Strawberry Stockings

He was Ranger Series 8
survey/recon on the verdant plumey world.
A globe of lettuce and shrub-brush.
Only the laser-slashed paths his roto-van took
separated man from greenery.
He had been stationed here for close to a year,
just he & his thoughts & wayward memories.
Cold-war photographs of another time,
dinner parties & chrome ceiling lights...
a voice like a paintbrush
a touch like a silver spider
a kiss like cinnamon & wet shrapnel.

Alone now in the van compartment,
feeding visual documentation into the computer,
he was thwarted at every turn.
The cineraria burst into ash before him,
the turret blazing a precise path.
But he was directionless.
There was this world out there
and the tiny, cloistered thing that was now just
lax recollection.
Romantic perfumes and epic scales.
He felt like he would go mad if it continued.

When he came to the road he was stunned.
It was two lanes wide and paved w/ fossilized fuels.
He distended the turret
and emerged from the thatch and pelt.
He drove freely along uncharted terrain.
After a while, he even discontinued the datamark.

How long did he travel so?
Eternal magic hour
the planet's sun in a constant unchallenged headlock,
its pink and rosey rays painting the sky,
light as spilled dashes of wine.
(he could see the sky...he could see the sky!)
No tropicana blotting the vertical.
Nothing but this strange, unexplored road.

The first girl he passed was barely adolescent,
the second was his age a decade back.
The third...

He passed these creatures
and more emerged.
It would be barren & quiet for long intervals,
merely the lick of the wheels on the packed surface,
the acceleration of the engine...
and then when he barely held out hope
another would emerge.

Girls like stalks,
long-legged things w/ furnace red hairs
and lacey blonde brows.
Battering lashes and sashays...
They were incredibly young
and vibrated thermo-nuclear hearts.
A pack of lavender eyes.
All of them stripped and bare
except for peppermint-striped stockings
or sheer pink hoisery.

He couldn't stop-- he musn't.
They were indigenous
and it became alarmingly clear...
that the more his thoughts strayed,
the more arcane, aged memory he dredged up...
the more & many emerged.
They postured patiently alongside,
the uncut foliage shielding them in perpetual twilight.
The roto-van scurried past them
& nary an eye glance nor acknowledgement
did he grant.
Oh no.

The smell permeated the compartment,
his fingers tight on the wheel sweated the reek...
a call of strawberries.
A sirensong as potent as liquid.

Now the computer failed
and when he finally tried the radio distress
or dry fired the lasers in the midst
nothing worked.
Just the span of wheel over mantled earth,
the steady headlong plight.
It continued all throughtout that long twilight,
maidenheads and unsheathed curls
and a smell like powdered summer.

The last girl stepped out into his pathway
she was still a distance
but he could see her blank, new look...
her desireable traces.
The vinework twisted 'round her perfect waist.
The elastics holding her legs.
He would not brake
He would--

More Bad Dreams Lead To Good Ideas

This from Thanksgiving night,
no doubt abetted by gluey stews &
gastrointestinal discomfort.

I'm in a gymnasium
very much reminiscent of Martin E. Young
Elementary School.
I'm standing on a heavy, nondescript desk
& painting? the egg-white walls
very reminiscent of the office in Oak Square apartment.
I'm one of a half-dozen janitors
dressed in ill-fitting grey jumper suits.
The others prattle on in Portugese,
they are dark-skinned w/ unkempt thick black hair.
There is a cry, then a scream
as the man next to me loses his balance on the desk
he's standing on...
he falls back and lands on a trident of up-raised spokes,
corkscrew-like forks of rusted ironwork.
The man's stomach is punctured
and a brown seeping fluid (gravy) foams out of him.
It is violent and horrible and I wake up.

Yesterday, I'm working...
5 1/2 hours of keeping-my-head-above-water
taking pictures of billboards in Brockton & Taunton.
I'm ruminating about the dream.
What if whenever a person slept
and dreamed of such an accident
someone in real life actually had that accident?
What if the person realized this
and fought against sleep?
What would this tug-of-war of conscience &
eventual exhaustion be like?
So there you go-- either a short story
or segment #4 in the revolving door of the "Night Gallery" script.

99.9% of my ideas comes from dreams
either visuals or some crystalline-like plotlines
that have me wondering
how the heck did I literally dream up that?
The opening image of Lil' Moe singing the anthem
in full spacesuit attire from "AERO"
came from a dream circa 1993 Chicago.
Maybe that was the year that kicked it all off...
I even kept a dream journal during those months.
Sleeping all the time then
when I wasn't working on Sunday mornings in
the Mercantile Exchange
called in at the last minute...
or clubbing @ Neo no matter what the night.
Just to get out & be among people,
even if I never talked to anyone
even if they were always going to be strangers.
Crying myself to sleep on the apartment floor,
hypnotized by my sheer spectacle...
like let's see if I can create a pool of tears on the
waxed floorboards.
And I'd fall asleep or if I'd been drinking
pass out...
and dream these horrible, rending dreams.

And since I didn't have a TV at the time
and was extrememly broke...
I'd jot down everything & from there
type type type on my old electric typewriter
the same one that got me through college
before laptops or even a word processor.
I didn't even have a table
so I'd put the typewriter on a trunk
and bent over
I'd manifest my inner head.
It was acutely back-breaking.
Nothing comfortable in the position
but the scripts needed to come out.
The earliest drafts of "April Land" (then "Wasteland")
came to me that way.

I haven't been that fevered since
as if my life depended upon it.
And this year has been exceptionally terrible for writing.
But the dreams still come
and I always note the good 'uns.
I maintain my reservoir of ill illusions.

The Mist

The best horror movie I've seen this year.
One of the best movies this year-- period.
I was physically shaking during it...
the film was that intense.
Go see it. Go see it. Go freakin' see it.

No Tofurkey For You!

Cops directing traffic
in and out of the supermarket lots last night.
Even though work lets me out early @ noon,
I work until mid-afternoon...
taking the long way home to hit Whole Foods
& Trader Joes.
I park the work truck blocks away from WF,
hoof it thru the adjacent packed Marty's Liquors lot.
Middle-aged WASPS narrowly miss me,
their convertibles darting into available spaces
at the cost of life, limb & pedestrian.
I find nothing in the store-- just meaty product.
Even down the street @ TJ's
all I discover is Tofurkey Italian sausage.
No soy turkey kits. No alt edibles.

I end up in Braintree & try the Shaws there.
Tofukey giblets & gravy in the Organic Foods aisle
is the sum total of my success.
So I stock up on glazed carrots & green beans,
indulge in carb-thick scalloped potatoes &
mushroom & onion stuffing.
I shall feast on sides then.
And for the immediate fix-- Chinese food.

*******************************************

I jog Thanksgiving morning all the way to Rosche Bros
but it's truly closed for the holiday.
There's only an old man in the lot collecting cans.
Timmy's Nails is open,
as is The Video Store/Lottery & the carribean eatry
but downtown 'dolph feels like Atlantic City out of season.
A dying Springsteen town
full of gulls & smashed vodka bottles.
It's unseasonably warm all of a sudden,
and I'm severly over-dressed in my heavy Clear Channel
sweatshirt & multi-layers.
More to sweat off then.
I exceed the 30 minute mark & I'm hurting...
but I prompt myself w/ a recent comparison:
saleswoman @ work coming off a week of walking pneumonia
ran 13 miles!
(granted, she's run marathons BUT...)
I can't lapse.
I can't stop.
Running as metaphor for drive...
everything screaming @ you to stop,
even if it's a measly 1/2 hour of exertion
before the latter gorging.

Later this morning I check Steve's upload
for the latest cut of "Water and Wood" video.
Ugg.
So ugg.
I have to watch the original Aug cut to placate myself.
I'll have time tomorrow to view & note & go over unused footage
but the last editing session has smeared crapola on the windows,
doorknobs & pillows.
The flow is gone.
The "narrative" drive?
Just static shots & amatuer greenscreen.
I have to be professional about this.
I have to sit in next time
even though all I'll be contemplating is my cut.
Do I really want to submit what we have to SXSW?
The Dec 7th deadline is coming...
I don't know if we'll have suitable entry.
My cut-- yes. But that comes 2nd.
Ugg.

All over the place w/ this entry.
Must be hungry.
The taint of dad's cooking in the air.
His turkey.
But it fills the hall w/ Thanksgiving.

Emo Is NOT An Energy

Well that was anti-climactic...
A cancels @ 5:15PM.
I'm an hour 45 min down I-93/SE-XWay
having left work early
just so I could park the work truck in Braintree
& take the T back into town.
We chat for a few minutes--
"What's going on?"
& I'm listing my annual accomplishments.
Nearing the Braintree split the traffic grows panicky & dense
& we say our respective "so long's".
I'll aim for New Years in Montreal
but money will be a prime factor.

So this is all par for the course...
nothing happening. Constant stasis.
Set-up meetings but ultimate no-shows.
A plenum in the editing suite
w/ all this work-- "AERO", the music vids, my reel
but nowhere to go until the tab is paid.
No fest circuit, no screenplay comp wins
just the 'dolph of my suspended adoloscence...
a purgatory of doubts & soft whining.

