of alcohol we all feel in our heads, as Lauren, one of my other great and gorgeous Austin pals, waves goodnight and disappears into the madding crowd to find a cab. I had a mouthful of kraut dog at that precise moment, so could not shout after her to come over to the Driskill where the valet might more easily hail her a cab. She disappears, and Kasdan slaps at me, smiling madly:
"What the hell, man? She was in your care! You dropped the ball! Brett, her husband told you to take care of her!"
I smiled through a mouthful of kraut dog. "Hey, he fucked up -- he trusted me!"
"Larry" laughed loudly, said "excellent quote," and I felt really stupid calling him "Larry" as I scribbled jumbo crayon notes in my internal diary.
So "Larry" continues to tag along with us. We decide to go back to the Driskill -- this despite the fact that the bar is now closed, and that the security is annoyingly tight and requires some creative fiction to get everyone past the guards ("writers"), and seven or eight of us -- including "Larry" -- plop down around the fireplace in the darkened deserted bar, and someone produces two bottles of red wine from their room, and we sit around sipping vino with "Larry" 'til 4 am or so.
And that was the day that was, Thursday, 22 October, 2009.
And as I ballroom dance back across 7th Street to the SFA, I can only laugh maniacally at the way the evening went. Sometimes -- just occasionally, and always without warning -- Reality well and truly kicks Fantasy's ass.
(to be continued...)
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