As a Special Treat, I went up to the Trifecta of Starbucks around the corner from #403. (No joke -- two Starbucks and a 'Bucksian counter inside a grocery store, all on a single city block.) Ordered my usual grande non-fat latte, set to work.
A little while later, a young miss comes by with wee shots of something she calls "Eggnog Frappucinos." A delightful little cup of frothy goodness, with a tiny straw, a whiff of whipped cream and a dash of nutmeg. Lovely!
Yesterday, seeking to give myself another Special Treat, I went to another Starbucks (not in the Trifecta, but one of two on the Third Street Promenade, three if you count the Hear Music store, four if you count the Seattle's Best inside the Borders.) I purchased a tall eggnog frappucino. First sip: Yum. Second sip: Mmm, noggy. Third sip: Maybe needs a little nutmeg.
Then: An inescapable chemical tang filled my mouth. That was the end of the eggnog frappucino.
My mind is blown. I ordered a drink that, conservatively, packs around 400 calories into a 12 oz serving. You'd think all that fat and sugary goodness would, at minimum, hide any repellent aftertaste. Best case scenario: You wouldn't need to add anything that might produce such an aftertaste. But no. You would be wrong.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
And where did her boobs come from?
Okay, granted, I wasn't paying the most attention. But two hours into "King Arthur" (with Clive Owen, who, btw, is WAY TOO OLD for Keira Knightly, but maybe that's the point), I just looked up and I swear to God I have NO IDEA what is going on.
Guinevere is a Pict? I mean, a Wode? And they're fighting the Saxons? And Arthur, a former Roman centurion judging by his headgear, is with the Picts? WTF?
Also, G, word to the wise: All the really bad ass ladies cover up the mid-drift when charging into battle. Really cuts down on the abdominal wounds.
Minor aside: Went to a 7:25 screening of "American Gangster" on Monday night. Actual movie did not start until 7:55. HALF AN HOUR! And not for some "Transformers" nonsense, with Burger King tie ins.
What is the world coming to when you can't go see a classic rise-and-fall epic without 30 minutes of trailers before hand?
Guinevere is a Pict? I mean, a Wode? And they're fighting the Saxons? And Arthur, a former Roman centurion judging by his headgear, is with the Picts? WTF?
Also, G, word to the wise: All the really bad ass ladies cover up the mid-drift when charging into battle. Really cuts down on the abdominal wounds.
Minor aside: Went to a 7:25 screening of "American Gangster" on Monday night. Actual movie did not start until 7:55. HALF AN HOUR! And not for some "Transformers" nonsense, with Burger King tie ins.
What is the world coming to when you can't go see a classic rise-and-fall epic without 30 minutes of trailers before hand?
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
LOLGRENDEL
I have looked EVERYWHERE for a production still from "Beowulf," without success.
There's a bright shiny quarter waiting for the first person who sends me an image of Robert Zemeckis' gibbering monster with the following caption:
i can has a thane?
There's a bright shiny quarter waiting for the first person who sends me an image of Robert Zemeckis' gibbering monster with the following caption:
i can has a thane?
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Pro/Con
If the strike ends this week: I get my job back.
If the strike doesn't end until June: That's a long time to wait for a paycheck.
If the strike ends this week: How the hell will I finish my rewrite?
If the strike doesn't end until June: I have plenty of time to polish "Evil Girl."
If the strike ends this week: I'm running out of days to walk the picket lines
If the strike ends this week: I'm going to be working 60 hours weeks, so I should catch up on my sleep while I can.
Earlier this month, I was playing a little game I call best case scenario: If there is a strike, I have time to write. If there isn't a strike, I have a job.
I have now played this game so much that I cannot tell if the glass is half full or half empty.
If the strike doesn't end until June: That's a long time to wait for a paycheck.
If the strike ends this week: How the hell will I finish my rewrite?
If the strike doesn't end until June: I have plenty of time to polish "Evil Girl."
If the strike ends this week: I'm running out of days to walk the picket lines
If the strike ends this week: I'm going to be working 60 hours weeks, so I should catch up on my sleep while I can.
Earlier this month, I was playing a little game I call best case scenario: If there is a strike, I have time to write. If there isn't a strike, I have a job.
I have now played this game so much that I cannot tell if the glass is half full or half empty.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Oooo! I Am The Ghost of Crappy Writing Yet to Be! Oooooo!
Weird thing. Woke up one day last week, maybe Thursday, with one perfectly clear thought in my head: Everybody knows, looking at the "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" poster, that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie don't die. Not even close.
A brief side note: I never need to see MAMS ever again. Which is weird, because it should be my idea of a perfect movie. But it lacks...something. Hmmm, I wonder what.
Then I thought of something Joss Whedon likes to say, that he'd rather a viewer were upset about the death of character, than if they just went "huh" and kept watching.
I might have put it together then, but the truth is, Mr. Whedon is extremely good at killing off characters in a way that rips your still-beating-heart out of your chest, throws it on the ground and then kicks it into oncoming traffic. If you've seen "Serenity," you know what I'm talking about, but similar stuff goes down on every Whedon joynt.
(Side note: What does it look like when Spike Lee and Joss Whedon team up? Just something to think about.)
Next day, I guess Friday, I had a dream that my dad ran Lucasfilm. But he wasn't George Lucas, he was my dad. And Lucasfilm appeared to be inside the Warner Bros office tower where I used to intern for "Smallville."
Anyway, my dad, good guy that he is, had greenlit one of my scripts. We stood in the back of a test screening, watching scene after scene of all the stuff I love in movies -- girls kicking butt, unexpected love interests, last minute saves. But it wasn't any fun to watch. Because it was safe. I hadn't put anyone in jeopardy, once in the entire film.
(See if you can think which Lucasfilm productions might suffer from the same problem. I'll give you a hint. They're about a group of characters, about whom we know which ones live and which ones die. Just saying.)
So I woke up, more than a little horrified by the thought that my dad had put his career on the line to make a film without any recognizable danger or stakes. And right then, I felt a profound rush of gratitude that I was only on page 10 of my rewrite project and would, thankfully, have time to repair matters.
I am also grateful that my subconscious, sensing that the first lesson didn't quite take, went ahead and sent a second telegram, just to make sure.
A brief side note: I never need to see MAMS ever again. Which is weird, because it should be my idea of a perfect movie. But it lacks...something. Hmmm, I wonder what.
Then I thought of something Joss Whedon likes to say, that he'd rather a viewer were upset about the death of character, than if they just went "huh" and kept watching.
I might have put it together then, but the truth is, Mr. Whedon is extremely good at killing off characters in a way that rips your still-beating-heart out of your chest, throws it on the ground and then kicks it into oncoming traffic. If you've seen "Serenity," you know what I'm talking about, but similar stuff goes down on every Whedon joynt.
(Side note: What does it look like when Spike Lee and Joss Whedon team up? Just something to think about.)
Next day, I guess Friday, I had a dream that my dad ran Lucasfilm. But he wasn't George Lucas, he was my dad. And Lucasfilm appeared to be inside the Warner Bros office tower where I used to intern for "Smallville."
Anyway, my dad, good guy that he is, had greenlit one of my scripts. We stood in the back of a test screening, watching scene after scene of all the stuff I love in movies -- girls kicking butt, unexpected love interests, last minute saves. But it wasn't any fun to watch. Because it was safe. I hadn't put anyone in jeopardy, once in the entire film.
(See if you can think which Lucasfilm productions might suffer from the same problem. I'll give you a hint. They're about a group of characters, about whom we know which ones live and which ones die. Just saying.)
So I woke up, more than a little horrified by the thought that my dad had put his career on the line to make a film without any recognizable danger or stakes. And right then, I felt a profound rush of gratitude that I was only on page 10 of my rewrite project and would, thankfully, have time to repair matters.
I am also grateful that my subconscious, sensing that the first lesson didn't quite take, went ahead and sent a second telegram, just to make sure.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
The Power of Imagination!
I'm sitting on the couch, theoretically finishing up the first act of this rewrite.
For the last ten minutes, my cat Willa has been trotting around the apartment, freezing and whirling around to confront the evil-doer lurking behind her.
Except that there are only three cats in my apartment. One is sleeping next to me (Anna.) One is sleeping on my messenger bag (Fifi.)
And the third one is running around the apartment as if she's being stalked by a predator only she can see.
For the last ten minutes, my cat Willa has been trotting around the apartment, freezing and whirling around to confront the evil-doer lurking behind her.
Except that there are only three cats in my apartment. One is sleeping next to me (Anna.) One is sleeping on my messenger bag (Fifi.)
And the third one is running around the apartment as if she's being stalked by a predator only she can see.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
A Brief Safety Video
Kate and MG stand in front of their front door.
MG: Hello! Welcome to Thanksgiving with Mike and Kate.
Kate: We realize you have a choice of venues for your Thanksgiving and we appreciate you spending this national holiday with us. As you might have heard, we whip up quite the spread!
MG: Not to mention the gravy!
(Both laugh.)
Kate: And that's why we've put together this brief safety video, to walk you through some important pointers, in the event of a gravy shortage.
(Kate and MG exchange a dark, knowing look, then covering, smile hugely at the camera.)
MG: Let's get started!
(MG opens the door, and we enter #403, festively decorated for Thanksgiving.)
MG: Now, first of all, remember that, in all likelihood, we won't run out of gravy. Kate's been at this for several years, and typically produces almost a gallon of rich, brown nectar for our enjoyment.
Kate: That's a lot of gravy!
MG: It sure is! But of course, we cannot predict the future. In the event that the roux goes lumpy or, say, one of the guests steals the gravy boat and barricades himself in the bathroom...
(MG trails off, barely restraining his anger. Kate pats his shoulder.)
Kate: You couldn't have known... (to camera) let's just say, with great gravy comes great responsibility. A responsibility to not chug two quarts of gravy in under forty seconds, and a responsibility to not leave potential gravy-chuggers alone with the gravy boat.
MG: Agreed. Well! In the event of a gravy shortage, we'd like to offer some pointers to help you through a potentially difficult time.
Kate: Most people go through five stages of gravy-shortage grief. First, denial.
MG: (demonstrates) C'mon, there must be more gravy! Did you check the kitchen? What about the roasting pan?
Kate: Then, anger.
MG: Who the fuck makes a cup and a half of gravy for eight people? That's just retarded.
Kate: Of course, bargaining.
MG: I'll give you $50 if you let me lick your plate.
Kate: Depression....
MG: Oh my God, I can't believe we're out of gravy.
Kate: And finally, acceptance.
MG: Hey, are you guys making turkey for Christmas?
Kate: And of course, we don't make turkey for Christmas, but rest assured, whatever we *do* make?
MG: There will be gravy!
(Both laugh.)
Kate: That just about wraps things up for us. If you enjoyed this video, please feel free to view our other short films, including "Don't Go In There!: Four Reasons to Avoid the Bathroom Where We Keep the Cats' Litter Boxes"...