Haven't been too inspired w/ the blog this time round.
This past month's typings just a series of slots...
tapping & plugging the empty, fermented air.
Not a whole lot to report either 'tween projects.
I mean, my life is pretty listless.
What did I do in my free time yesterday,
when I wasn't meeting w/ A?
Did I go to glorious places & meets kings & princes
& imbue golds?
No, the steady regulatory diastole of my existence
is canned soups & Monday mornings.
The depression isn't inspiring.
Do you really want to hear how I watched the end
of Woody Allen's "Everything You Wanted To Know About Sex
*But Were Afraid To Ask"?
Or that I got gooey & nostalgic for childhood &
watched the recent Children Need's Special w/
Tennant's Doctor #10 meeting Peter Davison's #5
(3) times yesterday? Even right before I went to bed.
Oh what a dream job Russell T. Davies has.
What a veritable cosmos.

Yup, that's me.
Watch watch watch...
filler food as Netflix & library rentals.

I am driven by my temper.
This blah of daily existence is horrible.
"What I Did..." was (5) years of showing Carolyn & Chicago
"Look what I can do!".
And "AERO" has been nothing less...
K settling for lowest common comfort
while I push & push & break to the next level
(hopefully).
My ego unchecked is a madman w/ a mic &
I shall rage against the storm...
but the past (6) years has taken its toll.
My anger is tanned & thin tin
& there is little left but residual impulse at times.
Meanwhile, the sadness & the second-guessing
(what if I had re-located to London in my 20's?
why I'd have Davies' job!)
is constant.

But I am reminded of the old caution--
"Every day you don't write, the bastards win".
So this blog will continue, y'all.
At least until tomorrow.

A & Me

A is in town tonight...briefly.
Flying down from Montreal, then hopping on a bus
for New Hampshire & family.
I'm meeting her for dinner &
I'm already doing the prep--
Radius & Les Zygomates are both high-end
Leather District restaurants
but way beyond my alloted sums this week.
Looks like The Good Life...
funny, I might've scouted a location w/ her there
for Leah Callahan music vid back in the day?
Or potential fundraiser location?
I distinctly remember being shown the lounge
downstairs.
Lots of David Lynch velvet curtain & mood lights,
like a buried lamp burning bright in the coalbin.

A is one of my oldest friends...
well the "new-wave" of post-collegiate acquaintances.
The hard ones to make,
not brought together by alma mater or childhood.
Just life's hijinks & randomness.
I met A via a friend
but I couldn't tell you if it was at @ club or loft party
that I initially meeted & greeted.
A used to live in Boston in a fantastic space,
right above Boston Beerworks in the Fenway.
I attended many parties there--
the New Years w/ the time tunnel entrance
& the endless runs of summer which spilled out onto the balcony...
so you could sightline down all of Landsdowne Street.
All the 90's people.
Coming off my self-hatred Manray years,
A was my keyhole into the cosmopolitan--
wine-tasting & piano recitals & the upper cut.
I always felt the po' boy South Shorer then,
muddying the finely shined floorboards w/ by workboats &
excuses.

A handled PR on the 2nd "What I Did..." fundraiser.
The PR-end of things went well.
The rest...well not so much
(the fundraiser ultimately needed a fundraiser).
She & later Karen Ellis slicked up the Lost Jockey stickers
& business cards & print acumen.
I stayed in touch w/ A even after losing touch w/ our mutual friend
even after she moved to Montreal on her 30th B-Day.
I see her rarely,
trying my darndest to get up there for New Years Eve.

She knows the most attractive people.
She's my mambo stick for where I want to be in life...
a self-sufficient sleek work station.
Now she dabbles in indie film,
exec. producing a feature last year.
I wonder if that was my influence?
I always like to keep her updated on my projects...
she certainly networks.
I even showed her "AERO" rough cut last trip up +
left her copies of both "April Land" & "Dr. Spooky" scripts.
She has been a good friend & it's hard to believe
I've known her for nearly a decade.
Wowsers.

Sick Cats & The Eye Of Deer

On my 10th birthday

a rainy sleety weekday morning

I found Dum-Dum the cat dead in my grandmother's

casement window.

There was blood around his tiny black nose...

the only visible evidence of a hit n' run.

I don't know why I was combing through the brush

outside 23 Cole...

Was it a place I had seen Dum-Dum retreat to in the past?

Was there some neighborly eywitness account?

I can't remember.

All I can recall is that the discovery was minutes

before I was due at school

and the rain was picking up.

I do recall a certain pride in telling my teacher &

fellow 4th graders of my birthday misfortunes

rattling them off-- rainy day, dead pet, etc.

I was in a kind of shock, I guess.

Dum-Dum was the 1st real pet I had growing up...

I didn't fathom his feline predecessor, Garbage

(great names, huh? that's my dad)

or really count the anonymous chickens & rabbits

(well, except Henrietta the Hen)

so Dum-Dum's sudden demise was startingly.

And finding the body amid the decomposed leaves,

a foot-and-a-half already below ground level,

was jarring.

A few people at work last week were talking about cats--

how they'll withdraw into the wild when deathly sick.

Private to the end. A kind of grace too.

Who wants to watch kitty in the corner,

vomitting its own guts

or squealing like a child?

Was the casement window as far as Dum-Dum could get?

His insides mashed...ribs puncturing lungs & heart w/

every step.

And the drop into the window space?

He must have died upon shuddering fall.

I've been entertaining fantasies...

a winter field in upstate New York.

Perhaps a far-off window light,

its gleam more pronounced as the early day ends.

I could even have a bonfire!

Burn that behemoth Independence shuttle

just so I'd know it was truly over.

Wine or beer or champagne?

What would I salute to? And a pinned letter?

But these are only fantasies & I hold nothing back in this blog.

Better here, right?

And then Saturday morning...

I had waken again in the wee hours

read a couple Daredevil comic books until I went back to bed.

Re-woke @ 7:30AM

(late for me, even on the weekend)

and this was the 1st thing I saw outside my window--

*OK. Pic attach won't work. It boots it up to top &

double-spaces everything. Dang.

A freakin' deer.

It looked at me through (4) inches of uncurtained window space

& I looked back.

Took its photo.

It hung out another moment,

then bolted around the house.

Just like that it was over.

But its eye

appraising my danger level...

I don't believe in signs

like a certain radio song coming on when you want it

or a phone call from a distant someone someone

exactly at the moment their name pops into your head.

And deja vu is a scientific thing

a chemical misfire in the brain,

that swaps long-term memory w/ short-term.

But I had been feeling lousy all week...

postpartum shooting blues?

Only alive when the camera's rolling?

And that deer...

well, it was exactly what I needed.

Just enough to keep the ball rolling.

K & Me

I meet K in the lobby of Boston Common Loews
or is it AMC as the later screen display envisions?
She has bought another pair of black boots,
& hustles over from Downtown Crossing while I
buy tix & wait.
I took the Red Line in from Braintree,
trying desparately to get page count on Faulkner book.
I read all of (3) pages on the ride into town.

The line is full of old men & misbegottens--
pickled faces dying of cancers & age acne.
Although the theatre is literally next to Emerson College,
the net sweeps the Commons & Chinatown...
I remember going to a matinee here & a homeless man
slept on in the front row,
never even wakening once the movie was over.
There are a smattering of college age kids
but most are probably already en route home for the holidays.

K shows & we ascend to the top floor.
There are concession stands every 100 feet it seems,
even in the "wing" our movie is on.
Blueberry Hawaiian Punch & $2.00 bottled waters,
curly fries & poured cheeses.
A calorie counter for the obese & listless watchers.
No Taco Bell or KFC tie-ins, though.

The movie is horrible.
"Southland Tales" proves a big, sprawling mess
right from the initial 10 mins of vid game prologue
& set-up.
There are some unexpected performances ie. Jon Lovitz
but there is no character to root for, to understand.
The Rock is miscast & given nothing to do but literally
twiddle his thumbs.
Oh well. That's 2 for 2-- the last stinker K & I saw
was "The Black Dahlia".
I won't read too much into our movie picks.

K is fortunate. Although she parked @ a 2 hour meter
& although she is almost another 2 hours late getting back,
there is no parking ticket.
It must be too cold for even the meter maids.
I am woefully underdressed &
the wind chill blasts my chest.
I am reminded of the unnatural wind tunnels of downtown
Chicago...
the slamming, fierce cold.

We go to a Quincy Mex place--
& I watch my weight.
Only grilled salmon ala Ensalada de Pescado.
K compliments me on the sideburns a couple times,
even though the left-side one refuses to grow through.
She gets a call from John mid-meal & answers cautiously,
& in the midst of the talk a timetable is set.
We have 45 mins to wrap it up.
"Does John know we were meeting?" I ask.
"Well, I thought I'd be going into work at first..."
and there it is.
Pretense. She rapidly changes topics until we're discussing
the restaurant's heating.
Then we're done & everything's still on even-keel,
no changes to the status quo.
And she drops me off @ the T.

