Dream of Skunk Island
trapped on embankment overlooking bay.
Slits in the powdery crags...
presumably to emit the surge of Mephitis.
There are crowds stampeding below,
stormtroopers herding prisoners to imminent doom?
My compatriot is none other than Ricky Schroeder,
not Silver Spoons Ricky.
No this is all action NYPD Blue & 24 model--
he barks encouragement & scrambles down incline.
The stormtroopers have not spotted us &
Schroeder's assured he can reach water's edge
& escape before the onslaught of white-striped stink.
I retreat in opposite direction,
further up.
I pull myself up onto grassy plateau...
suddenly I'm in mock-suburbia.
A few ranch-style homes & driveways.
I enter one such house & surprise a family of 3.
They're seated @ dinner table--
granny, & 50something couple.
I wave a gun about & tell them to be quiet.
I need car keys & their automobile.
Has Schroeder returned to assist?
Anyway, I'm confident enough to leave couple behind
as I enter bathroom w/ granny.
Electric shavers & blow-driers & pillboxes,
the sink is a buffet table of toiletries.
Granny's stalling me, searching absently for keys
amid the toothbrushes & face powder.
I see a digital clock w/ a re-charging cel phone.
Granny's hand hovers near it.
Uh-uh-uh I caution.
That's about it.
Dreams of persecution. Being chased,
wanted by some obtuse law
Big Catholic Guilt.
Am I a sociopath at heart?
Endless nights on the lam,
flashing red lights & sirens in the distance.
I wake up winded.
Always guilty.
Will this be how it ends?
A snap of will & a final finger fuck?
A shotgun joyride into oblivion?
Do I hate society that much or
am I secretly rebelling?
Always against the grain
but feeling the ultimate displeasure of it.
Leave those thoughts on that side of the pillow,
damp dreams of running feet & prisons.
*****************************************
Went to Open House for Actors Shakespeare Project
@ BU last night.
Fought the urge to no-show.
Too tired, beat after the play this weekend.
But I'm trying to adhere to written code--
if I put it in writing on calendar...it's a done deal.
Besides, I have ulterior motive to attend.
Better career-planning than flinging business cards
@ Boston Film Night.
I drive to Commonwealth straight from work,
takes a few tries but I actually find non-arena
parking.
And it's after 6PM so I don't have to fret the meter.
I bring my props--
notebook & Faulkner's The Fable.
Need to look erudite & knowledgeable.
I look for a table to kill time @ adjunct Starbucks...
but the students have returned full-force &
there's nary a nook.
Besides, I could swear Jonathan Kuntz sits in corner,
fingers folded before his face looking creepy.
Is he killing time too before the big event?
I drink beer @ Mex restaurant up the street.
Jot down to do's & possible script pitches for Corrente
this Saturday.
Soon I'm fashionably late & make my way to 855 Comm...
my old Finance Office stomping grounds back in 2002.
The genesis of "AERO", truth be told.
In the student lounge March of that year.
The initial written contract with myself to do the film
whatever the cost.
Oh boy, if I had known.
But like the calendar...once it's in scrawl it's law.
There are absolutely no signs or arrows in lobby.
Plenty of student this & that...
but ASP Open House?
I have Studio 102 as destination but remember
only that theatre dept is 4th floor.
So that's where I go.
Jammed into elevator w/ gorgeous twenty-year olds...
pigtails & heroin chic.
And me so old & bald.
The girls get off on 3rd floor. I exit 4th.
I'm immediately befuddled...floor is mostly office-space.
A cautious janitor asks my business & I tell him,
flashing my postcard, proving I'm legit.
Not like I'm stalking pretty young things...
guilty already about my elevator thoughts.
He directs me down to 1st floor.
And as I re-board elevator, who should appear by my side,
hair lightened, bicycle helmet hog-tied to notebooks--
Paula.
We chat en route down. How's this? How's that?
We enter Studio 102 together & I make my way into
assembly.
The room's ceilings are splotched the color of Britanica--
reds & royal blues.
Columnades extend twenty feet up.
I feel like I'm in Rome & about to witness a stabbing.
I stay for an hour & watch a few enacted scenes from
all-female MacBeth...
Kuntz makes his appearance in King John.
And handsome young couples enact courtships from
Henry V & The Tempest.