MG: And "Satan's Nutsack: Ten Signs that the Kitchen Garbage Needs to Be Taken Out."
MG: Hello! Welcome to Thanksgiving with Mike and Kate.
Kate: We realize you have a choice of venues for your Thanksgiving and we appreciate you spending this national holiday with us. As you might have heard, we whip up quite the spread!
MG: Not to mention the gravy!
(Both laugh.)
Kate: And that's why we've put together this brief safety video, to walk you through some important pointers, in the event of a gravy shortage.
(Kate and MG exchange a dark, knowing look, then covering, smile hugely at the camera.)
MG: Let's get started!
(MG opens the door, and we enter #403, festively decorated for Thanksgiving.)
MG: Now, first of all, remember that, in all likelihood, we won't run out of gravy. Kate's been at this for several years, and typically produces almost a gallon of rich, brown nectar for our enjoyment.
Kate: That's a lot of gravy!
MG: It sure is! But of course, we cannot predict the future. In the event that the roux goes lumpy or, say, one of the guests steals the gravy boat and barricades himself in the bathroom...
(MG trails off, barely restraining his anger. Kate pats his shoulder.)
Kate: You couldn't have known... (to camera) let's just say, with great gravy comes great responsibility. A responsibility to not chug two quarts of gravy in under forty seconds, and a responsibility to not leave potential gravy-chuggers alone with the gravy boat.
MG: Agreed. Well! In the event of a gravy shortage, we'd like to offer some pointers to help you through a potentially difficult time.
Kate: Most people go through five stages of gravy-shortage grief. First, denial.
MG: (demonstrates) C'mon, there must be more gravy! Did you check the kitchen? What about the roasting pan?
Kate: Then, anger.
MG: Who the fuck makes a cup and a half of gravy for eight people? That's just retarded.
Kate: Of course, bargaining.
MG: I'll give you $50 if you let me lick your plate.
Kate: Depression....
MG: Oh my God, I can't believe we're out of gravy.
Kate: And finally, acceptance.
MG: Hey, are you guys making turkey for Christmas?
Kate: And of course, we don't make turkey for Christmas, but rest assured, whatever we *do* make?
MG: There will be gravy!
(Both laugh.)
Kate: That just about wraps things up for us. If you enjoyed this video, please feel free to view our other short films, including "Don't Go In There!: Four Reasons to Avoid the Bathroom Where We Keep the Cats' Litter Boxes"...
MG: And "Satan's Nutsack: Ten Signs that the Kitchen Garbage Needs to Be Taken Out."
Friday, November 23, 2007
One Gravy to Rule Them All
It started with my first co-Thanksgiving with the Gerbers, when it was revealed that Gram Gerber, maker of the gravy, was not there, and so, no gravy would be forthcoming. Falling back on my knowledge of pan sauces, I gave it a shot, with decent results.
The next year, I had a plan: I went onto Cooksillustrated.com and researched a short-cutty gravy methodology. And good thing, because living with MG had already started to atrophy my knowledge of pan sauces. (You would not believe the number of things I could make from memory before I started dating Michael and his miscellaneous allergies. I could do a hollandaise with one hand tied behind my back, as long as somebody helped me crack the eggs.)
Now, it's like the spawning of the salmon. I cannot be stopped. Even when, say, we're actually eating over at the neighbors and the turkey roasting away in #403 is just for MG's own personal consumption. Even then, I will leave a pot of giblets to simmer while we're out. We come back and I start to wonder, *could* you make a roux with corn starch? (Corn being the one grain that doesn't hammer MG's digestive tract like a Viking.) And hey, I've got nothing else to do while the turkey is cooling, why not deglaze the pan with some white wine? Eight or nine strainings later, and voila: A quart of dark brown gold.
It is so, so good. Oh lord.
Is it possible for us to skip kids and just have gravy instead? I mean, would anyone really mind?
The next year, I had a plan: I went onto Cooksillustrated.com and researched a short-cutty gravy methodology. And good thing, because living with MG had already started to atrophy my knowledge of pan sauces. (You would not believe the number of things I could make from memory before I started dating Michael and his miscellaneous allergies. I could do a hollandaise with one hand tied behind my back, as long as somebody helped me crack the eggs.)
Now, it's like the spawning of the salmon. I cannot be stopped. Even when, say, we're actually eating over at the neighbors and the turkey roasting away in #403 is just for MG's own personal consumption. Even then, I will leave a pot of giblets to simmer while we're out. We come back and I start to wonder, *could* you make a roux with corn starch? (Corn being the one grain that doesn't hammer MG's digestive tract like a Viking.) And hey, I've got nothing else to do while the turkey is cooling, why not deglaze the pan with some white wine? Eight or nine strainings later, and voila: A quart of dark brown gold.
It is so, so good. Oh lord.
Is it possible for us to skip kids and just have gravy instead? I mean, would anyone really mind?
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Couple Miles South of Normal
Still in the mother of all funks.
I think the problem might be that, now that Norman Mailer is dead, his personal writer's block has hit the road, looking for some place to roost. And it's landed on our Santa Monica couch.
Let me just say, for the record, that Norman Mailer's Writer's Block is not welcome. I did not invite Mailer's Block in, I did not offer to inflate the Aerobed for Mailer's Block. If I thought burning sage would help, I'd torch a metric ton of the stuff, smoke detector be damned.
The fundamental disconnect, I think, is that NMWB used to hang out with the big guns -- Ernest Hemingway's Block, F. Scott Fitzgerald's Block, John Updike's Block (although I think Updike's Block killed itself in despair at its consuming failure to actually stop Updike from cranking out a Talk of the Town every two hours.) Mailer's Block expects me to drown it in aged scotch and Marlboro Reds. A 16 oz non-fat latte bounces off Mailer's Block like a Nerf bat.
Generally speaking, the kinds of things I consider to be mood boosters only bewilder Mailer's Block. It sits on its haunches, licking its scaly balls, while I strip the bed, do three loads of laundry and make the bed. "How is that supposed to scare me off?" Mailer's Block wonders, following me with its yellow eyes as I trot off to the kitchen to empty the dish washer.
This could be a very, very long weekend.
I think the problem might be that, now that Norman Mailer is dead, his personal writer's block has hit the road, looking for some place to roost. And it's landed on our Santa Monica couch.
Let me just say, for the record, that Norman Mailer's Writer's Block is not welcome. I did not invite Mailer's Block in, I did not offer to inflate the Aerobed for Mailer's Block. If I thought burning sage would help, I'd torch a metric ton of the stuff, smoke detector be damned.
The fundamental disconnect, I think, is that NMWB used to hang out with the big guns -- Ernest Hemingway's Block, F. Scott Fitzgerald's Block, John Updike's Block (although I think Updike's Block killed itself in despair at its consuming failure to actually stop Updike from cranking out a Talk of the Town every two hours.) Mailer's Block expects me to drown it in aged scotch and Marlboro Reds. A 16 oz non-fat latte bounces off Mailer's Block like a Nerf bat.
Generally speaking, the kinds of things I consider to be mood boosters only bewilder Mailer's Block. It sits on its haunches, licking its scaly balls, while I strip the bed, do three loads of laundry and make the bed. "How is that supposed to scare me off?" Mailer's Block wonders, following me with its yellow eyes as I trot off to the kitchen to empty the dish washer.
This could be a very, very long weekend.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
More Like Asscake Factory If You Ask Me
Am I the only one who feels like every trip to Costco is somewhere between scoring a ticket to Oprah's annual Christmas show and wandering through a foreign country?
The optimist in me thinks of Costco as a corporate version of Zingermans, a seeker of delights and treasures that might otherwise get overlooked. Every free sample I put in my mouth is always so delicious! Oh, Costco, how could I have judged you so harshly? Your tomato bisque is so yummy! Your dulce con leche cheese cake is so ... waxy? What the hell...
That's the Costco Sample Paradox in a nutshell. The first bite is great, the second bite is fantastic, and then, a few seconds after you've finished it off... you feel like you ate a crayon.
Technically, if you help yourself to a sample of the Cheesecake Factory's Gourmet Sampler, you pretty much have eaten a crayon. It says right on the box that the "Snow Cap Topping" (the creamy stuff posing as whipped cream) is made from palm oil, one of those awesome solid-at-room temperature fats that leaves a slick coating on the inside of your mouth after you eat it.
My inner pessimist surfaces after my third or fourth unpleasant free sample -- I can't quite grasp that I belong to a people who buy gallon tubs of tomato bisque -- bisque that contains 40% of your daily sodium requirement in every 8 oz serving. That's when I start to stare at the shelves as if I am strolling through a Tesco in Tehran.
It doesn't help matters that I have fallen off the carbohydrate wagon with a vengeance. It started with the suspicion that that my migraine meds were making me gain weight. (Chiefly because I had to stop taking it for a week, and in that week, lost three pounds. Hmmm.) Eff that, I thought. I'll just keep a running tally, and when I have definitive proof, I'll go to my doctor and tell her that I need to try something else.
Except that I didn't want to falsely accuse my meds if the real problem was the half pound of lasagna I ate the day before. So I stopped eating lasagna. And bread. And rice. In fact, pretty much all grain-based foods have vanished from my diet lately.
And now I've lost another four pounds. Kinda literally. Like, I don't know where they went. I'm not hungry and I'm not hitting the gym for hours every day. I did eat four ounces of duck liver pate with a fork the other day (b/c, you know, no bread), but other than that, there's really nothing bizarre about my diet. (For example, my macaroon habit alive and well, no fucking thanks to those crack dealers at Vanilla Bakery. You people are dead to me! You hear? DEAD! Which reminds me, I need to pick up a couple for Thursday's dessert.)
Seriously, the macaroon is the French Oreo, only made from butter and ... more butter. You know why French women don't get fat? Because their national pastry is so rich, nobody can eat more than two.
Clearly bread, pasta and rice are all secretly made out of ice cream. I mean, what other explanation is there? In fact, NYT science writer Gary Taubes thinks that humans were never meant to eat significant quantities of bready carbs and that the current low fat mania is scientific bunk. (Which, ironically, means that ice cream might be better for you than bread. I think I just broke my brain.)
Granted, I am not going eat a couple slices of ice cream every night, but at this point, I'm having trouble looking at bread, et al as if they were legitimate food items. (It helps that, having migraines, I am used to writing off foods as inedible because eating them gives me a whanging headache.)
Then you walk past shopping carts stacked with *multiple* trays of muffins. Not just muffins, but muffins with some kind of sugary buttery crumble topping. And it starts to feel like you're in Amsterdam, standing in line at one of those coffee houses that have a separate menu boards for coffee, tea and pot.
Yes, this crazy decadent nation of ours! When will we learn to make better food choices? And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go buy a whipped cream gun.