This is my social life. Over by mid-afternoon
on a Saturday.
Today I work in Worcester to kill the time.
Not looking forward to the long Thanksgiving.

Walter Sickert & The Army of Broken Toys Music Video Part 7

We have a dozen cut-aways to cover on Sunday.
We shoot in the band's Allston apartment.
Non-descript black backdrops w/ some lighting FX,
some gobo rotator...
a little dash of this
even a snag of "AERO" for the trailer
(I have the camera & means & I need close-ups of
both a vintage radio & TV).
It's simply me, Stu & Steve.
Walter & Edrie entertain Larry & Diane in the practice room
as we confiscate the living room.

Props & dolls make their debuts.
The navy clock is courtesey of one of the sales folk @ work.
The metronome is via Juliet & a friend of a friend.
The assorted dolls are a mix of Walter & Edrie's stage show
& left-overs from "AERO" workshop scene.
It is entirely downhill from Sat's shoot.
Cut-aways of inanimate objects in a heated location?
No--problem!

There is chili on the stove-- meat & veggie to the left.
Delicious.
Steve edits in the kitchen some more w/ a bowl in his hand.
We hear Walter's voice in mock Mexicali--
strumming a guitar along w/ his dinner...
"Oh, my roof is on fire. My house is on fire."
I'm envious of the cosy tones coming from around the corner--
to relax, enjoy.
As straight-forward as the shooting is...
even a generous late start of 1PM...
I am bone-tired & clenched.
So much still to do.

Toward the end, I feel like guests overstaying their welcome
as the band & confidants meander back into the kitchen.
Chatting, a bit buzzed & joking.
There I am setting up a roll of babyheads on the sofa,
like something from a Curve album cover.
But Steve will need every cut-away I can give him...
and I have Stu gets endless variations of 2-shots, singles, ECU's.
It's only HD, right?

Minus the bags of leaves & Sat-specific props,
I now have room in the car for everything...
well, except those damn tracks.
We leave the tracks @ the apartment.
Rule is fortunately 10 mins away &
I'll return in the AM for a 2nd trip.
Then hoof it to the 'dolph & ALPS.
Then Monday afternoon is edit time w/ Annette.
The checklist continues.
We won't emerge unscathed--
I'll get a call mid-week from Rule that one of the back-up batteries
is dinted...
a $5 rental will morph into $105 (incl. tax!) replacement.
But we'll have done it again.
Shot--locked--loaded.
Building my reputation like a great Sphinx head,
doing as I say. Walking, not merely talking.
And, in the end, no matter how much editing is still in store...
that is the most important thing.

Walter Sickert & The Army of Broken Toys Music Video Part 6

It's soon unbearingly cold once the sun goes down.

Although we have (3) space heaters the lights are
already taking too much power.
We blow the circuit several times throughout the day...
the only solace are those minutes 'tween set-ups
when we can re-direct power.
We concoct "downtime" area in corner of barn.
The high-concept is that the corner will trap the heat
once we flick on a single space heater.
The band is shivering,
ultimately donning blankets like Inuit.
They huddle in the corner w/ friends Larry & Diane.
I'm particularly concerned w/ Edrie,
her neck & shoulders exposed.
I check in w/ her throughout the shoot,
but she nods OK, OK...

We go two hours over.
E. Stephen & gal show up @ 7:30PM to collect trunks
& misc. art stuffs.
I get the leaf blower shot done while he watches...
although it's Edrie who discovers the most natural approach
via bounce card,
huffing stale leaves over wood slats in perfect close-up.
The blower has all the subtlety of a fire hydrant blast.

The gobo rotator is phenominal
& surprisingly quick to shoot.
I run the whole song in just a couple sections,
while Stu in-outs his favored handheld shots.

Sasha has to leave shortly after we break.
John cannot help w/ equipment return.
People start to peel away like rose petals.
Cold, icy rose petals.
But we wrap & piece by piece
the equipment is loaded back into the car.
The tracks & a couple c-stands are the only hold-outs
but Stu fits them in his hatchback.

About an hour before we wrap I have Larry go for
a beer run.
The Sam Adams I'll drink as I neaten & pack
is the most frigid beer I've ever had in my life.
My teeth feel like popsicles
& the alcohol lands in my stomach w/a thud,
plump snowbank dropping off a rooftop.
Crew sip & break-down...
keeping the lights on until the last possible moment.
The spectrum of our existence closes in,
retreating toward the awaiting doors.

Betty Ann & her husband show up...
there is much concern over the garbage.
I scrunch everything into one man-sized bag,
& it's relocated to lounge.

Steve uploads the last of the P2 cards.
We've shot (6) that day-- about an hour and 1/2
of footage for a (4) min song.
The forewarned birthday party @ the lounge
is finally in full swing by the time Steve leaves.
Holed up in the office he's isolated...
even cuts footage.
Despite the brassy laughs of adults
& drunked Pictionary.

Stu & I dump the remaining leaves in back of the barn
(Betty Ann: "Don't forget your leaves!")
It's strangely reminiscent of toxic waste dumping...
only Stoneham foliage in Central Mass.
Messing the topography.
What are we doing to the poor eco-system?

I hand off keys to Betty Ann & husband.
All that's left is to secure barn doors & padlock.
Drive home.
And begin it all again tomorrow in Allston.

TO BE CONCLUDED

Walter Sickert & The Army of Broken Toys Music Video Part 5

Walter Sickert & The Army Of Broken Toys Music Video Part 4

Flashback.

I'm trying to remember how I initally met
Walter & Edrie.

I distinctly remember seeing them perform
@ the late, lamented SkyBar.
Heck. I took notes...
even then inkpen sketches for a music video,
cobbling visuals & concepts.
Here. One of my half-dozen or so mini-pads
reads Jan 18, 2007.
>faces coming in & out of shadow, lurking
>precursor: Walter vocal intro?
>desk/keyboards progressively lower, Walter hulking over
>"Rocket Man" multi-images Walter
>would like track w/ Edrie backing vox

I may have intro'd myself after their set.
This was, after all, fairly early in the new year
& I was full of resolution ie. network!
Or it may have been via K...
I honestly don't recall.
Whatever the case, I was inclined to meet
as soon as possible.
Their live set was jarring.
Of course all the high concept was there--
and the x-references (Dresden Dolls, White Stripes)
BUT
male & female duo
w/ many many many mic'ed toys ie.
chimpanzees clashing cymbals
Fisher Price record player scraping by
kazoos and "ma-ma!" dolls.
Odd squawks in the murk.
Neither Walter nor Edrie pin-up types
but each in his/her own way...
a confessional kilowatt.

Walter's a bear-like man,
glasses, dreds, and the constant post-apocalyptic
overcoat...
a wardrobe bathed in chemical mustard gas &
brick dust.
In person, he's extremely soft-spoken...
a gent w/ a wicked sense of humor.
Edrie (who I address as "Edrie" on-set, in front of crew
but prefer the norm "Sarah") is stout & determined.
She feels like manager/agent/driving force...
all the show E-M's come from her
all the managerial planning & product placement.
She's more forthcoming in writing than in person.
I don't know if this is shyness or reserve...
I always feel like she's someone at an office party I'm talking to.

I meet w/ both @ their Allston apartment in Feb 2007.
It will be the 1st of several meetings & party attends.
Their bookshelves are aligned w/ volumes of Nancy Drew
and polymer figurines.
Walter's artwork is arranged on the walls--
reedy figures on literal pins
sharp jagged teethbites
and hanging men.
Ed Gorey meets "Nightmare Before Christmas"
by way of the troubled 3rd-grader in the back row,
carving the desk w/ his own isolation.
There's a cat somewhere--
"Taxidermy" or "Taxi" for short...
a fluffy friendly thing like a electrified Gene Wilder hairpiece.
"Taxi" hops up onto the sofa as I give my pitch,
show the monologue clip from "AERO".
All goes well.

We originally schedule a shoot for early summer
but the timetable will change several times over the next few months
w/ "AERO" Final Model FX, Annette's video.
It will constantly seem like the project that is many months afar...
when early November rolls around I'm stunned!
The long escalator ride is now a step-up entrance
& I feel so behind.
But all's gradually in place over these months...
the 2 pp of storyboards per week in Sep & Oct.
The budget & equipment updates in Oct.
The tick-tick of GETTING-IT-DONE.

Edrie is proactive.
She secures the barn location early on.
She follows up w/ Peggy, the website woman
who will be handling the video's animation.
I cc Walter in all E-M correspondence but it is always Edrie
I'll ask the multiple questions.
The band is a far cry from Annette...
mid-20's & in the thick of ambition.
Poor but hungry.
They'll have the next couple years to make/break this music thing
& they seem to know it.
Constantly touring--even in Europe & the West Coast.
The name-dropping & pen-pal'ing ie. Tiger Lillies, Amander Palmer
The music video is another device
to get the word out.
Holding on album #2 until the promotion is strong.
I admire them.
I empathize w/ them.