It's purely theatre.
Shakespeare & elevated emotions & just the written text.
The bard is to theatre
what Lynch or Herzog are to cinema.
Fully embracing of the form.
I am drawn to the extremes.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
And When You Slam Down The Hammer...
Gushing down SE-XWay late night,
infrequent traffic and lane changes.
The billboards and giant paint-smeared gas tanks,
oily fumes and electronic seizures.
Morrissey's "Speedway" in the CD player,
escalating drums like declarations.
I'm buzzing,
swollen with self-satisfaction
but mostly relief.
The play went over well,
although the curtain call announced the cast as
"Theater Tickets" not "Cinema Tickets"...
and one actor resumed all his bad tricks ie.
gesticulating busy-bee hands, stammering,
odd over-the-topic reactions so he came across
more neurotic than Joe Average
frustrated after a long day's work.
We didn't go w/ Adam's ending, though...
respect to the playwright
(who I still didn't meet but was later told
was no BU student but a genuine octogenarian)
BUT
it would've been killer.
The play needed a button.
Regrets but I've been on the other shoe w/
directorial decisions.
Nervous, stress energy yesterday,
every hour a ticking clock.
How all the Sunday Sgt. Culpepper shows came back,
improv at Sunday 7PM...
now chill!
Never could.
And especially w/ this play--
picking up the stanchions at the movie theatre,
popping popcorn for food props,
a reel of endless little to do's.
Yet it paid off.
I was told our play was the most directed and/or
presented. Like genuine effort & pre-prod went into it.
I guess a lot of the other 1-acts were thrown together,
wet wash in the cauldron.
The short before us was mostly improv,
using 1/10 of the scripted page as impetus!
(ironically, same playwright as ours)
I'm not a proud man...
oh unless you read yesterday's blog...
so I'll admit this.
So stressed.
These past few weeks & next week's "AERO" voice-overs
just one constant calorie count of production,
gotta do it. Get off the butt and make do!
But to relax mid-afternoon yesterday
I watched "Clerks II".
Figured I'm directing a comedy...so why not a little comedy?
Help lighten the load, make time pass.
And what happens by flick's end?
When Dante & Randal are having their big face-off in jail?
I cried, damnit.
Like a little girl.
Nice work Smith & Anderson...
saw it coming & you still got me.
SLAM!
infrequent traffic and lane changes.
The billboards and giant paint-smeared gas tanks,
oily fumes and electronic seizures.
Morrissey's "Speedway" in the CD player,
escalating drums like declarations.
I'm buzzing,
swollen with self-satisfaction
but mostly relief.
The play went over well,
although the curtain call announced the cast as
"Theater Tickets" not "Cinema Tickets"...
and one actor resumed all his bad tricks ie.
gesticulating busy-bee hands, stammering,
odd over-the-topic reactions so he came across
more neurotic than Joe Average
frustrated after a long day's work.
We didn't go w/ Adam's ending, though...
respect to the playwright
(who I still didn't meet but was later told
was no BU student but a genuine octogenarian)
BUT
it would've been killer.
The play needed a button.
Regrets but I've been on the other shoe w/
directorial decisions.
Nervous, stress energy yesterday,
every hour a ticking clock.
How all the Sunday Sgt. Culpepper shows came back,
improv at Sunday 7PM...
now chill!
Never could.
And especially w/ this play--
picking up the stanchions at the movie theatre,
popping popcorn for food props,
a reel of endless little to do's.
Yet it paid off.
I was told our play was the most directed and/or
presented. Like genuine effort & pre-prod went into it.
I guess a lot of the other 1-acts were thrown together,
wet wash in the cauldron.
The short before us was mostly improv,
using 1/10 of the scripted page as impetus!
(ironically, same playwright as ours)
I'm not a proud man...
oh unless you read yesterday's blog...
so I'll admit this.
So stressed.
These past few weeks & next week's "AERO" voice-overs
just one constant calorie count of production,
gotta do it. Get off the butt and make do!
But to relax mid-afternoon yesterday
I watched "Clerks II".
Figured I'm directing a comedy...so why not a little comedy?
Help lighten the load, make time pass.
And what happens by flick's end?
When Dante & Randal are having their big face-off in jail?
I cried, damnit.
Like a little girl.