The optimist in me thinks of Costco as a corporate version of Zingermans, a seeker of delights and treasures that might otherwise get overlooked. Every free sample I put in my mouth is always so delicious! Oh, Costco, how could I have judged you so harshly? Your tomato bisque is so yummy! Your dulce con leche cheese cake is so ... waxy? What the hell...
That's the Costco Sample Paradox in a nutshell. The first bite is great, the second bite is fantastic, and then, a few seconds after you've finished it off... you feel like you ate a crayon.
Technically, if you help yourself to a sample of the Cheesecake Factory's Gourmet Sampler, you pretty much have eaten a crayon. It says right on the box that the "Snow Cap Topping" (the creamy stuff posing as whipped cream) is made from palm oil, one of those awesome solid-at-room temperature fats that leaves a slick coating on the inside of your mouth after you eat it.
My inner pessimist surfaces after my third or fourth unpleasant free sample -- I can't quite grasp that I belong to a people who buy gallon tubs of tomato bisque -- bisque that contains 40% of your daily sodium requirement in every 8 oz serving. That's when I start to stare at the shelves as if I am strolling through a Tesco in Tehran.
It doesn't help matters that I have fallen off the carbohydrate wagon with a vengeance. It started with the suspicion that that my migraine meds were making me gain weight. (Chiefly because I had to stop taking it for a week, and in that week, lost three pounds. Hmmm.) Eff that, I thought. I'll just keep a running tally, and when I have definitive proof, I'll go to my doctor and tell her that I need to try something else.
Except that I didn't want to falsely accuse my meds if the real problem was the half pound of lasagna I ate the day before. So I stopped eating lasagna. And bread. And rice. In fact, pretty much all grain-based foods have vanished from my diet lately.
And now I've lost another four pounds. Kinda literally. Like, I don't know where they went. I'm not hungry and I'm not hitting the gym for hours every day. I did eat four ounces of duck liver pate with a fork the other day (b/c, you know, no bread), but other than that, there's really nothing bizarre about my diet. (For example, my macaroon habit alive and well, no fucking thanks to those crack dealers at Vanilla Bakery. You people are dead to me! You hear? DEAD! Which reminds me, I need to pick up a couple for Thursday's dessert.)
Seriously, the macaroon is the French Oreo, only made from butter and ... more butter. You know why French women don't get fat? Because their national pastry is so rich, nobody can eat more than two.
Clearly bread, pasta and rice are all secretly made out of ice cream. I mean, what other explanation is there? In fact, NYT science writer Gary Taubes thinks that humans were never meant to eat significant quantities of bready carbs and that the current low fat mania is scientific bunk. (Which, ironically, means that ice cream might be better for you than bread. I think I just broke my brain.)
Granted, I am not going eat a couple slices of ice cream every night, but at this point, I'm having trouble looking at bread, et al as if they were legitimate food items. (It helps that, having migraines, I am used to writing off foods as inedible because eating them gives me a whanging headache.)
Then you walk past shopping carts stacked with *multiple* trays of muffins. Not just muffins, but muffins with some kind of sugary buttery crumble topping. And it starts to feel like you're in Amsterdam, standing in line at one of those coffee houses that have a separate menu boards for coffee, tea and pot.
Yes, this crazy decadent nation of ours! When will we learn to make better food choices? And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go buy a whipped cream gun.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Uh, it IS Kate
Because I have a million errands to run today, I am poaching today's post from something my sister sent me.
Last August, the powers-that-be decided to cast the "Mad Men" interns as extras in the season finale. Todd the sound engineer would be played by my fellow intern, and Norma the voiceover artist would be played by me. Neither of us had lines, which is why we could even be cast -- speaking parts always go through the casting director.
Anyway, not wanting to be cocky, I kept this news to myself. Even though there were several master shots with me in the frame, I know perfectly well that you can cut anyone and anything out of a scene if you really want to.
Fast forward to the broadcast of the season finale. Nothing. Crickets. I call my family. Several of them have already watched it, and loved it. And? And nothing, it was a great episode.
Hmmm.
Finally, I put up a picture on Facebook from my day on the set. My sister Molly's like "Is that your Halloween costume?" Uh, no. I spill the beans. Her reply?
She decides that, obviously, our parents were just distracted when they watched the episode, or they would have recognized me. She sets about trying to rectify the situation, thusly:
In fact, I think all of this speaks to my natural gifts as an extra. I am so restrained in my performance that even BLOOD RELATIONS cannot spot me on screen. Also, the writing, acting and direction are all so masterful that the audience is focused ENTIRELY on other matters -- as it should be.
Note to casting directors: I am available for shoots until the end of the strike. Past credits include "Mad Men" and the role of Piglet in the Oak Park River Forest H.S. production of "Winnie the Pooh." Weaknesses as a performer: Instantly identifiable by my distinctive, duck-foot stride. Could possibly work as a stand-in for Helen Hunt?
Last August, the powers-that-be decided to cast the "Mad Men" interns as extras in the season finale. Todd the sound engineer would be played by my fellow intern, and Norma the voiceover artist would be played by me. Neither of us had lines, which is why we could even be cast -- speaking parts always go through the casting director.
Anyway, not wanting to be cocky, I kept this news to myself. Even though there were several master shots with me in the frame, I know perfectly well that you can cut anyone and anything out of a scene if you really want to.
Fast forward to the broadcast of the season finale. Nothing. Crickets. I call my family. Several of them have already watched it, and loved it. And? And nothing, it was a great episode.
Hmmm.
Finally, I put up a picture on Facebook from my day on the set. My sister Molly's like "Is that your Halloween costume?" Uh, no. I spill the beans. Her reply?
NO WAY. I watched the finale, so did larry! The scene were the three chicks are in the sound booth??? Wait...I remember that scene very clearly. Hold on.
NO WAY. There you are!! how the fuck did I miss that!! That is insane!
She decides that, obviously, our parents were just distracted when they watched the episode, or they would have recognized me. She sets about trying to rectify the situation, thusly:
After playing the scene 4 times with no light bulb going off, I paused the screen with you on it for Dad. He stared at it, trying to see what he was supposed to be seeing...
Me: You don't see it?
Dad: No...
Me: Look on the left side of the screen
[silence, light bulb still off]
Carrie Powers: Does someone in that screen look familiar? Like they are related to you maybe?
Dad: Well, I guess maybe that looks like Kate a little?
Larry: Uh, it IS Kate
Dad: Get OUTTA here!!
Then when we hit play and you walked out he practically screeched "The Walk! That's Kate!"
In fact, I think all of this speaks to my natural gifts as an extra. I am so restrained in my performance that even BLOOD RELATIONS cannot spot me on screen. Also, the writing, acting and direction are all so masterful that the audience is focused ENTIRELY on other matters -- as it should be.
Note to casting directors: I am available for shoots until the end of the strike. Past credits include "Mad Men" and the role of Piglet in the Oak Park River Forest H.S. production of "Winnie the Pooh." Weaknesses as a performer: Instantly identifiable by my distinctive, duck-foot stride. Could possibly work as a stand-in for Helen Hunt?
Monday, November 19, 2007
Dear Diary...
I woke up today feeling very grumpy about my screenplay, if by grumpy you mean so consumed with despair that your hands shake and you give serious thought to maybe just going back to bed until, um, January.
But since I was up, I went to the Assistants Rally @ Fox, where I saw Matt Groening (!) and Joss Whedon (!!) and my once-and-future-boss Matt (!!!), plus some friendly fellow assistants and some wee boxes of Milk Duds. (I mostly "saw" those wee boxes of Milk Duds with the back of my throat and the inside of my stomach.)
Afterwards, Matt invited his assistants out to lunch, so we joined up with the various producers and assistants of "The Riches" and went over to Westwood. The irony being that, technically, you don't have to feed me if you let me talk to writers for an hour and half. But since it was a restaurant, I tried to blend in. You know, when in Rome.
In the end Eddie Izzard picked up the tab, but it was extraordinarily generous of Matt to invite us, and of course, he had no way of knowing that a novocaine-addled British actor would swoop in at the last minute. (Mr. Izzard had an extensive root canal this morning. After which he attended a WGA rally. Talk about solidarity.)
And so, I am no longer consumed with terminal screenplay related grumpiness. I hope this mood swing lasts through the weekend, because I'm pretty sure I can't expect famous people to buy me lunch *everytime* I'm feeling down in the dumps.
But since I was up, I went to the Assistants Rally @ Fox, where I saw Matt Groening (!) and Joss Whedon (!!) and my once-and-future-boss Matt (!!!), plus some friendly fellow assistants and some wee boxes of Milk Duds. (I mostly "saw" those wee boxes of Milk Duds with the back of my throat and the inside of my stomach.)
Afterwards, Matt invited his assistants out to lunch, so we joined up with the various producers and assistants of "The Riches" and went over to Westwood. The irony being that, technically, you don't have to feed me if you let me talk to writers for an hour and half. But since it was a restaurant, I tried to blend in. You know, when in Rome.
In the end Eddie Izzard picked up the tab, but it was extraordinarily generous of Matt to invite us, and of course, he had no way of knowing that a novocaine-addled British actor would swoop in at the last minute. (Mr. Izzard had an extensive root canal this morning. After which he attended a WGA rally. Talk about solidarity.)
And so, I am no longer consumed with terminal screenplay related grumpiness. I hope this mood swing lasts through the weekend, because I'm pretty sure I can't expect famous people to buy me lunch *everytime* I'm feeling down in the dumps.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Voices in My Head
It's been a while since I've gotten notes that I completely disagreed with. It happens sometimes that you stumble upon a professor who's never seen any of the ten or twenty films that made you want to be a writer. And of course, there's no way to control who else in your workshop.
(Rumor has it that some screenwriting programs have tried in the past to accomodate students' requests for certain professors and it quickly descends into backstabbing and gossip.)
Back in the day, when I'd get a note that would melt my brain, I'd hear this Golem voice in my head, shrieking "Shut up! Shut up! You don't know anything about my script, you idiot!" Maybe a little note of Ren/Peter Lorre in there as well.
Now, and I really enjoy this, I am struggling to finish my final assignment (the one I need to complete to earn my MFA) and what do you know? My little brain buddy is back.
Here, without exaggeration, is what he said to me ten minutes ago:
"Nooooo! You call that a scene! Agh! This is rubbish! Rubbish I tell you! Let's call it a day and go drink tequila out of a commuter mug."
(Rumor has it that some screenwriting programs have tried in the past to accomodate students' requests for certain professors and it quickly descends into backstabbing and gossip.)
Back in the day, when I'd get a note that would melt my brain, I'd hear this Golem voice in my head, shrieking "Shut up! Shut up! You don't know anything about my script, you idiot!" Maybe a little note of Ren/Peter Lorre in there as well.
Now, and I really enjoy this, I am struggling to finish my final assignment (the one I need to complete to earn my MFA) and what do you know? My little brain buddy is back.