***********************************************

OK. Where was I?
Oh yes. The music video shoot was just about to begin.

TO BE CONTINUED

Walter Sickert & The Army of Broken Toys Music Video Part 3

Sorry. Cheap cliffhanger.
The cola jolt of sound I hear--
the angry "wonk" of displacement
is nothing more than the sweep broom
toppling from the stable area wall below.
The dopey top-heavy, unbalanced thing
sends my heart racing.
But w/ Stu still on the line,
I ultimately figure out the fusebox;
it takes a combination of switches thrown
to ignite all of two clamp lights.
But that is enough.
I have light.

I'm on the phone w/ Edrie in the car
when e. stephen's van roars down the embankment
behind me.
A steel black leviathan in the night.
Out pops e. stephen & his gal,
reminding me of Paul & Martina circa 1992.
Even the back of the van has the charnal smell
of dead spliffs & patchouli.
For all this waiting & heightened expectation
the sum total art department contribution is 2 trunks
& an electric leaf blower;
granted, inside one of the trunks are a couple of
magnificent metal cage sculptures
that I'll frame quite prominently--
a blind-eyed chimpanzee & a gorgon head
spouting fingertips & baby elbows for hair.
e. stephen is in the Pan 9 camp
he is a Walter & Edrie recommend.
Jolly enough on the phone & in person,
a bit of a Chatty Kathy, truth by told.
The first image that comes up on his website
is a nude self-portrait
a melange of melted oils & Christ pose...
I'm thankful I didn't do my on-line research @ work!

That is it. Once the sculptures are in place,
the trunks secured...
I lock up the barn for the night.
Crew call is less than 8 hours away
and I still have a long ride home.

*******************************************

I have that heightened blurry POV
waking Saturday pre-4AM.
I remember such precise disorientation
going waaay back to "What I Did..." principal photo--
maybe a week or so into shooting @ the old JP apartment.
I woke up & was convinced
that a group of older men were leaning over my mattress
murmuring to one another.
They were impossibly elongated,
long reeds in the dawn.
I was alarmed until I realized these figures
were nothing more than c-stands & the light kit
crammed into my living space
(we were shooting in the apartment that first long week).

So I wake up feeling like what?
Like I'm in some void cut-off from checklists & blogs...
a very real feeling that I'm the only person in the world
and time's shut off outside the window frame.
But my conscious mind knows better
and I shower & dress as efficently as possible.
Everything I'll need for shooting is lined up by my bed--
laptop, duffel bag, digital camera, misc. props,
winter jacket, etc. etc.
At the Dunkin' down the street I have my 1st coffee in months,
a delightful Spiced Pumpkin Latte.
Although I haven't been drinking coffee this past year,
shoot days are the allotted exceptions.
"Tea please," on a 14+ hour day requiring full Ted persona
ain't gonna cut it.
"Have a good one!" decrees the woman behind the service counter.
Oh--absolutely.

I call both John & Sasha en route back to Hubbardston.
One point of potential directional snafu occured to me the prior night,
an exit number I need to clarify w/ those driving out.
I get John's voicemail.
I get Sasha directly
and even though it's still 45 mins from call time
she's ahead of me!
She did miss the exit & is out by Rte 68 in Gardner.
I attempt to talk her back in,
get her planted in the right direction.
I feel like Lloyd Brides in "Airplane"--
ground control to imminent disaster.
The irony during all this
is I get lost.
Immediately after hanging up,
I spot my dayjob-- CCO posters in Gardner!
Somehow I overshot the exit off Rte 2A.
I turn around,
quite convinced I'll now pass Sasha coming back
from the opposite direction.

Cel phone service cuts in & out
as I make the turn onto the road.
I've made up for lost time but it's 7:20AM as I arrive @ the barn,
and I am not the 1st one there.
That distinction goes to Diane & Larry,
a couple of friends of the band who'll be helping out.
The sum total for crew is just (9)...
we're small but mighty.
Diane & Larry drove all the way down from Maine,
so I'm chagrined by my pole position @ #2.
My job-- my responsibility to be 1st.

Anyway, we open up the barn
& I am exhalted.
Despite threats of rain, sleet, & snow
we are greeted by beams of pure sun & dustmote,
streaking through the high back windows.
This is exactly what I wanted...
throughout the shoot, the band will be framed before those windows...
alluring backlight & leaf fall.
Or should I say-- production value?
That is one of my all time low-budget rules...
location location location!
Even if there's a rental fee or insurance waiver--
go w/ the geographic eye candy.
It'll elevate your project above the mumblecore
apartments & car rides.
We're shooting in a genuine New England barn, for Pete's sake!
Looks are cool.

The first thing I notice as I set up craft services
is that the 2nd Dunkin' I hit that morning
has short-changed us $20 worth of breakfast sandwiches.
Granted, we have muffins, fruit, toaster pastries, granola,
& coffee both Box O' Joe & work-in-progress
twin coffeemaker tricklings BUT--
it's often the little things that drive me nuts.
This is decidedly one of them.
Something that should not have happened but did.
I made two trips in and out of that 2nd Dunkin'...
I didn't dash out
forget my order.
Nope. All the bad's on Dunkin'.
Despite the late hour post-shoot
and my near exhaustation
I will hit several Dunkin' off the highway ride home
until I find the correct incorrect branch
(unfortunately not provided on receipt slip manager
cut out of register tape)...
I will get manager's name & number
& phone her 1st thing Sunday AM for a full cash refund.

I plug in space heaters.
I postion leaf bags.
Crew begins arriving...Sasha only a couple minutes late.
John a little more (my directional voicemail checked after the fact).
Then band.
We munch & slurp breakfast.
Unload.
I confer w/ Stu re. 1st set-up.
Shoot Day #1 begins.

TO BE CONTINUED

Walter Sickert & The Army of Broken Toys Music Video Part 2

The Hubbardston, MA police officer
is younger than I am.
More nervous too.
Before he comes up to the car,
I have a wild impulse to just gun it.
You know-- car chase stuff.
All those dreams of persecution &
rooftop shoot-outs & the night time run...
gilding the rash blood.
But I fight it, name it...
for it is nothing more than my
self-destructive tendencies.

The cruiser was going the other way
when I passed
going my way
48 mph in a 30mph twisting back-road.
I see the spotlight extend out the driver's window,
an extra finger pointing "STOP".
I do a start--stop-- then truly stop--
it is very dark on New Westminster Street
as I wait amidst the packings,
the Spider Dolly tracks poised like a tank cannon
jammed length-wise from back to dashboard.
I wait & wait,
the minutes ticking by.
Betty Ann & her husband somewhere ahead.
I get my hand thru the tackle-block of equipment
on the passenger seat.
Get the glove compartment open,
retrieve the registration.
When the officer does suddenly appear beside my window,
I shakily hand him the proper paperwork.
His voice is awkward,
when he informs me why he pulled me over...
he's like an actor learning his lines.
Have I been pulled over before for speeding?
No, this is a first.
(Only seconds later do I remember a Sunday morning
years back in Brighton...
getting pulled over for not stopping @ an intersection.
Albeit a case I fought in traffic court & won.
But...)
Anyway he says some more things.
I nod & nod
then wait some more
as he returns to vehicle.
He marks his final return w/ a written warning,
which will thankfully not affect my insurance rates.
But enough of 'em-- look out!
I signal & pull out &
that is my adventure w/ the law.

I am 20 mins late
when I pull up to the barn.
I repeal some of my late points
by producing a flashlight.
Betty Ann & her husband had forgotten to bring one.
Betty Ann & her husband are perfectly matched.
I can see them as owners of a used bookstore...
spectacles, a little eager to fill the space w/ chat...
a laugh here & there.
They remind me of myself, actually.
I'm given keys to barn & adjunct lounge.
The latter building is essential
for it contains bathrooms, kitchen for food storage, etc.
But even at this late hour,
there is an uncertainty about our access to it.
For weeks now I've been told by both Edrie &
Betty Ann
that a birthday party has the place reserved
BUT--
they may cancel.
they may allow us partial access.
they may allow us no access.
Tonight Betty Ann makes a bold decision
following another unanswered voicemail w/ the party people...
we have partial access.
Hooray!

The lounge is nice & quaint...
jollier on the inside of its stone-work fascade.
There's a microwave, oven, TVs, stereo, etc.
A perfect hideout for a Dick Tracy villain on the run...
the only things missing are steaks & cigars.
I'm shown the punch-in code,
given some warnings about the basement space.
And with that...Betty Ann & her husband are off.

I unload in bleakness.
No streetlights this far down.
I lug equipment into the big drafty barn
gagging on the flashlight in my mouth...
my one beam of bravery.
The roof makes goblin sounds depending on where you step
like someone slamming the palm of their hand
against the wood above.
An angry "hey, you!" sound
straight out of exorcisms & rainy day seances.
No bats, though.
Thank-- goodness.
I built my fortress of alignment & perfection,
the c-stands side-by-side on the wood slat floor.
I move into one of the stable rooms,
the one w/ the (3) AC outlets.
When Stu & I scouted some weeks back
I pegged this for craft services.
I sweep bat guano in the dark.
I move twin fold-up chairs,
artifacts from some haunted Baptist church.
The head of the sweep broom keeps popping off,
like a sloppy decapitation.
There's a sound then-- a voice
I could swear the transcription is "gooble-gooble".
"Hello?" I inquire.
I think it's kids just driving by.