Nice work Smith & Anderson...
saw it coming & you still got me.
SLAM!
Sunday, September 23, 2007
It Races By You
Play rehearsal went very well yesterday
but ultimately ran out of time.
Nervous we're an hour or two shy
from "perfecting" this baby beast.
I brought a soccer ball into rehearsal,
used it during warm-ups as focus exercise...
oh & a dollup of timing/pace too.
Each actor took the ball & centerstage
when it was his/her line.
Some funny funny interplay,
a physical manifestation of the constant tug
each character exerts when he/she pipes up.
The actors seemed to dig it too,
definitely loosened things up.
Although it was disconcerting at times to see
old stiff habits resume once they were walking/blocking...
still a few spot rehearsals & everyone was relaxed again.
There's one bit of business that still isn't working,
a charater aside during a cel phone call.
It's a LONG call w/ the other characters just standing about.
Needs to be faster, shorter.
Also need to pin down opening entrances...
one or two actors are still a little too busy.
But overall, I felt good.
Not just the $10 or so I spent on food props--
horse-sized Hersey bars and boxes of Junior Mints,
Taco Bell burritos & coffee cups.
Gotta remember to pre-pop the popcorn tonight too.
Looks like I also secured 4 stanchions from Randolph Loews...
so our movie theater lobby environment should be complete.
Still want to know where the clipboards are--
SerahRose could use one @ her counter station.
Oh well,
after this morning's tech run I'll have nothing else on mind
this afternoon. I'll find stuff.
**********************************************
The Boston Film Night was another matter, though.
Like last February's Rough Cutz it was fraught w/ technical difficulties,
bad booming sound.
I sat closer during the 2nd screening & that helped some,
but seriously...
someone step up & soundcheck.
I wonder if it's a matter that the programmers just slap all the shorts
on a single DVD
& only mix levels for the 1st clip
or gauge somewhere in the middle?
But even the speakers were mud,
anytime anyone stepped up to the mic to introduce or Q&A...
unintelligible muck.
Now this is where I'm gonna come across as pompous,
but heck! it's my blog & this is my ego here...
but the films?
The forty or so shorts Midnight Chimes & whoever culled for this?
There was a single good film-- "Aquarium".
And another film w/ potential but muddled character/storytelling--
"It's For Her".
And one other I liked esp. when you realized it was basically
a long take & a pretty solid performance for a phone call scene--
"Breaking Up".
But everything else?
Dross. The equivalent of dollar-a-pound clothing
& dustbin CD's.
Very dispiriting.
Here comes the fat head & high opinion...
"Aerodynamics" is lightyears beyond this amatuer regional crap.
So why am I still here?
Competing w/ the wanna-be's & the never have's?
The real talent isn't mixing it up at a video arcade on a Saturday night,
pushing business cards & bio's into strangers' faces.
No, it's working.
Professional paid persons just doing their thing in NY or LA
or Vancouver.
Sorry, Boston. You didn't impress me.
but ultimately ran out of time.
Nervous we're an hour or two shy
from "perfecting" this baby beast.
I brought a soccer ball into rehearsal,
used it during warm-ups as focus exercise...
oh & a dollup of timing/pace too.
Each actor took the ball & centerstage
when it was his/her line.
Some funny funny interplay,
a physical manifestation of the constant tug
each character exerts when he/she pipes up.
The actors seemed to dig it too,
definitely loosened things up.
Although it was disconcerting at times to see
old stiff habits resume once they were walking/blocking...
still a few spot rehearsals & everyone was relaxed again.
There's one bit of business that still isn't working,
a charater aside during a cel phone call.
It's a LONG call w/ the other characters just standing about.
Needs to be faster, shorter.
Also need to pin down opening entrances...
one or two actors are still a little too busy.
But overall, I felt good.
Not just the $10 or so I spent on food props--
horse-sized Hersey bars and boxes of Junior Mints,
Taco Bell burritos & coffee cups.
Gotta remember to pre-pop the popcorn tonight too.
Looks like I also secured 4 stanchions from Randolph Loews...
so our movie theater lobby environment should be complete.
Still want to know where the clipboards are--
SerahRose could use one @ her counter station.
Oh well,
after this morning's tech run I'll have nothing else on mind
this afternoon. I'll find stuff.
**********************************************
The Boston Film Night was another matter, though.