Here, without exaggeration, is what he said to me ten minutes ago:
"Nooooo! You call that a scene! Agh! This is rubbish! Rubbish I tell you! Let's call it a day and go drink tequila out of a commuter mug."
Saturday, November 17, 2007
The Hot Films of Summer 2009
I've walked past "Beowulf" print ads the size of a small building, and for the life of me, I can't figure out why Grendel's sexy mama looks real and Beowulf looks fake. There's a weird stiffness to his neck and shoulders that makes me think of the train conductor in "Polar Express," and his eyes don't seem to focus on the same point.
I guess it's just an "uncanny valley" thing. Mama looks just like Angelina Jolie, so if there's any aspect of her appearance I don't buy, my brain shuts it off. But I don't know the guy who plays Beowulf, and when you add to that whatever minute shortcomings result from the programming that created him, my brain hits the "reject" button.
Obviously "Beowulf" is going to mint money for the next couple of weeks, and I've already heard it's given the studios some food for thought. When the author's been dead for a couple centuries, that's one last writer you have to pay!
Some projects now in the pipeline:
National Lampoon's Canterbury Tales: A road trip comedy about ramshackle van full of college students from Pilgrim College, traveling across the country to see their football team play in the Rose Bowl. When the radio goes out on the first day, the students keep things interesting by placing a series of secret bets on who will get which hot fellow traveler in the sack, which in turn leads to a never-ending series of anecdotes intended to seduce their targets (or cockblock their rivals). Look for Sarah Silverman to sign on as the Wife of Bath.
The Fairie Queene: Alan Ball is in talks to helm this allegorical tale of a Knight (Daniel Craig) who vanquishes a dragon (Helen Mirren) to win the hand of his lady (Tilda Swinton). But despite his bravery, the Knight's thoughts never stray far from his beloved Queen Elizabeth (Sir Ian McKellen).
Paradise Lost: A lot of interest in this project from George Lucas, who's looking to cast Zac Efron ("High School Musical") as the young fallen angel Satan. Lo-o-ng first half of movie follows Satan as he conducts endless strategy meetings with other angels, then there's a couple of chase scenes that lead nowhere, and finally a deafening, sfx-heavy fight sequence between the rebel angels and a God (a CGI Orson Welles).
Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God: Paul Haggis plans to write and direct this unflinching examination of how all humanity will burn in hell for its sins. Some controversy over whether Haggis crossed the line by inserting a subplot about a racist white banker (Philip Seymour Hoffman) who gets carjacked by an HIV-positive Latina social worker (Salma Hayek).
Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey: Nicolas Cage is set to star as a middle-aged accountant who, inspired by a walking tour of England, tries to correct past wrongs. In the final scene, we discover that the entire movie was the final hallucination of a man dying from autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong. David Lynch attached to direct.
(Additional reporting contributed by Michael Gerber.)
I guess it's just an "uncanny valley" thing. Mama looks just like Angelina Jolie, so if there's any aspect of her appearance I don't buy, my brain shuts it off. But I don't know the guy who plays Beowulf, and when you add to that whatever minute shortcomings result from the programming that created him, my brain hits the "reject" button.
Obviously "Beowulf" is going to mint money for the next couple of weeks, and I've already heard it's given the studios some food for thought. When the author's been dead for a couple centuries, that's one last writer you have to pay!
Some projects now in the pipeline:
National Lampoon's Canterbury Tales: A road trip comedy about ramshackle van full of college students from Pilgrim College, traveling across the country to see their football team play in the Rose Bowl. When the radio goes out on the first day, the students keep things interesting by placing a series of secret bets on who will get which hot fellow traveler in the sack, which in turn leads to a never-ending series of anecdotes intended to seduce their targets (or cockblock their rivals). Look for Sarah Silverman to sign on as the Wife of Bath.
The Fairie Queene: Alan Ball is in talks to helm this allegorical tale of a Knight (Daniel Craig) who vanquishes a dragon (Helen Mirren) to win the hand of his lady (Tilda Swinton). But despite his bravery, the Knight's thoughts never stray far from his beloved Queen Elizabeth (Sir Ian McKellen).
Paradise Lost: A lot of interest in this project from George Lucas, who's looking to cast Zac Efron ("High School Musical") as the young fallen angel Satan. Lo-o-ng first half of movie follows Satan as he conducts endless strategy meetings with other angels, then there's a couple of chase scenes that lead nowhere, and finally a deafening, sfx-heavy fight sequence between the rebel angels and a God (a CGI Orson Welles).
Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God: Paul Haggis plans to write and direct this unflinching examination of how all humanity will burn in hell for its sins. Some controversy over whether Haggis crossed the line by inserting a subplot about a racist white banker (Philip Seymour Hoffman) who gets carjacked by an HIV-positive Latina social worker (Salma Hayek).
Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey: Nicolas Cage is set to star as a middle-aged accountant who, inspired by a walking tour of England, tries to correct past wrongs. In the final scene, we discover that the entire movie was the final hallucination of a man dying from autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong. David Lynch attached to direct.
(Additional reporting contributed by Michael Gerber.)
Friday, November 16, 2007
Point/Counterpoint
MG & I saw "No Country for Old Men" last night. I won't say I liked it, because I'll never willingly watch it again. But I respect the craft and skill on display immensely. And I remain, as ever, fascinated by the Coens and excited to see what they do next.
MG's takeaway was, ahem, a little less sanguine. By way of illustration, at one point, we agreed that the last time I was as agitated by a film as he was by NCFOM, was the night I came home from a Hitchcock double feature of "I Confess" and "The Wrong Man," in that order.
As I said then, if Alfred Hitchcock were still alive and had been standing in the foyer of the crit studies screening room when I emerged, a certain bald English dude would have got a knee to the junk. At minimum.
There's no salt in the wound like the salt of a movie you don't respect being rubbed in the wound of sitting through the movie in hopes it would somehow redeem itself before the credits.
I will say, and God help me if Prof. Drew Casper, holder of the Alfred and Alma Hitchcock Chair for Filmic Studies hears me say this, that having seen the dogs of Hitchcock's career, the Coen brothers are slowly, bit by bit, evolving into better filmmakers than Hitch was in his time.
Then again, I also believe Paul Simon's solo career was vastly better than that of Paul McCartney. So what do I know?
MG's takeaway was, ahem, a little less sanguine. By way of illustration, at one point, we agreed that the last time I was as agitated by a film as he was by NCFOM, was the night I came home from a Hitchcock double feature of "I Confess" and "The Wrong Man," in that order.
As I said then, if Alfred Hitchcock were still alive and had been standing in the foyer of the crit studies screening room when I emerged, a certain bald English dude would have got a knee to the junk. At minimum.
There's no salt in the wound like the salt of a movie you don't respect being rubbed in the wound of sitting through the movie in hopes it would somehow redeem itself before the credits.
I will say, and God help me if Prof. Drew Casper, holder of the Alfred and Alma Hitchcock Chair for Filmic Studies hears me say this, that having seen the dogs of Hitchcock's career, the Coen brothers are slowly, bit by bit, evolving into better filmmakers than Hitch was in his time.
Then again, I also believe Paul Simon's solo career was vastly better than that of Paul McCartney. So what do I know?
Thursday, November 15, 2007
I'm Going Lewis Lapham On Y'All...
Slate recently observed that Lewis Lapham is addicted to reading contemporary times through the lens of ancient Rome. Thanks to my once-and-future job on "Mad Men," I have a similar problem, only my drug of choice is 20th century American History.
For example, let's toke on William Manchester's "The Glory and The Dream," 1974 edition, p. 36:
In other words, corporations thrived through out the 1920s, and passed those profits onto shareholders and executives, but neglected to pay their remaining employees a share of the growing pie. For a time, employees were able to participate in the nation's prosperity by living on credit, until the bottom fell out of the market and all the bills came due. Only then did they realize that, in fact, their real wages had not kept up with the economic growth around them.
Boy, what does that remind me of? Maybe this.
Manchester doesn't seem to have been a firebrand or a radical, and he writes a fantastically readable historical narrative. To hear him tell it, the only thing that pulled the U.S. out of the Great Depression was spending Federal money, and lots of it. In fact, throughout the late 30s, the one phrase that would inevitably make Wall Street freeze up was "balanced Federal budget."
I.e., it was only 70 years ago that corporate America was forced to learn the blunt reality that it does not good to hoard your profits if nobody is left to buy the stuff with which you generate those profits.
When an economy grinds to a halt, a rich man is just as boned as a poor man. I'm pretty sure John Maynard Keynes said that.
For example, let's toke on William Manchester's "The Glory and The Dream," 1974 edition, p. 36:
"Seen in perspective, the Depression appears to have been the last convulsion of the industrial revolution, creating a hiatus before the technological revolution. In the aftermath of the World War, the techniques of mass production combined to increase the efficiency per man-hour by over 40 percent. This enormous output of goods clearly required a corresponding increase of consumer buying power -- that is, higher wages. But the worker's income in the 1920s didn't rise with his productivity. In the golden year of 1929, Brookings economists calculated that to supply the barest necessities a family would need an income of $2000 a year -- more than 60 percent of American families were earning. In short, the ability to buy did not keep abreast of the volume of goods being turned out... Customers of limited means were being persuaded to take products anyhow, the exchange being accomplished by an overextension of credit."
In other words, corporations thrived through out the 1920s, and passed those profits onto shareholders and executives, but neglected to pay their remaining employees a share of the growing pie. For a time, employees were able to participate in the nation's prosperity by living on credit, until the bottom fell out of the market and all the bills came due. Only then did they realize that, in fact, their real wages had not kept up with the economic growth around them.
Boy, what does that remind me of? Maybe this.
Manchester doesn't seem to have been a firebrand or a radical, and he writes a fantastically readable historical narrative. To hear him tell it, the only thing that pulled the U.S. out of the Great Depression was spending Federal money, and lots of it. In fact, throughout the late 30s, the one phrase that would inevitably make Wall Street freeze up was "balanced Federal budget."
I.e., it was only 70 years ago that corporate America was forced to learn the blunt reality that it does not good to hoard your profits if nobody is left to buy the stuff with which you generate those profits.
When an economy grinds to a halt, a rich man is just as boned as a poor man. I'm pretty sure John Maynard Keynes said that.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Mission: Squashed
Huzzah! A partial solution to the great squash/sage/brown butter craving of 2007 has been found. Answer: Spaghetti squash tossed in a sage brown butter, with lots of parmesan.
Oh hell yeah.
Doesn't the existence of spaghetti squash pretty much definitively prove that God is real? I mean, what are the odds that a plant would produce a swollen fibrous sex organ that, when cooked, tastes almost exactly like a man-made food item, only more nutritious?
I am still working on some kind of dairy-free butternut squash soup concoction. It took a mash-up of three different recipes to resolve the last dilemma, so this might take a while. One I do know: Crushed Amaretto cookies WILL play a role. Oh yes.
Oh hell yeah.