The barn is getting to me.
I sing folk melodies to myself
& pop ditties.
All to ward off the cold & isolation.
The prop person in running late
(traffic and...supper?)
I am alone when I ascend the tier to the fuse box.
I cell phone K for company but of course it's no answer...
never on the weekends, it seems.
I try & get Stu & that helps.
Yup, I'm a Shaggy chicken but talking fuse box tech
w/ Stu on the line helps distract me
from the sway of sounds up here.
I crunch-step across glass
& flick switches.
Nothing.
I am lost in the blackness.
Something moves.

TO BE CONTINUED

Walter Sickert & The Army of Broken Toys Music Video Part 1

A crag to cling to,
a bit of Sunday morning respite
lodged between the working hours.
Re-sorting the trunk & its contents--
cable, coffeemaker, tripod head & snacks.
The untouched oranges keep lolling around
like sponge-skinned softballs.
I bring the bananas in for dad.

So to review:

Friday was a 1/2 day at work
I even leave 15 mins early as I'm worried about leaves.
Providence finds me.
Right up the street from the office,
my usual right turn shortcut--
a gold-spun lot behind the Stoneham Public Library.
Yellow leaves everywhere.
Fresh kills and maple slaughter.
I have a rake
and a single ACE Hardware Store bag
which I readily fill within minutes.
And literally across the street from me--
an ACE Hardware Store w/ 5 more bags for $2.99!
I kid you not.
In fifteen minutes time I'm on the road home,
the front of the worktruck stuffed in triplicate.

The whole weekend I dodge dad,
I'm up & out before he's even awake...
or he's heading over to Beverly's for yardwork
or walking
as I'm pulling into the drive.
I get back to the house Friday afternoon,
switch off vehicles w/ a minimum of query.
In fact, dad's all distracted as he's lost his cell phone
again.
(it is ultimately found tucked into one of the blanket
folds on his bed)
Then he's out the door
and shortly, thereafter, so am I.

ALPS pick-up is spotless.
Gobo rotator, gobos ie. snow, swirling leaves, & dots
plus 50 foot "stingers"...
the latter the fancy-smancy tech talk
for extension cords.
I apologize to Nicole again for my brother.
During the prior week as she was demonstrating
the gobo rotator,
Tim was along for the ride and he was a might...
oh shall we say exhuberant?
at having passed the bar.
He high-fived the random guy in the warehouse,
did a Bo Diddly shuffle to the loudspeaker radio...
and all sorts of cloud-nine antics.

Next pick-up is the tricky bit.
I miscalculate big-time @ Rule Broadcast.
There is no way I'm loading Porta-Jib, tracks,
(6) c-stands + into my ride.
A Tetras fanatic couldn't work it.
No freakin' way.
It's a two-trip trick...
unfortunately, the trip is to Hubbardston, MA.
A long waaays off.
Bryan gets a consult rate from Rule's delivery service
but it's over a hundred bucks.
The band can't affort that...
& it's more than the current petty cash.
So after some back-and-forth I figure it out.
Always the thinking man's producer, that's me.
Mr. Problem Solver.
I temporarily store some stuff w/ Walter & Edrie
at their apartment literally up the street in Allston.
I'll reclaim it later that evening,
after my 1st Hubbardston trek.
Then just leave the remainder in car
until I drive out Sat morning for call time.
Viola!

So just when I think I'm cookin'
and I'm stalled in pre-highway traffic @ Alewife
(some 20 mins+ now from Rule)
I remember Stu's warning about BNC to RCA
connectors for HD monitor.
Last time Rule short-changed us
and I had to leave set for a splash-dash to the
nearest Radio Shack.
So I call Rule
and yes it's well after 5PM...
but Bryan is still there.
Sure enough, Rule short-changed us again!
So I have to drive all the way back.
God bless Bryan, though.
He didn't have to stay.
Friday after 5PM & he's waiting for some
nobody no-spend like me
to come calling for connectors?
I shall purchase him breakfast Monday AM
for equipment return.

I'm cutting it close by the time I get to Rte 2
& I'm definitely 10 mins tardy as I call our
key contact, Betty Ann.
She & her husband are waiting patiently @ barn.
I pull off main road into last lap to location
and I immediately get stuck behind some doofas
w/ his trunk wide open
& (2) trash barrels gaping back at me like
plastic green buckteeth.
Said doofas is driving all of 5 mph.
He finally turns
and I speed up..,
headlights knifing barren Central MA.
And that's when the cop pulls me over...

TO BE CONTINUED

An Ungodly Hour

Oh the adventures of check-out day, my friends.

The macintosh gold leaves I did rake.
The 12 hrs+ of driving...
sheer, physical exhaustion &
a racking of neck cords.
The packing & re-packing of the too small vehicle.
The misstep for BNC to RCA adaptors.
The Hubbardston yokel cop who gave me a
warning tix
for driving 48 instead of 30
(and let's not forget the impeded vision).
The potential birthday bash lounge conflict.
The evening alone in the spooky barn w/
only a mere flashlight.
The wait in the dark for props.

And here...
earlier than my normal wake-up
showered & shaved
the big day truly begins.

Details to follow.

All The Handsome Rakes

This is absurd.
A million-and-one spinning plates
& I'm obsessed w/ leaves.

SCA6 is a close-up cut-away of a leaf.
SP17 thru SP19 are our closing leaf-slogged shots...
a dainty rain of dried maple dappling the barn.

Yet I have not raked.
The front lawn is CHOKED w/ the fallen...
Raking has been on my "To Do" list since Sunday.
And still!
ARGGG!

I put a metal rake in the worktruck this AM.
I have all of a single ACE Hardware leaf bag.
I fear doing any raking at home w/ dad about,
lest a questionaire of what why arise.
But my opportunities are waning.
Even if I get out of work slightly earlier today
even if I go over to Stoneham cemetery to gather nature,
I'm racing that clock.

So far-- no rain. Good.
And everything else seems to be on track.
(just--need--to--hear--from--the--band!)
I'm even traipsing right into the Slamdance Horror Screenplay application
right after this.
See? I'm all about the time management.
Slight headache & sinus.
Took a couple pills + my daily anti-toxin tea.
I'm ready.

But those damn leaves.

Baldie Hits Town

Re-printed from my recent submission
to Ad Frank's "Ad-Vise" web column--
(check out http://www.adfrank.com/
for all things Ad Frank & Fast Easy Women)

Dear Ad-Vice

I am a single 30something who also happens to be balding. Not horrible comb-over balding...but I got the Woody Allen baldspot going.

This has absolutely KILLED my confidence around women. To crunch numbers here -- in the past 4 years, I have only been on 6 dates. I am truly, woefully abashed when it comes to meeting & greeting the female species these days.

Otherwise, I am fit (jog, bike, tennis) & even own a car. But just can't seem to get past the balding thing. I feel the moment I meet a woman at a bar or club or show...her eyes roam upwards & that's all she said. My potential "date" status is done for. Ditto sex appeal.
Ditto ditto ditto.

Can you suggest any confidence-boosting exercises and/or icebreakers to get me past this extreme self-awareness?

Feel free to paraphase any of the above.

Thank you,

--The Guy Who Doesn't Have Hugh Jackman's Hair

Ad replies:

Hi Guy,

I will not insult you by telling you that its the person inside that matters. I'm sure you've been over that. I'll start with the most superficial answer first. It is a three part answer.

Part 1. Jason Statham
Part 2. Mitch Pileggi
Part 3. Javier Camara

And these are just the first three men who popped into my head.

And they are hot.

Hot hot hot. And, by your description, you have much more hair then they do. So you can forget about your pate. As my Daddy used to say, "The Good Lord only created a few perfect heads, and he covered the rest with hair."

Next. Please take a look around the room next time you are at a bar at a party, and take note of all the pretty ladies with absolute dorks on their arm. Having been one of these dorks on occasion, I have several theories on this. One is that, okay, well, maybe it really is the person that counts. Okay, that disqualifies me as an example, since I am a first rate prick and not very interesting, but you get the point. Secondly, the confidence level of most women I know is down there with that of most men I know. Most fabulous ladies have no idea how fabulous they are.

I am not entirely sure of this, but I happen to have three fabulous ladies in my band, so I will hand this over to one of them.

Best of luck, Guy.

--Ad


Dear Sans Hair,

Confidence is one of the most attractive qualities a person can have, if you have it, imperfections go unnoticed or become less important.

If you've got a nice head, you could always cut your hair short. Not Billy Corgan short, but an inch or two short. I'm a fan of short hair anyway, especially on balding heads. But that's fashion advice.

The fact is, you are going bald and there's nothing you can do about it. Unless you get Rogaine or something. But seems like the better decision, unless you are so awfully insecure about it, is to just realize it's who you are and you can't change it.