Doesn't the existence of spaghetti squash pretty much definitively prove that God is real? I mean, what are the odds that a plant would produce a swollen fibrous sex organ that, when cooked, tastes almost exactly like a man-made food item, only more nutritious?
I am still working on some kind of dairy-free butternut squash soup concoction. It took a mash-up of three different recipes to resolve the last dilemma, so this might take a while. One I do know: Crushed Amaretto cookies WILL play a role. Oh yes.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Nap Time Yet?
Nikki Finke mentioned last week that USC students were using the picket lines to network "inappropriately," and I guess the LA Times is doing a story on picket line dos & don'ts, with lots of juicy stories of visiting pickets bringing their screenplays.
It would be a lot of fun to point and laugh at the clueless outsiders who think this strike is a great chance for them to break in, but as far as I can tell, these references to bad picket line behavior have no basis in fact.
I've seen my ballsiest classmate in action, and she's a model of tact and charm in motion. She spots someone, smiles, and then compliments them on something of theirs she's seen. (My God! The bloody cheek of some people! Complimenting a writer on his work!)
Meanwhile, on the line I usually visit, the writers have blown me away with their friendly welcome and encouraging offers to answer questions or introduce me around. And since I started, I've seen people will even less experience than me -- out right fans, even -- show up, do some laps, take a picture and get nothing but big smiles and thanks from the writers. Jane Espenson and John August have both mentioned on their blogs that their readers are welcome to stop by and say hi -- and they mean it!
It would be a great story if all these successful people, walking back and forth in the hot sun, turned out to be jerks, or if their supporters turned out to be self-interested boobs. But unless there's some insane hijinks at another location (CBS Radford! I'm looking at you!), I suspect it's a figment of Nikki Finke's imagination.
It would be a lot of fun to point and laugh at the clueless outsiders who think this strike is a great chance for them to break in, but as far as I can tell, these references to bad picket line behavior have no basis in fact.
I've seen my ballsiest classmate in action, and she's a model of tact and charm in motion. She spots someone, smiles, and then compliments them on something of theirs she's seen. (My God! The bloody cheek of some people! Complimenting a writer on his work!)
Meanwhile, on the line I usually visit, the writers have blown me away with their friendly welcome and encouraging offers to answer questions or introduce me around. And since I started, I've seen people will even less experience than me -- out right fans, even -- show up, do some laps, take a picture and get nothing but big smiles and thanks from the writers. Jane Espenson and John August have both mentioned on their blogs that their readers are welcome to stop by and say hi -- and they mean it!
It would be a great story if all these successful people, walking back and forth in the hot sun, turned out to be jerks, or if their supporters turned out to be self-interested boobs. But unless there's some insane hijinks at another location (CBS Radford! I'm looking at you!), I suspect it's a figment of Nikki Finke's imagination.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Christmas Wishes
On the long list of things I'd like for Christmas which no jolly fat man is capable of bringing me (an end to the strike, a fair contract for the WGA, the completion of my last assignment for Rewrite 101), there are a couple things that seem like they should be doable, if the powers that be would just *try*:
- The Treo 755p for Verizon. The last, profoundly buggy phone in this line came out... two years ago? And this version has been out on Sprint since May. And yet, no Verizon version. WTF? I mean, not like I have the cash for it anyone, but still...
- Butternut squash ravioli in a brown butter sage sauce, but with no pasta. I had a weird interaction with some meds recently, which caused me to avoid carbs for a week or so. In which time I discovered, a la Oprah, that wow, carbs really bloat you up. I'm prepared to still ration myself the odd slice of bread now and then, but I see no reason to eat half a pound of pasta just because I like the butternut squash filling. I will get to the bottom of this!
- A public transit option from Santa Monica to the Barham gate @ Universal City that doesn't take TWO FRICKING HOURS! Jesus!
- Some way for Whole Foods patrons to move through the store without getting their cart mixed up with someone else's. Someone not only shanghai'd my cart, but they took out the the spaghetti squash I'd put in there. But left everything else. And yet, I've done the same thing myself on other days. (Although I just walk away from a cart when I realize what I've done, instead of dumping the groceries I don't want and making off with it.)
- A filter that prevents you from repeatedly visiting upsetting blogs. The truth is, a sane person can only post so often. Which is fine, even if doesn't provide that much reading material. But an off-the-hook nutball will post three, four times a day, and usually on a series of outrages and universal wrongs that make, frankly, very compelling reading. Except that after a couple of hours, I'm all wrung out from empathizing and being outraged on the blogger's behalf. The truth is, I should stay away from those blogs. But I am weak. And that is why I need my computer to do my thinking for me.
- The Treo 755p for Verizon. The last, profoundly buggy phone in this line came out... two years ago? And this version has been out on Sprint since May. And yet, no Verizon version. WTF? I mean, not like I have the cash for it anyone, but still...
- Butternut squash ravioli in a brown butter sage sauce, but with no pasta. I had a weird interaction with some meds recently, which caused me to avoid carbs for a week or so. In which time I discovered, a la Oprah, that wow, carbs really bloat you up. I'm prepared to still ration myself the odd slice of bread now and then, but I see no reason to eat half a pound of pasta just because I like the butternut squash filling. I will get to the bottom of this!
- A public transit option from Santa Monica to the Barham gate @ Universal City that doesn't take TWO FRICKING HOURS! Jesus!
- Some way for Whole Foods patrons to move through the store without getting their cart mixed up with someone else's. Someone not only shanghai'd my cart, but they took out the the spaghetti squash I'd put in there. But left everything else. And yet, I've done the same thing myself on other days. (Although I just walk away from a cart when I realize what I've done, instead of dumping the groceries I don't want and making off with it.)
- A filter that prevents you from repeatedly visiting upsetting blogs. The truth is, a sane person can only post so often. Which is fine, even if doesn't provide that much reading material. But an off-the-hook nutball will post three, four times a day, and usually on a series of outrages and universal wrongs that make, frankly, very compelling reading. Except that after a couple of hours, I'm all wrung out from empathizing and being outraged on the blogger's behalf. The truth is, I should stay away from those blogs. But I am weak. And that is why I need my computer to do my thinking for me.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
You're Soaking in It!
I've been working furiously on my Rewrite homework. If this strike hadn't happened, I would now be a 60-hour-a-week writers' assistant, and that would NOT leave a lot of time for producing a revised draft of a 120 page screenplay.
The very best thing about this terrible situation is that whenever I'm feeling down about the strike, I can scare myself with the thought it will end tomorrow and I'll have to kill myself to finish my school work by the end of the semester. (It's my last assignment for my last class -- when it's done, I'll earn my MFA. So, no pressure.) And whenever I get scared about the rewrite, I think: Well, if the strike ends, at least I have my job back.
ANYWAY. Sometimes all that work wrings my little brain out like a sponge and I have to put it in a bowl of warm water for a while. Except, instead of warm water, I use finished, high quality television and movies. Last night, I caught up on "Ugly Betty" (great); "House" (fantastic); and "30 Rock" (what I hope the afterlife is like when you die.) By the time I finished watching "30 Rock," not only was I feeling much better, but I thought: Anyone who saw that is going to be really pissed at NBC for not settling with the writers when they had a chance.
You know what's NOT helpful for the aspiring writer? "Silver Streak." I heard a "Fresh Air" interview with Gene Wilder a few weeks ago and...
Wait, time out: Did you know it was Wilder's idea to insert "Puttin' on the Ritz" into "Young Frankenstein"? He wrote the screenplay and that scene, in particular, was all his. Brooks fought him on it for days before finally deciding that if Wilder wanted it that bad, it must be a good scene. The NYT's review of the musical specifically mentions THAT ONE SCENE as the only musical number really worth watching. And does Wilder get mentioned EVEN ONCE in the review? No, he does not. Because he didn't write the book. And considering the result, I have to say: MAYBE HE SHOULD HAVE.
Okay, back to the "Fresh Air" interview. Gene Wilder's talking about working with Richard Pryor on "Silver Streak" and how Pryor was concerned about Wilder's scene in black face. The two of them think it over, come up with a solution, and successfully rewrite the scene. I thought: Wow, I've got to see that movie again.
Yeah, don't. It's a piece of crap. No, worse, it's a piece of crap with large swaths stolen from "North by Northwest," such that if you'd never seen NBNW before, and you saw it afterwards, you'd be like "Wow, this is disturbingly similar to the dreadful 'Silver Streak.'" SS is so bad, it makes other, better movies not as good by extension. I still respect Pryor and Wilder for making the black face scene smarter and sharper than originally written, but I have my doubts about the wisdom of taking the job in the first place.
On the plus side (and believe me, I had to think awhile before a plus side occurred to me), it did contain the following valuable screenwriting lesson: No one wants to watch the adventures of a man so incompetent that he gets thrown off the same train twice.
Once, okay, I'll go with that.
Twice? I'm out of there. I'm gonna go watch something where the protagonist actually learns from his mistakes.
The very best thing about this terrible situation is that whenever I'm feeling down about the strike, I can scare myself with the thought it will end tomorrow and I'll have to kill myself to finish my school work by the end of the semester. (It's my last assignment for my last class -- when it's done, I'll earn my MFA. So, no pressure.) And whenever I get scared about the rewrite, I think: Well, if the strike ends, at least I have my job back.
ANYWAY. Sometimes all that work wrings my little brain out like a sponge and I have to put it in a bowl of warm water for a while. Except, instead of warm water, I use finished, high quality television and movies. Last night, I caught up on "Ugly Betty" (great); "House" (fantastic); and "30 Rock" (what I hope the afterlife is like when you die.) By the time I finished watching "30 Rock," not only was I feeling much better, but I thought: Anyone who saw that is going to be really pissed at NBC for not settling with the writers when they had a chance.
You know what's NOT helpful for the aspiring writer? "Silver Streak." I heard a "Fresh Air" interview with Gene Wilder a few weeks ago and...
Wait, time out: Did you know it was Wilder's idea to insert "Puttin' on the Ritz" into "Young Frankenstein"? He wrote the screenplay and that scene, in particular, was all his. Brooks fought him on it for days before finally deciding that if Wilder wanted it that bad, it must be a good scene. The NYT's review of the musical specifically mentions THAT ONE SCENE as the only musical number really worth watching. And does Wilder get mentioned EVEN ONCE in the review? No, he does not. Because he didn't write the book. And considering the result, I have to say: MAYBE HE SHOULD HAVE.
Okay, back to the "Fresh Air" interview. Gene Wilder's talking about working with Richard Pryor on "Silver Streak" and how Pryor was concerned about Wilder's scene in black face. The two of them think it over, come up with a solution, and successfully rewrite the scene. I thought: Wow, I've got to see that movie again.
Yeah, don't. It's a piece of crap. No, worse, it's a piece of crap with large swaths stolen from "North by Northwest," such that if you'd never seen NBNW before, and you saw it afterwards, you'd be like "Wow, this is disturbingly similar to the dreadful 'Silver Streak.'" SS is so bad, it makes other, better movies not as good by extension. I still respect Pryor and Wilder for making the black face scene smarter and sharper than originally written, but I have my doubts about the wisdom of taking the job in the first place.