Everyone has imperfections. I have a bump in my nose, some people say it's too big, but I love it. It's me. I could change it, but I would never want to look like everyone else. I'm kind of weird looking, and I am very much ok with that.

Bald can be very sexy, just own it.

~sarah

Hopscotch On The CheckList

One two three-- BUDGET!
Get Rule quote &
immediately forgot to nix Panasonic DVX items.
No more MiniDV tapes, thank you.
Do we need Adaptor? Is that for PortaJib?
Is my technincal ignorance showing?

Six eight ten-- FRIDAY DROP-OFF!
Why hasn't Betty Anne returned my call?
(I really should've phoned on her day off)
And crew is calling me past curfew...
we need to coordinate times.
And how the heck am I transporting equipment &
getting myself out to Hubbardston?
So many questions like curtain-chewing knats.

Two four six eight-- CREW!
Need to E-M updated Contact List,
need to get those Driving Directions out there...
plot people from Dorchester to Wells, Maine.
And confirm Shoot Schedule.
We need folk on-location promptly!
Oh yes, it's a full day.

Ten twenty thirty-- PROPS!
How is it I still need to rake leaves?
We need (2)-(3) bags of nice dry autumn...
a slo-mo foliage fall for heightened ending shots.
Plus I need to meet up w/ Juliet tomorrow &
confirm we have a working smoke machine.
And I have to pick-up space heaters Fri AM...
oh, I guess that last bit goes under MISC.

Trip fall deplane-- SLAMDANCE HORROR SCREENPLAY!
I'm still working on entry #2.
Gotta re-number the re-write pages.
And apply on-line.
Plus what am I doing about script registration w/
my credit card currently maxed?
I need to money order the bugger,
show some sort of filing documentation.
Oh haven't I registered this script already?

Ollie ollie oh my golly-- DAY JOB.
You know
the 8 hours a day you still need to balance
this carnivale around.
The thing paying for all this.
The thing you need to head out the door for
now--

Hi-Def, Low Man

A perfect triarch--
Write in AM.
Edit in the early PM.
Plan in the late PM.

Finished the final (5) re-write pages for
"Druids" script.
Just need to fill out on-line application &
register via WGA East.
Looks like latter's website is still OK for this,
despite the strike.
Then it's in the mail to Slamdance Horror
Screenplay Comp.
My 2nd entry this year.

"Water and Wood" editing session w/ Steve
& Annette yesterday.
Went very smoothly.
The re-shoot performance footage is melding
w/ the pre-existing.
Outdoor rocky shores are intercutting w/
non-descript maroon.
Wardrobe & guitar changes are negligible.
One thing I'm noticing w/ Annette...and this
applies to her music too.
She likes to layer & she loves her production
value--
be it triple tracks of acoustic guitar from
multiple musicians
or superimposition, cross-fade, greenscreen
overlap.
The look of the video is reminding me more
& more of vintage Siouxsie & The Banshees
"Spellbound" or cover of "Wheel On Fire".
It's a very busy video, all right. And we have
no shortage of footage now.

Last bit is the goodie-goodie news.
Contact of Steve can get us HVX200 for
this weekend's "Sacrilege" music video shoot.
And Steve can commit to on-set P2/log.
Thank God no Firestore!
It's doesn't look like cine adaptor & all sorts
of lenses will happen. Maybe if we had 2x budget
but we don't.
And I'll count my blessings here.

The Monday 7:59AM People

Driving down to Bridgewater again
in the lampshade orange dawn.
There's frost on the putt-putt golf course
and the bear-shaped hedge of some suburban
ranch-style retreat.
Monday morning and my wristwatch,
the self-same Employee-Of-The-Month
circa May 2006 model,
has not re-set for Daylight Savings.
The dial does not twist,
the band does not fall back.
I am regimentally ahead of the curve.

It's always this time in my head--
the very begining.
40 or 400 hours of work only imagined.
No time to relax.
Only envision the racetrack & steel carrot.
It could be Saturday afternoon,
it could be a holiday in the French Riveria...
but this now is affixed in my DNA.

I remember the moment that "AERO" became real,
waiting in the student's lounge at Boston University...
an hour early
and waiting for my temp gig to gestate.
What would be three month's under the lazy eye gaze
of a very middle-aged woman...
part church maven
part odd duck
plump and untouched by man.
Slightly tight on her position in the Finance Office
(or was it the Business Office? so many interchangeable
temp gigs in too many offices).
There was no comfort-level there,
just typing student loan balances into obsolete Filemaker Pro.

This 1st morning circa March 2002,
I had time to kill.
As the early bird theatre students flitted in two-by-twos,
Starbucks in hand...
catching up on weekend gossip & scene study.
The walls were festooned w/ oil painted self-portraits,
life-like & self-obsessed.
I took out my notebook & began the manifesto,
the promise to myself to shoot & FINISH
this silly sci-fi short
which had dragged across the decade
since its origination as a troubling dream in
troubling Chicago
just a year out of my own Alma Mata.

It hit me then
a high-concept straight out of Morrison's run on Doom Patrol--
The Monday 7:59AM People.
A group of Type A personalities
eternally pin-stuck on the one minute of time...
before the work week begins.
Never able to actually start--
just forever dwell on feats of immaculate daring-do.
Lodged in a dimension
small as a soup-can
just feeding off that To Do List.
And never ever doing.
No 2nd job interview w/ the Staffing Manager.
No departmental meeting w/ Finance
to prep for the auditors.
No pop quizzes or casual dates.
No drudgery...just the expectation of it.
A lodged potter's wheel w/ drying clay.

The People would naturally be insane & deadly.
And as the adage goes: Misery Loves Company...
thus The Monday 7:59AM People
would constantly be de-frocking vacation plans
& promotions & office parties.
They would remind the happy-go-lucky majorities
that
nothing
gets
done
without
eternal
deliberation...

My So-Called IKEA Life

A retail villa in rain,
the sluice of a late Saturday
gurgling down past concrete parking garage...
egging cartops.

My office is re-painting, re-decorating.
The staff is invited for their input.
Of course, being in the photo/art dept...
we have to be extra-special like plumage.
But the four of us can't agree on wall color.
I'm being proactive then,
scouting the Stoughton IKEA for accessories
so I can present a list of budgeted items
to my supervisor.
I really have no life but this will fill the downtimes.

There are only couples & college roommates
milling about the vast showroom.
Impatient six-year olds pick-up and slam phones,
re-arrange magnets on refrigerators.
We are in someone else's house,
but we (the vast, prospective buyer "we")
are rude guests.
We comment candidly about the furniture,
we nitpick about the curtains & towels.
We rummange through the drawers,
displace space & stay way past our time.

Everything I note has a code name:
Allak, Jarpen, Nyttja.
I feel like the Production Designer on an early 70's
Bergman film.
Liv Ullman must be right around the corner,
probably behind the gum-striped shower.
The showroom's sub-divided
into Living Space, Bed/Bath, Office...
signs & arrows signs & arrows overhead
direct me
through mock sets of East European lifestyles
w/ all the right books on the stainless steel shelves.

I'm an imposter here.
The young Anglos & loud Hispanic women
are plotting destiny.
Would track lighting really look good w/ that?
I feel like a serial killer stalking...what?
Distant, outside all this excited pre-planning
just trying to goose some sort of feel.
What must it be like?
The perfect heavy woods & olive panels,
the myriad CD racks & lockboxes,
the rugs w/ their tri-color geometric designs...
on & on it goes.
Furniture porno.

I see myself in a loft apartment in Vancouver,
freelancing as Production Manager
or perhaps I've bagged the golden goose!
Directing music videos & sleek car commercials!
(that year on the fest circuit w/ "AERO" really
paying off)
Always on the highway.
Airport lounges & late nights in hotels.
Barely "home" for the holidays.
But those moments of respite,
fondling my disposable income...
I plant bedrooms & stack countertops.
Holger Czukay or perhaps exotica
sweetly fills the air from my high-powered
but leonine speaker system.
I'm dressed in Apartment 9
and my abs are indomitable.
I look & feel like a job interview.
All spanking new & impressive.

I've bought matching pale plates
& chrome forks.
My cappucino maker grinds away
even though it's four in the afternoon.
But I need the boost before getting back
to those Radiohead tearsheets.
Metrasexual & urbane...
the ladies love me as confidant & more.
Aleece would be proud.

I settle into my Malung chair
like a 40's bomber pilot easing into a gun turret.
I re-align my beautiful desk,
making sure the Dokument in/out tray
is kitty-corner to the Tertial desk lamp.
All right angles here.
I flick on the Mac & my cubist screensaver dissolves.
Snow falls outside the single wall of window
& in the easing twilight,
there is an imminent night of dreamy Canada...
I am all soft wood & purple paint.