On the plus side (and believe me, I had to think awhile before a plus side occurred to me), it did contain the following valuable screenwriting lesson: No one wants to watch the adventures of a man so incompetent that he gets thrown off the same train twice.
Once, okay, I'll go with that.
Twice? I'm out of there. I'm gonna go watch something where the protagonist actually learns from his mistakes.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Why We Fight
Thanks to our friend Kati, MG & I got tickets to last night's Jack Oakie Comedy Roundtable, at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences.
The speakers were phenomenal: Jim Brooks, Larry Gelbart and the acutely self-conscious Judd Apatow. (Judd's mentor Gary Shandling was in the audience and Apatow seemed almost beside himself at the apparent imbalance of his being on stage while one of the men he most admires watched from the cheap seats.)
Great questions, great discussion. For example: How funny is too funny? Is there such a thing as too funny?
Gelbart answered that you, the writer, are your only real gauge. You have to decide. Brooks agreed, and added that, generally, it's too funny if it's not character or situation driven.
During the clips, the speakers were supposed to move off stage and watch from the front row. Although a good idea in theory, going up and down the three carpeted stairs proved to be a little tricky for Gelbart. Also, an able-bodied page had wiped out on them during the opening remarks, thus planting the idea of a second fall in everyone's mind. Life: Now with useful illustrations of handy screenwriting techniques!
So for most of the clips, Gelbart just slouched down in his chair, and Apatow, like a good comedy writer, yes-anded Gelbart's decision, until the two of them were marooned on stage, waiting for the lights to go down, chins on their chests.
"We're trapped in a terrible physical gag," Apatow observed. And then, at last, the clip rolled.
Maybe the best advice of the night came from Gelbart, who was asked about how he works:
"I get up very early, 4 or 5 am. Really, it's just a sneakier way of living longer."
And on working for corporate bosses:
"Organization is the death of fun."
All three guys were so funny, and made so many deft observations about the nature of comedy, that even though everything is at a standstill ("We're striking just in time." - Gelbart), it was tremendously inspirational.
This is why there's a writers' strike. Brooks started out as a news writer; Gelbart worked for Sid Caeser; Apatow began on a sitcom. And because they were well paid for their work, they were able to keep working, keep writing, and ultimately produce movies like "Broadcast News," "Tootsie" and "Knocked Up."
The speakers were phenomenal: Jim Brooks, Larry Gelbart and the acutely self-conscious Judd Apatow. (Judd's mentor Gary Shandling was in the audience and Apatow seemed almost beside himself at the apparent imbalance of his being on stage while one of the men he most admires watched from the cheap seats.)
Great questions, great discussion. For example: How funny is too funny? Is there such a thing as too funny?
Gelbart answered that you, the writer, are your only real gauge. You have to decide. Brooks agreed, and added that, generally, it's too funny if it's not character or situation driven.
During the clips, the speakers were supposed to move off stage and watch from the front row. Although a good idea in theory, going up and down the three carpeted stairs proved to be a little tricky for Gelbart. Also, an able-bodied page had wiped out on them during the opening remarks, thus planting the idea of a second fall in everyone's mind. Life: Now with useful illustrations of handy screenwriting techniques!
So for most of the clips, Gelbart just slouched down in his chair, and Apatow, like a good comedy writer, yes-anded Gelbart's decision, until the two of them were marooned on stage, waiting for the lights to go down, chins on their chests.
"We're trapped in a terrible physical gag," Apatow observed. And then, at last, the clip rolled.
Maybe the best advice of the night came from Gelbart, who was asked about how he works:
"I get up very early, 4 or 5 am. Really, it's just a sneakier way of living longer."
And on working for corporate bosses:
"Organization is the death of fun."
All three guys were so funny, and made so many deft observations about the nature of comedy, that even though everything is at a standstill ("We're striking just in time." - Gelbart), it was tremendously inspirational.
This is why there's a writers' strike. Brooks started out as a news writer; Gelbart worked for Sid Caeser; Apatow began on a sitcom. And because they were well paid for their work, they were able to keep working, keep writing, and ultimately produce movies like "Broadcast News," "Tootsie" and "Knocked Up."
Friday, November 09, 2007
We Write! They Wrong!
I said it before, I'll say it again: If you're in L.A. and you want to be a professional writer, get yourself down to a picket line. The most fun you can have without actually having a job.
And if you do go, don't worry about networking or picking the brains of your favorite writers. Just grab a sign, get in line and learn the chants.
After a few minutes, LIKE MAGIC the folks around you will ask: "So, you working on your writing samples?" or "Have you met my colleague, (insert name of person you've admired for years here)?" It's awesome.
Of course, all good protests begin at home, and we're no different. Willa is looking for any possible opportunity to scab that might present itself. She's got one production company calling the house a couple times a day, but every time they ask for Willa, I say "Willa the cat?" Then they hang up.
(Confidential to all you folks scanning the L.A. Craigslist for non-union writers. There's a reason why Willa69's posts are so full of typos. On the Internet, no one knows you're a cat.)
Fifi, not clear on the concept, is striking for more petting. But she doesn't chant so much as run around the apartment making frantic little meows. This afternoon, she staged a sit in under my chair. I admit, I caved. The meowing was too much! I couldn't think! Damn her and her anarchist techniques!
Anna remains, as ever, committed to civil disobedience. Her protests take the form of continuing to drop tiny poops all around the litter box, but never actually inside the litter box. What does she want? I dunno, but clearly she wants it right now. Maybe yesterday.
All I can say is thank god Gandhi wasn't a cat.
And if you do go, don't worry about networking or picking the brains of your favorite writers. Just grab a sign, get in line and learn the chants.
After a few minutes, LIKE MAGIC the folks around you will ask: "So, you working on your writing samples?" or "Have you met my colleague, (insert name of person you've admired for years here)?" It's awesome.
Of course, all good protests begin at home, and we're no different. Willa is looking for any possible opportunity to scab that might present itself. She's got one production company calling the house a couple times a day, but every time they ask for Willa, I say "Willa the cat?" Then they hang up.
(Confidential to all you folks scanning the L.A. Craigslist for non-union writers. There's a reason why Willa69's posts are so full of typos. On the Internet, no one knows you're a cat.)
Fifi, not clear on the concept, is striking for more petting. But she doesn't chant so much as run around the apartment making frantic little meows. This afternoon, she staged a sit in under my chair. I admit, I caved. The meowing was too much! I couldn't think! Damn her and her anarchist techniques!
Anna remains, as ever, committed to civil disobedience. Her protests take the form of continuing to drop tiny poops all around the litter box, but never actually inside the litter box. What does she want? I dunno, but clearly she wants it right now. Maybe yesterday.
All I can say is thank god Gandhi wasn't a cat.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Fight the Power!
I will be resuming the "Perfect City" posts soon, but I had to pass this along:
Just spent the morning picketing Universal with the writing staffs of "Battlestar Galactica," "Law & Order: SVU" and "Carpoolers." The writers could not have been nicer or more welcoming, and everyone made a point of inviting me to join the email list so I would know about future demonstrations. Also, I scored some free pizza.
If you're an aspiring writer, I highly recommend checking out Jane Espenson's blog for the latest on where she's picketing and when. Even if you just stop by with cookies and some words of encouragement, your support is incredibly welcome. And if you decide to stay and carry a sign, so much the better!
Tomorrow, Friday Nov. 9, there's going to be a Guild-wide rally in front of Fox Studios (Pico and Motor), starting at 10 a.m. Assistants and SAG folks are encouraged to attend, but no matter who you are, if you support the writers, consider yourself invited.
Just spent the morning picketing Universal with the writing staffs of "Battlestar Galactica," "Law & Order: SVU" and "Carpoolers." The writers could not have been nicer or more welcoming, and everyone made a point of inviting me to join the email list so I would know about future demonstrations. Also, I scored some free pizza.
If you're an aspiring writer, I highly recommend checking out Jane Espenson's blog for the latest on where she's picketing and when. Even if you just stop by with cookies and some words of encouragement, your support is incredibly welcome. And if you decide to stay and carry a sign, so much the better!
Tomorrow, Friday Nov. 9, there's going to be a Guild-wide rally in front of Fox Studios (Pico and Motor), starting at 10 a.m. Assistants and SAG folks are encouraged to attend, but no matter who you are, if you support the writers, consider yourself invited.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
The Perfect City...
Some non-LA peeps were talking trash about the city of Angels recently. It got me thinking. The fella and I were hard pressed to think of reasons why we'd WANT to move to LA when the decision first presented itself ... wow, I guess 4 years ago now.
It took us almost a full 12 months to finally book the tickets for a quick investigative visit, and even as we slowly coasted in over the freeways and swimming pools, I felt a pang of worry that this was a terrible, terrible idea. The fella, on the other hand, got one whiff of the warm Los Angeles air as we waited for our baggage, and that was it: He was sold. When he laid eyes on the town of Santa Monica, things only got worse. If my husband could leave me for a municipality, I'd be a single woman today.
The best thing about LA, hands down, is the car-friendly urban planning. I'm not saying I wouldn't mix it up a little (thanks to Rep. Henry Waxman, it's gonna be an easy 10 years before we see any light rail out here by the ocean), but on the whole, LA beats the pants out of older, lesser cities. Chicago, for example, has a bunch of main arteries that reduce down to one lane each way in order to cross the Chicago River. That's craziness.
(AND, can you believe it, Chicago hasn't bothered to pave its river bed yet! The rubes! Where are teenagers supposed to hold their illicit drag races for pinks?)
The other thing about LA that really wins you over is the mild, sunny weather. Yes, okay, there are some really broiling months between June and August, but generally speaking, it cools off every single night. Suddenly living in a desert seems like the greatest idea ever. But the other 9 months of the year are like some kind of Utopian weather paradise. It's not just warm -- it's mild, like the first perfect April afternoon, when you realize that winter is behind you and for the next few weeks, you and the planet's climate are not going to be at odds. And the sunshine. Oh, lord, the sunshine. I wear a heavy SPF at all times, sunglasses and often a hat, but from beneath my protective layers, my heart leaps up every time I walk out of the shade into a wide, bright wall of sunlight.
I'm not kidding, it's nature's Prozac.
Coming up: Aspects of other cities that would make up this fictional "Perfect City" of which I speak.
It took us almost a full 12 months to finally book the tickets for a quick investigative visit, and even as we slowly coasted in over the freeways and swimming pools, I felt a pang of worry that this was a terrible, terrible idea. The fella, on the other hand, got one whiff of the warm Los Angeles air as we waited for our baggage, and that was it: He was sold. When he laid eyes on the town of Santa Monica, things only got worse. If my husband could leave me for a municipality, I'd be a single woman today.
The best thing about LA, hands down, is the car-friendly urban planning. I'm not saying I wouldn't mix it up a little (thanks to Rep. Henry Waxman, it's gonna be an easy 10 years before we see any light rail out here by the ocean), but on the whole, LA beats the pants out of older, lesser cities. Chicago, for example, has a bunch of main arteries that reduce down to one lane each way in order to cross the Chicago River. That's craziness.
(AND, can you believe it, Chicago hasn't bothered to pave its river bed yet! The rubes! Where are teenagers supposed to hold their illicit drag races for pinks?)
The other thing about LA that really wins you over is the mild, sunny weather. Yes, okay, there are some really broiling months between June and August, but generally speaking, it cools off every single night. Suddenly living in a desert seems like the greatest idea ever. But the other 9 months of the year are like some kind of Utopian weather paradise. It's not just warm -- it's mild, like the first perfect April afternoon, when you realize that winter is behind you and for the next few weeks, you and the planet's climate are not going to be at odds. And the sunshine. Oh, lord, the sunshine. I wear a heavy SPF at all times, sunglasses and often a hat, but from beneath my protective layers, my heart leaps up every time I walk out of the shade into a wide, bright wall of sunlight.
I'm not kidding, it's nature's Prozac.
Coming up: Aspects of other cities that would make up this fictional "Perfect City" of which I speak.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Working So Hard...
My ass hurts. From sitting. At my desk. Where I do all my writing.
Okay, technically, it's not my ass so much as the last two or three vertebrae above my pelvis. And they don't hurt so much from sitting as from the *way* I sit, which is slightly over on my right buttcheek. Not a lot, but just enough that after 8 hours of computer time... ow.
Here's how I know I've been sitting at my desk too long. I get up and do one of those kindergarten stretches where you bend from the waist and reach for your toes. At first, my hands only go to my kneecaps. Then, through the magic of gravity, my spine slowly begins to unkink, like a string of beads, and my hands will drift inexorably towards the floor.
If I do that stretch three or four times and go for a long walk, the problem generally solves itself. But yeah, it would be better to, you know, not eff up my spine in the first place.
Went to Williams - Sonoma for, ah, well, some peppermint bark, if you must know. Which I have not yet opened. I have a revolutionary plan: I will only eat 2 tins of peppermint bark between now and New Years Day. Look, I admit, that's a lot of peppermint bark. But it's also A LOT LESS than, say, maybe I ate in some years. In the past. Which are behind us now, and why not let bygones be bygones.
Waiting for a register, a woman literally drifted backwards into the line ahead of me. It was brilliant. She cut in front of me, but since she never looked around to see if anyone else was in line, technically she did nothing wrong. I'll have to remember that for next time.
As sometimes happens, a staff member saw the whole thing unfold and made eye contact with me as she said "I can take the next person over here." And then, best part, Clueless Dame strolls off to the register to take the staffer up on this offer.
The staffer looks back at me and says "Weren't you next?" And I look at the lady already planting herself at the counter, still unaware that she's now cut in front of me twice, and smile. "I think she needs help."
Which is both true, and a little bit mean, although not intentionally. I was so pleased with myself, I totally forgot all about being cut in front of and went off to my car with a song in my heart and a spring in my step.
Okay, technically, it's not my ass so much as the last two or three vertebrae above my pelvis. And they don't hurt so much from sitting as from the *way* I sit, which is slightly over on my right buttcheek. Not a lot, but just enough that after 8 hours of computer time... ow.
Here's how I know I've been sitting at my desk too long. I get up and do one of those kindergarten stretches where you bend from the waist and reach for your toes. At first, my hands only go to my kneecaps. Then, through the magic of gravity, my spine slowly begins to unkink, like a string of beads, and my hands will drift inexorably towards the floor.
If I do that stretch three or four times and go for a long walk, the problem generally solves itself. But yeah, it would be better to, you know, not eff up my spine in the first place.
Went to Williams - Sonoma for, ah, well, some peppermint bark, if you must know. Which I have not yet opened. I have a revolutionary plan: I will only eat 2 tins of peppermint bark between now and New Years Day. Look, I admit, that's a lot of peppermint bark. But it's also A LOT LESS than, say, maybe I ate in some years. In the past. Which are behind us now, and why not let bygones be bygones.
Waiting for a register, a woman literally drifted backwards into the line ahead of me. It was brilliant. She cut in front of me, but since she never looked around to see if anyone else was in line, technically she did nothing wrong. I'll have to remember that for next time.
As sometimes happens, a staff member saw the whole thing unfold and made eye contact with me as she said "I can take the next person over here." And then, best part, Clueless Dame strolls off to the register to take the staffer up on this offer.
The staffer looks back at me and says "Weren't you next?" And I look at the lady already planting herself at the counter, still unaware that she's now cut in front of me twice, and smile. "I think she needs help."
Which is both true, and a little bit mean, although not intentionally. I was so pleased with myself, I totally forgot all about being cut in front of and went off to my car with a song in my heart and a spring in my step.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Things To Do During the Writers' Strike
1. Help your former employers work on various spec projects.
2. Lend moral support by walking in picket lines*.
3. Get cracking on your homework, so you can graduate on time.
4. Always the right answer: vacuum.
5. Go to Disneyland in the middle of the week.
6. Wonder if this means you might go home for Thanksgiving after all.
7. Done vacuuming? Why not do a little laundry!
8. Make a cup of tea.
9. Try to find a screening of "Eastern Promises" before it leaves L.A.
10. Watch that three-week-old Netflix copy of "Romancing the Stone."
11. Visit the Beverly Hills Cheese Shop.
12. Consider applying for a job at the Apple Store.
13. Wish you had not killed yourself catching up on all your Tivo'd shows last week.
14. Brush the cats.
15. Vacuum again because there's cat hair everywhere.
16. Take your plastic bags to Whole Foods for recycling.
17. Balance your check book.
18. Cry.
19. Brainstorm shows you might want to spec, since you have so much free time anyway.**
And the 20th thing to do during a writers' strike...
20. Pray like hell that it all works out. And soon.
* I am going to do this, but I have to work up my nerve. Obviously every picket line in town is full of, gulp, professional writers. Very intimidating, even if the WGA has said repeatedly that it welcomes the support.
** Spec scripts as in, writing samples with which to get work when the strike is over. NOT spec scripts to sell during the strike.
2. Lend moral support by walking in picket lines*.
3. Get cracking on your homework, so you can graduate on time.
4. Always the right answer: vacuum.
5. Go to Disneyland in the middle of the week.
6. Wonder if this means you might go home for Thanksgiving after all.
7. Done vacuuming? Why not do a little laundry!
8. Make a cup of tea.
9. Try to find a screening of "Eastern Promises" before it leaves L.A.
10. Watch that three-week-old Netflix copy of "Romancing the Stone."
11. Visit the Beverly Hills Cheese Shop.
12. Consider applying for a job at the Apple Store.
13. Wish you had not killed yourself catching up on all your Tivo'd shows last week.
14. Brush the cats.
15. Vacuum again because there's cat hair everywhere.
16. Take your plastic bags to Whole Foods for recycling.
17. Balance your check book.
18. Cry.
19. Brainstorm shows you might want to spec, since you have so much free time anyway.**
And the 20th thing to do during a writers' strike...
20. Pray like hell that it all works out. And soon.
* I am going to do this, but I have to work up my nerve. Obviously every picket line in town is full of, gulp, professional writers. Very intimidating, even if the WGA has said repeatedly that it welcomes the support.
** Spec scripts as in, writing samples with which to get work when the strike is over. NOT spec scripts to sell during the strike.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
What Am I Doing This Week?
I have no idea.
No, wait, let me revise that statement.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to Costco tomorrow to buy another supervat of Tide, and subsequently doing a crap-ton of laundry downstairs.
Also, I will be spending all my free time (when I'm not fulfilling the requirements of NaBloPoMo) working on a rewrite of my thesis screenplay. When the rewrite is done and turned in, I will have completed all the necessary requirements to complete my MFA. So that's definitely on the list.
But, say, for example, am I going to get up at 7 a.m. Wednesday and drive downtown for my first official day as a full-time writers' assistant? I don't know.
Or maybe I'll have the whole day to work on my own stuff? Maybe, maybe not.
Then again, maybe my boss will call and ask me if I'd like to come over to his place and help him with some spec projects he's been toying with. Very possible, but then again, who knows?
As of this exact second, the entire striking membership of the WGA is planning to show up tomorrow at one of the designated picket lines and do a four-hour stint in front of various studios and production facilities. (And maybe corporate offices? I dunno.) But at the same time, it's an open secret that quiet discussions are taking place behind the scenes, in a desperate attempt to stop the strike before it starts.
Will the talks work? Will the talks fail? Am I fully employed or a part-time assistant?
Wait, let's ask the Magic 8 Ball...
Outcome unclear.
Dammit.
No, wait, let me revise that statement.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to Costco tomorrow to buy another supervat of Tide, and subsequently doing a crap-ton of laundry downstairs.
Also, I will be spending all my free time (when I'm not fulfilling the requirements of NaBloPoMo) working on a rewrite of my thesis screenplay. When the rewrite is done and turned in, I will have completed all the necessary requirements to complete my MFA. So that's definitely on the list.
But, say, for example, am I going to get up at 7 a.m. Wednesday and drive downtown for my first official day as a full-time writers' assistant? I don't know.
Or maybe I'll have the whole day to work on my own stuff? Maybe, maybe not.
Then again, maybe my boss will call and ask me if I'd like to come over to his place and help him with some spec projects he's been toying with. Very possible, but then again, who knows?
As of this exact second, the entire striking membership of the WGA is planning to show up tomorrow at one of the designated picket lines and do a four-hour stint in front of various studios and production facilities. (And maybe corporate offices? I dunno.) But at the same time, it's an open secret that quiet discussions are taking place behind the scenes, in a desperate attempt to stop the strike before it starts.
Will the talks work? Will the talks fail? Am I fully employed or a part-time assistant?
Wait, let's ask the Magic 8 Ball...
Outcome unclear.
Dammit.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Maybe Two Hundred Lunch Room Monitors?
After yesterday's post, I realized that I'd omitted a rather significant perk of screenwriting. You have to ruin your characters lives, but at the same time, you get to think of all the ways they can bounce back.
That is good times, no matter how you slice it. Early on, my chief demonstration of "bouncing back" took the form of a scene in which my lady hero would pound the crap out of a heavy bag. I admit, I maybe went to the heavy bag well a few times too often. But remember that I was writing short scripts for student filmmakers at the time, and we didn't have a budget for fight coordinators, so if I wanted to convey badass-itude, a heavy bag was my best option.
Anyway, this aspect of screenwriting will often lead to you watching conflicts on the street or, ahem, on reality television, and pondering all the ways it could go down, what would be most cathartic for the audience, etc.