Blog On A Cold, Damp Day

Tropical storm left-overs...
wind & wet like splotches from an upturned ketchup bottle.
Raining steady as I drive out to the airport,
pick-up dad & Beverly from their Florida sabbatical.
Soon as we're home,
I'm out the door for my Saturday routine.
An egg 'n cheese bagel & juice in Easton...
reading a few chapters in the lot.
Then down to Bridgewater coffeeshop.
Type this & start on Slamdance Horror Screenplay pages
(can't find the original files, only pdf print-out...
so any typo & re-phrasings I have to do from scratch).

Little hung-over & tired.
I'm in line last night at Shaws express line,
the woman in front of me stretching her 15 items
across the entire conveyer.
My tuna fish & Triscuits are bunched in the corner.
Suddenly,
some jackass behind me plummets his carriage down
atop my would-be-purchases.
I know there's no room but what the hell?
I turn around & it's Paul.
We chat.
He stops by house later on,
after making sure his mom is to bed.
We drink beers & watch Anton Newscombe in DIG
courtesey of dad's Comcast On-Demand.
Weird hanging out in the parlor,
drinking Sam Adams.
But it's the only really exhibit of rebellion--
dad's away so the kids will play!
Whoo-hoo.

As usual-- no big talk just the small updates.
Martina's in Budhapest.
I gripe about the Annette re-shoot.
Chit-chat. No bigee.

I guess I'm so conditioned these days,
in constant penance,
that I forget what it's like to have friends.
My brother is quite another breed--
he has a pack of old high school buddies.
Al, Sully, Ray, etc. etc.
All rosy healthy apple-sounding names.
Me?
Paul & Shane, I guess.
But I'm barely a good friend.
I put little effort into it, I freely admit.
Just not in the mood to hang out & do what?
Drink? BBQ?
None of these old friendships seem constructive...
just patterns repeating themselves.
Habits & comfort like a winter scarf
that comes off the shelf every winter.
It's a lousy perspective.
But I can't feel anything deeper.

Let's face it, though...
I'd be the same if I had a whole gaggle of new friends--
film peers & urbane 30somethings,
united in the same artistic struggle.
As my brother put it the other day:
it's just the way I'm built.

Sibling

Celebratory eats & drinks w/ my brother.
He passed the bar.
Kathy read the notice over the phone to him.
A tidal wave of relief hits--
the hours of studying,
the law school debts accrued,
the career trajectory w/ a family in the parlor
waiting...
It's done. It's achieved.

The official ceremony is in January
but bro wants a beer now.
He's been honing a Cuban in a homemade humidor
made of tupperware & damp sponge...
but that'll wait.
A beer it is NOW.

We're the only patrons in the restaraunt,
two fifteen year old girls idle w/ water glasses
but soon depart.
My brother is high-fiving the waiter,
spreading his good cheer & news.
"I passed the bar!"
Like a declaration--
I'm legitimate now.
Up from the miasma of pervading failure,
off the soft pedals & hand props.
A boy w/ his moustache grown in.
A general's hat & armlets.
Fought for & won.

He tells me of a time
before the baby
early in law school
cresting the climb...
On the john some fuzzy Saturday morning
exhausted already.
Looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror
& the sudden certainty he wasn't going to make it
through law school.
Not an epiphany,
merely a pragmatic rationalization.
He who's been through so many jobs
& misfires--
electrician, dot.commer, bike messenger.

But the thing to do is chip away,
put in the hours.
Worst thing you can do is take a break.
A day off is a daunting follow-up,
piling yesterday's leavings atop the current heap.
The more you deter
the more you snowball.
And all the while it's the smart part of your head
warning
saying it can't be done.
It simply cannot.

I see me as my brother must--
what's wrong w/ him?
#14 in his high school class.
Cum Laude college graduate.
Worked at Fidelity for 6 years making good money.
Lived w/ his girlfriend & cats.
Why is he this way now?
Still back @ home w/ dad how long now?
Not dating
Broke yet paying bands to film them...
& a film that's still not done.
A short, to boot.

The elder brother has fallen.
What the hell is wrong w/ him?
Is he gay?
Stupid?
Mentally unstable?
Worse?
A 30something waking up in the middle of the night
w/ his own panic attacks.
His own rationalizing dread...
that this
even after all the work & effort & bloodsweat
won't ever happen.

Sick Day

Go away.

Small Chocolates

The year Nicky didn't plan
was the year they gathered on his avenue.
He'd just stepped in the door,
retrieving both morning & afternoon papers.
He rifled through the mailbox...
plucked a men's sporting catalogue & utility bills.
And a holiday card from an old friend.

The nightlight was still on in the kitchen,
appropriate once more.
Somewhere through the baseboards
the oil tank clacked a metronome symphony.
Warm, mechanical heat fingered Nicky's cheeks.
The air outside was aqua-marine...
a damp vibrant chill.
It was good to be shunted inside.

Through the east-facing windows he could just see,
the work truck's overhead rack angled beneath the street light
and...
and...

A group of teenagers,
dark-skinned & dressed like pirates;
or Red Sox players--
there was Manny w/ his rastafarian dreds
& Youkillas w/ a pinched bald cap & chin-beard.
The mass of them passed the truck,
ascending the drive.
The doorbell rang & their impatient voices
pressed him into action.

There was a left-over bag of soft chocolate.
He tore open the top
and poured the black, thoughtless contents
into a cooking bowl.
He unlocked the massive front door
& awkwardly pushed ajar the stormfront.
"It's unwrapped!" they glared
through their eyepatches & beneath their ball caps.
"Happy Halloween, kids!" & he distributed the bits
& pieces.

There were a few ant-sized scatterings left when
the next group arrived.
And none after that.
He picked out some oranges & an odd banana
but the results were disasterous:
"What the f**k, man?" one silhouetted youth intoned
(he was the size & age of a college freshman).
"You suck!" they yelled as they trampled off...
The banana missing Nicky by centimeters.

Nicky shut out the outside lights
the inside ones too.
He watched a movie on his laptop in the bedroom,
the volume low & the window sill down.
He muched his Chinese food,
now puddled in soy sauce & mustard.
But there were more of them when he peeked out,
some returning shapes & outfits...
but some less clear.
A caveman?
A gorilla? King Kong?
Something more ancient?
They drank beers under the street light
& their oaths found their direction,
shouts fell upon shingles...
curses lit the lawn.

It was only 8 o'clock when they found their collective nerve,
something scratched the front door.
And there were footsteps out back.
An egg yolk exploded against glass
and threats were written in shaving cream
upon the cement drive.

Nicky cell-phoned the police but it was too late.
Someone was in the house.

A heavy centipede tred thudded up the cellar steps.
A radio spattered rap music.
A silver-chained fist fired the 1st shot.
A gang entered the last abode.

Location Scout

Lo and behold what a difference a day makes!
I call the key contact person yesterday AM--
she's available then & there to show Stu & I the barn.
It's her (1) day off from her Sudbury bookstore job,
so I run w/ it.
Call up Stu (remembering Monday was open for him)...
Check w/ my supervisor about my remaining comp time
& viola!
Mid-afternoon I'm standing in Pinecrest/Cushman Barn
amid left-over haunted hayride paraphanalia
ie. coffin, plastic skull decorations, pitchforks & knives
& bat gauno (the latter oh so authentic).

Betty Ann our key contact is very nice &
shows us the loft down thru basement.
It's cold & despite my pull-over I'm chattery teeth.
There's outlets for space heaters & the power box is intact.
But for the 12 hours we'll spend here in the next couple weeks,
a "bundle warmly" advisory will be in order.
Next door is #58 Bemis--
a lodge where we can store/cook food
& take bathroom breaks.
We're remote enough we won't be bothered during shoot,
but Rte 68 is close enough for Walmart runs if we need misc.
And you always need last-minute misc. ie.
batteries, electronic parts, napkins...
you name it,
someone will need something you haven't pre-planned for.

Even while Stu & I are waiting in the car for Betty Ann,
a black lab barking madly across the street from us...
I get a call.
I pick up, not recognizing the area code,
thinking maybe it's Betty Anne from alt number.
Nope-- the lions are infringing on film time.
Citifinancial wanting their money.
Then when we're inside, mid-tour...
General Revenue Corps aka Student Loan #2 comes calling.
I feel like a fake then.
Here I am producer, putting my own money into shoot,
but I can't even handle my own bills.
Who would depend on me?
Yet I always pay crew-- they are the front line,
they are the ones making reality out of my jottings.
Not a $2100 film school loan from the early 90's.
Damn these collection calls.
But in my heart I know that my anger is deflection.
I need to find a way out of this.
If I'm to continue this filmmaking path,
I cannot keep living this way.
Paycheck to meager paycheck.
Pouring Best Buy & Bank of America & loan monies
into my resume reel.
I can't.

No one's paying me to do this.
Maybe they should be.

The Melted Treadmill

Seems no one returns my calls.

Deparately needing to finish "Water & Wood" music video edit...
realize Steve just had a kid but Annette's getting impatient.
I can't blame her.
What? we shot original footage in June!
(and yes I know there was re-shoot last month)
But here it is late Oct
and Annette has nothing to show for her husband's money
and I have nothing to upload onto website.
Everything is in Steve's Final Cut Pro.
I'm 85% paid up on video so I can't feel guilty about monies.
Just can't stand this back-and-forth w/ the phone.
Spoke w/ Steve last Monday & he said to call over the weekend.
Which is exactly what I did.
Grrrr.

And no matter how many Contact Sheets, Budget Updates,
or Shot Lists I do for impending Walter Sickert music video...
now just a mere (2) weeks away
It still feels ephemeral.
Band's on the road until day-before-shoot
so all correspondence at this point is long-distance.
Plus Stu isn't getting back to me about Hubbardston location scout
which we needed to do weeks ago.
He E-M'ed finally & suggested today
but that was all of (24) hrs heads-up.
I need more than that for keys retrieval & work
so I suggested later this week.
But he didn't return my voicemail.
C'mon!

This has been typical of the last few months,
nothing moving nothing happening.
Despite all the penny-pinching & cajoling...
I'm dialing but no one's picking up.
I'm clapping erasers & cleaning blackboards
but no one found the chalk.
I'm sprinting but no one's in the stands.
Addt'l profound analogies & so on.

Then there's the missed film fest deadlines
for "AERODYNAMICS".
Oh don't get me started on trailer
(I can feel responsible w/ $3 grand bill
& Steve's patience w/ THAT)!
Plus the infrequent screenwriting,
the lackadasical jogging/work-out routine,
the general malaise re. my living situation.

The past (4) years seem meaningless now
& I'm buckling.
Just burnt out.
Nothing's worth this.
Where's the results?
Lodged in a computer?

An epiphany of sorts this weekend
alone in an empty house
the hours stretched out w/ no friends,
no gal.
No product.
This is how it's going to be for me
until the godawful end.

No Excuses

Have the house to myself this weekend...
heck! the whole week.
Can't claim distraction now w/ so much to do:
1) prep "Sacrilege" music video
2) website updates
3) Slamdance Horror Screenplay re-submit
4) job search

Late night last night.
Went to Improv Boston's annual Halloween show,
"Gorefest".
This year's entry was "Blood On The Bayou"
yet despite the Scooby Doo hijinks
& the many Dukes of Hazard references...
the show was slightly lackluster.
Perhaps sagging under its enormous
1hr 45 min duration?
Only got a dimpling of syrup
when the Swamp Monster exploded.
One audience member in the allotted splatter section
got creamed.
His orange shirt a taffy pull of blood & vomit.
Oh well, you pay extra to be there...
to be included.

Sasha showed up after all.
Awkward post-show, felt like I was hanging...
so in true Cormey-fashion I bolted.
Brave man.

OK, enough self-recrimination.
Baby steps all the way.
Taps of ice slough and tree bark.
Let's see if I can get all the work done this AM,
make it outside on this refulgent autumn day.

Bjorn

The writers met Wednesday nights
usually in a confiscated classroom,
an unoccupied 4x4 slab of campus.
Sketches, improvisational monologues,
recurring characters & high concepts--
but never never skits!
Skits were for kids.
These were potential SNL staff,
honing their trade in their early 20's.

One such writer was Bjorn,
a little older than the rest...
not even a student, truth be told.
A Swede with curly tan hair,
open gentle face and rosy tones.
A light talker,
soft voice pitching vague philosophies
& endorsements.
He had been w/ the comedy show for years.
All his ties now graduated,
but like an adopted older son...
he partook week in & week out.

He worked as a librarian @ Cornell,
atop the other hill in far upstate New York.
The producers liked him--
heck! everyone liked Bjorn.
He was supremely dedicated,
a dependable cog in the comedy machine...
despite the fact that none of his sketches
made it past the podium.
The 2 of 3 pages he produced each week,
a little too unformed
gelato concepts melted & boneless.
First draft samples never followed up.
"Next week, Bjorn!" the producers would say,
"Write it up & knock it out of the park!"

But Bjorn would return w/ something new,
equally opaque & lacking.
Mineral water without the nutrition.
A trickle of laughter here,
a potential snort there.

Until one day...

The writer's meeting had reconvened
to the local diner.
A townie's dive down by the highway.
Late night pancakes & milky eggs...
the twenty or so 20somethings jammed in,
boys & girls just striking out adulthood.
Sizing each other up,
who would be the competition this week?
Who would be produced & videotaped that
weekend?
Some of the cast would tag along too,
& boys would cast looks at girls--
"maybe if my sketch gets produced & I cast her?"
Oh, a glorious cut-throat self-succeeding time.
But everyone laughing & having a grand hour,
peers becoming friends.
And Bjorn relating stories of the golden years--
whispering names of past comedic deities.
So-and-so telling this joke,
and then this punchline & the PERFECT timing.
Bjorn would have the floor then,
forks and ketchup bottles idle.
In his sheepish yet insistent narrative,
it became clear his true role-- historian.

The producers were won over...
the conversed in the lot outside,
looking through the plate glass window
of the brick-dirty diner,
watching their fellow writers & players
finish their meals & sort the check.
And Bjorn in their attentive midst.
"It really is time we shot something of Bjorn's,"
they agreed.
"But what?"
So many sketches to pick from,
so many ideas in need of a tuck or re-write.
But they settled on one--
a short short no more than a minute in length.
A quick in & out to open an episode--
Jesus as star football quarterback.
They could even shoot it that Sunday when
the college played Syracuse.
Get a little live cut-away footage & insert it
w/ whatever they shot on Saturday.

Bjorn took the news modestly.
And thanked them like a gentleman.
Seeing him up-close,
although dim in the parking lot moonlight...
the producers noted his true age then.
His simple ambitions nudged by time
& averted adulthood.
This was a man thanking them!
Someone akin to a professor or step-father...
yet?

The producers drove Bjorn home
criss-crossing the desolate inlays & backroads
a cold October in Fingers Lake.
Away from the twin colleges,
out of the valley of mixed townie & mall...
into the dark blowing hills.

The Dodge Dart pulled into the dirt drive
and Bjorn excused himself,
went into the house first.
A minute later he came out & asked for silence,
"My mom's just gone to sleep.
We'll have to be quiet."
And the trio of them tip-toed 'round back,
entered the premises through a cellar door...
a triangular pie-slice like something out of
a Midwestern hurricane shelter.

In the basement were piles...
bric-brac and Busch beer light displays
and a toppled walker.
A bin stuffed with broken umbrellas
and a wood toybox on wheels,
empty except for a few magnet-shaped letters.

The producers were uneasy,
they had never been to Bjorn's before.
But he was smiling & a comfort...
reliving a childhood? a forgotten dream?

"Here," Bjorn said, "This will be perfect."
and he lifted a Jesus head.
A plastic plug-in thing like a lamp.
He found an orange extension cord & socket,
and before the producers startled eyes--
ignited Jesus.

"Woo..." said Bjorn in a spectral voice,
and the Jesus in his grip oscillated before them.
The only glow in the creeping cellar,
the wind shoving outside.

That's when the two producers could take no more,
and looked in the mirror.
A large wall-sized monolith stacked in the corner.

They saw Jesus...
but nothing else.

Alone In The Cheap Seats

Came to a realization yesterday--
I'm the only single person at work.
Everyone married or complete w/ significant other.
Makes sense, though.
Office workforce, just regular people doing regular jobs.
Part of that regular is beaus & wedding cake & babies.
Not like us "artistes".
Languishing in solo uphill battle,
usually against our own damn selves.

For some reason, I'm now getting Match.com profile pics.
I half-heartedly signed up a month ago,
even filled out a very light-weight profile...
but never paid the monthly fee.
Can't even afford that $14.95 off the credit card these days
(barely scrape by each month w/ Netflix).
So I'm in the Match.com system,
getting these little pictorial taste tests--
"If you just act now..." OR "...a lifetime of bliss!"
and this woman
and that woman
and look at her!
All w/ cutesy little buzz names like
jeezybreeze67
OR
fallenapple4
OR
mischiefchef555.
Some are outright dogs.
If that's your best picture
I'd hate to see you @ 5AM.
But some are lookers.

First thing I do post-pic is check out salary.
It's an optional part of the profile but most display it.
Anything over $50tho & she's out of my league.
I don't want a potential date to be shouldering me.
My job. My deal.
The guy pays.
Call my rustic, call me old-fashioned
but that's the way I'm built.
I still think that was part of what soured w/ K--
money & my lack of it.
Even working full-time
and oodles of unpaid over-time
and being busier than ever this year shooting...
yet, poorest I've ever been.

How can I date on peanuts?
What kind of 1st impression is that?
I couldn't even afford 8-minute dating this past Monday
for a lousy $35 bucks! (+ drinks + nibbles +++)
Sick of this. Can't go out, can't buy dinner...
just my sad sack 30something self living w/ pops.
While my film goes on & on
and the student loan folks call.
Yup, I must be getting away w/ something jerk-offs!
Whoo-ee look at me!
Living it up while you garnish & slash
until there's nothing left...
and still that's not enough.
Decade-old film school haunting me.
And no one to complain to, to vent...
just you, dear blog.