In the last couple years, the most reliable font of conflict has been, no, not the Iraq War, although that's a good guess. No, I was going to say these yahoos.
These unholy knuckleheads picketed my sister's college graduation from the University of Michigan a couple years ago. I knew just by looking at them they were are rare bunch of nutbars. But even I didn't anticipate this new brilliant streak of anti-social mania, which has lead to the picketing of military funerals and the like.
I don't know anyone, of any faith, that can listen to these sociopaths for two minutes and not feel the urge to do violence unto the good preachers. (Most documentary footage of the protests will include at least one shot of a SuperSize Mountain Dew careening off a poster or protester, and often much worse than that.)
And I sympathize with the father who took the church to court for picketing his son's funeral. He recently won an $11 million jury award, which he hoped would teach the church a lesson. Unfortunately, I doubt very much that the church will ever pay up -- and that's even if the verdict is overturned on appeal, which is highly likely.
All of this is a long way of saying, I think I might have a possible solution to the blight of this group and their protests. It's not easily executed, and ironically, it requires an even-more-compassionate-than-usual attitude towards one's fellow man. But it's legal, and if meticulously executed, I think it might just work.
In America, you cannot prohibit people from speaking their thoughts. Nor can you restrict their rights such that they are effectively prohibited. So it's not possible to cordon the church's protesters off, or otherwise block their access to an audience. Everyone, in this country, has a right to be heard.
So here's my proposal: Volunteer squads of listeners. No, seriously. The church -- all 90 to 150 members -- should be welcome to speak their mind anywhere they see fit. But there's no reason why bands of volunteer listeners, say 200 or 300 strong, can't show up at the same time ...
And listen.
If you've ever waded through the thick crowd of bystanders watching a street performer, you know that even 50 people can make it impossible to clearly see or hear what's going on. Imagine what a crowd of 100 could accomplish? Or 200?
And the beauty part is, the listeners don't have to do anything. In fact, it's better if they don't, for obvious legal reasons pertaining to freedom of speech. And also because it's obvious that this particular group lives for stirring up conflict and controversy.) Bottom line: it's not necessary to counter-protest or heckle the protesters. Just by their very presence, the listeners will effectively dampen and conceal the church protest.
Anyone who wants to hear or see what's going on would be more than welcome to push their way to the front of the crowd, but if you don't want to waste your time, you can walk on by with only the faintest idea what all the hubbub is about. And the church would have no legal recourse, since you can't legal bar someone from listening or watching -- especially when the whole point of a protest is to be heard and seen.
It could be a whole national trend, with "I'm listening" t-shirts, and Listener Societies, and a Listener of the Year award, for the person who listens to the most insane crap without saying or doing anything in retaliation.
Okay, so maybe you're wondering: Are there 200 people in the world, much less Topeka, with the patience and strength of will to listen to hours of hate without responding or retaliating?
Good question. Are there 200 therapists in Topeka? 200 grade school teachers? 200 emergency room nurses? 200 parents of willful three-year-olds?
If someone wanted to do this, I know the volunteers could be found. You might say, I have faith.
That is good times, no matter how you slice it. Early on, my chief demonstration of "bouncing back" took the form of a scene in which my lady hero would pound the crap out of a heavy bag. I admit, I maybe went to the heavy bag well a few times too often. But remember that I was writing short scripts for student filmmakers at the time, and we didn't have a budget for fight coordinators, so if I wanted to convey badass-itude, a heavy bag was my best option.
Anyway, this aspect of screenwriting will often lead to you watching conflicts on the street or, ahem, on reality television, and pondering all the ways it could go down, what would be most cathartic for the audience, etc.
In the last couple years, the most reliable font of conflict has been, no, not the Iraq War, although that's a good guess. No, I was going to say these yahoos.
These unholy knuckleheads picketed my sister's college graduation from the University of Michigan a couple years ago. I knew just by looking at them they were are rare bunch of nutbars. But even I didn't anticipate this new brilliant streak of anti-social mania, which has lead to the picketing of military funerals and the like.
I don't know anyone, of any faith, that can listen to these sociopaths for two minutes and not feel the urge to do violence unto the good preachers. (Most documentary footage of the protests will include at least one shot of a SuperSize Mountain Dew careening off a poster or protester, and often much worse than that.)
And I sympathize with the father who took the church to court for picketing his son's funeral. He recently won an $11 million jury award, which he hoped would teach the church a lesson. Unfortunately, I doubt very much that the church will ever pay up -- and that's even if the verdict is overturned on appeal, which is highly likely.
All of this is a long way of saying, I think I might have a possible solution to the blight of this group and their protests. It's not easily executed, and ironically, it requires an even-more-compassionate-than-usual attitude towards one's fellow man. But it's legal, and if meticulously executed, I think it might just work.
In America, you cannot prohibit people from speaking their thoughts. Nor can you restrict their rights such that they are effectively prohibited. So it's not possible to cordon the church's protesters off, or otherwise block their access to an audience. Everyone, in this country, has a right to be heard.
So here's my proposal: Volunteer squads of listeners. No, seriously. The church -- all 90 to 150 members -- should be welcome to speak their mind anywhere they see fit. But there's no reason why bands of volunteer listeners, say 200 or 300 strong, can't show up at the same time ...
And listen.
If you've ever waded through the thick crowd of bystanders watching a street performer, you know that even 50 people can make it impossible to clearly see or hear what's going on. Imagine what a crowd of 100 could accomplish? Or 200?
And the beauty part is, the listeners don't have to do anything. In fact, it's better if they don't, for obvious legal reasons pertaining to freedom of speech. And also because it's obvious that this particular group lives for stirring up conflict and controversy.) Bottom line: it's not necessary to counter-protest or heckle the protesters. Just by their very presence, the listeners will effectively dampen and conceal the church protest.
Anyone who wants to hear or see what's going on would be more than welcome to push their way to the front of the crowd, but if you don't want to waste your time, you can walk on by with only the faintest idea what all the hubbub is about. And the church would have no legal recourse, since you can't legal bar someone from listening or watching -- especially when the whole point of a protest is to be heard and seen.
It could be a whole national trend, with "I'm listening" t-shirts, and Listener Societies, and a Listener of the Year award, for the person who listens to the most insane crap without saying or doing anything in retaliation.
Okay, so maybe you're wondering: Are there 200 people in the world, much less Topeka, with the patience and strength of will to listen to hours of hate without responding or retaliating?
Good question. Are there 200 therapists in Topeka? 200 grade school teachers? 200 emergency room nurses? 200 parents of willful three-year-olds?
If someone wanted to do this, I know the volunteers could be found. You might say, I have faith.
Friday, November 02, 2007
AVOCA, on Suffolk St., If You're Curious
I lost an awesome scarf last month. Totally on an impulse, I grabbed it out of the closet and threw it around my neck just as we were running out the door to the airport. Got on the plane, got hot, took off the scarf and threw it on the seat next to me. Three hours later, tired and bored, I staggered off the plane without a look back. The minute I threw my suitcase in the back of the cab, I knew what I'd done, and I knew there was no way I could get back to the gate -- the only boarding pass I had was for Long Beach Airport, several thousand miles away.
For the next week, I traded voicemails with O'Hare and JetBlue, and at one point, reached a woman who was physically holding her scarf in my hand as we spoke on the phone. She told me she was storing the scarf in a drawer in JetBlue's baggage office and I could stop by and get it anytime. Every part of that last sentence turned out to be wrong: The scarf vanished without a trace, never to be found again.
I'm sick about it, still. I bought the scarf in a cute shop in Dublin when I was visiting my sister, and it was, in many ways, the apotheosis of my personal aesthetic. It was wooly, and lavender, with stripes of pink, aqua and green. As in "The Big Lebowski," it tied together literally dozens of different outfits. And in the blink of an eye, I lost it forever. The incompetence of JetBlue didn't help matters, but in the end, I left it on the plane, and I'm to blame.
The terrible thing (and I mean terrible in its original meaning, causing or likely to cause terror), the terrible thing about screenwriting is that a big part of my job is crafting scenarios just like the previous three paragraphs, only worse and more frustrating, and usually involving things more significant than a scarf. It's a form of hell, really. I'm a deeply conflict averse person, who mourns lost opportunities and past mistakes as if they were teeth pulled in the course of a decade-long torture session. And yet every day, I open a can of whup-ass on poor, unsuspecting bastards who had the bad luck to end up in my screenplay.
The good news is that there's usually a happy ending at the end of the road. In my case, I called the shop in Dublin and got them to send me a scarf that, I'm willing to bet, is either the exact same pattern as the lost scarf, or so close that it makes no difference.
For the next week, I traded voicemails with O'Hare and JetBlue, and at one point, reached a woman who was physically holding her scarf in my hand as we spoke on the phone. She told me she was storing the scarf in a drawer in JetBlue's baggage office and I could stop by and get it anytime. Every part of that last sentence turned out to be wrong: The scarf vanished without a trace, never to be found again.
I'm sick about it, still. I bought the scarf in a cute shop in Dublin when I was visiting my sister, and it was, in many ways, the apotheosis of my personal aesthetic. It was wooly, and lavender, with stripes of pink, aqua and green. As in "The Big Lebowski," it tied together literally dozens of different outfits. And in the blink of an eye, I lost it forever. The incompetence of JetBlue didn't help matters, but in the end, I left it on the plane, and I'm to blame.
The terrible thing (and I mean terrible in its original meaning, causing or likely to cause terror), the terrible thing about screenwriting is that a big part of my job is crafting scenarios just like the previous three paragraphs, only worse and more frustrating, and usually involving things more significant than a scarf. It's a form of hell, really. I'm a deeply conflict averse person, who mourns lost opportunities and past mistakes as if they were teeth pulled in the course of a decade-long torture session. And yet every day, I open a can of whup-ass on poor, unsuspecting bastards who had the bad luck to end up in my screenplay.
The good news is that there's usually a happy ending at the end of the road. In my case, I called the shop in Dublin and got them to send me a scarf that, I'm willing to bet, is either the exact same pattern as the lost scarf, or so close that it makes no difference.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Pant...Pant...Am I Too Late?
I almost forgot about NaBloPoMo, or National Blog Posting Month, which is the less intensive version of NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. But thank goodness, I remembered just in the nick of time.
I did this last year and I have to say, I found it really helpful. A ton of writers' guides will tell you to journal or do morning pages or the like, and that's all well and good, but without some kind of concrete goal, it never gets done.
But the beauty part is? Once I get cracking first thing in the morning, I generally keep going for the rest of the day. So it's a great way to jump start the day's writing.
And who doesn't like that?
I did this last year and I have to say, I found it really helpful. A ton of writers' guides will tell you to journal or do morning pages or the like, and that's all well and good, but without some kind of concrete goal, it never gets done.
But the beauty part is? Once I get cracking first thing in the morning, I generally keep going for the rest of the day. So it's a great way to jump start the day's writing.
And who doesn't like that?
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