Like last February's Rough Cutz it was fraught w/ technical difficulties,
bad booming sound.
I sat closer during the 2nd screening & that helped some,
but seriously...
someone step up & soundcheck.
I wonder if it's a matter that the programmers just slap all the shorts
on a single DVD
& only mix levels for the 1st clip
or gauge somewhere in the middle?
But even the speakers were mud,
anytime anyone stepped up to the mic to introduce or Q&A...
unintelligible muck.
Now this is where I'm gonna come across as pompous,
but heck! it's my blog & this is my ego here...
but the films?
The forty or so shorts Midnight Chimes & whoever culled for this?
There was a single good film-- "Aquarium".
And another film w/ potential but muddled character/storytelling--
"It's For Her".
And one other I liked esp. when you realized it was basically
a long take & a pretty solid performance for a phone call scene--
"Breaking Up".
But everything else?
Dross. The equivalent of dollar-a-pound clothing
& dustbin CD's.
Very dispiriting.
Here comes the fat head & high opinion...
"Aerodynamics" is lightyears beyond this amatuer regional crap.
So why am I still here?
Competing w/ the wanna-be's & the never have's?
The real talent isn't mixing it up at a video arcade on a Saturday night,
pushing business cards & bio's into strangers' faces.
No, it's working.
Professional paid persons just doing their thing in NY or LA
or Vancouver.
Sorry, Boston. You didn't impress me.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Play Day
Big rehearsal today for "Cinema Tickets".
Yes, it's just a 5 minute piece BUT
it's a cast I greatly admire & I want to do my best.
Loads of E-M notes throughout the week.
Trying to keep track of it all ie.
this person's relationship w/ that person
who's doing what when, etc. etc.
The important thing is to keep it natural.
Sure I'd like some fancy-dancy blocking
& props
& stanchions (play takes place in line @ movie cinemaplex)...
Yet, it's ultimately the acting/direction interplay.
Finding those character moments
& making decisions.
I have 2 1/2 hours to accomplish all this today.
I need to sit somewhere & prepare rehearsal schedule.
JJ has to be out the door to Ashland
& I have that filmmaking network night tonight.
Lots going on.
I'll actually be relieved when this weekend's over.
Yes, it's just a 5 minute piece BUT
it's a cast I greatly admire & I want to do my best.
Loads of E-M notes throughout the week.
Trying to keep track of it all ie.
this person's relationship w/ that person
who's doing what when, etc. etc.
The important thing is to keep it natural.
Sure I'd like some fancy-dancy blocking
& props
& stanchions (play takes place in line @ movie cinemaplex)...
Yet, it's ultimately the acting/direction interplay.
Finding those character moments
& making decisions.
I have 2 1/2 hours to accomplish all this today.
I need to sit somewhere & prepare rehearsal schedule.
JJ has to be out the door to Ashland
& I have that filmmaking network night tonight.
Lots going on.
I'll actually be relieved when this weekend's over.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Bitter Pill In The Rhubarb Pie
Today is the Sundance late deadline
and I did not make it.
Another year w/ "AERODYNAMICS"--
2009 seems like a lifetime away.
And guess what? It is.
Was there anything I could have done differently?
New, higher paying job...gone back to accounting?
A fundraiser THIS year?
No "On The Lot" submission or "Water & Wood" music vid?
(both routing thousands)
No trips to Cally last fall or Montreal for New Years?
Lived even more modestly?
Hell yes to all.
I have always known I wasn't going to live long...
41 or 43 & that's it.
Fitzgerald made it via "The Crack-Up" to latter.
Sarah Jacobson didn't even make it to former.
What's my excuse?
What have I contributed?
The sad pathetic truth is I'm comfortable being uncomfortable,
I don't expect to win.
I spin the wheels & jump the hoops
but like Rocky III...I've lost the eye of the tiger, dear readers.
How else do you explain a 6 year + short film?
That's sad.
and I did not make it.
Another year w/ "AERODYNAMICS"--
2009 seems like a lifetime away.
And guess what? It is.
Was there anything I could have done differently?
New, higher paying job...gone back to accounting?
A fundraiser THIS year?
No "On The Lot" submission or "Water & Wood" music vid?
(both routing thousands)
No trips to Cally last fall or Montreal for New Years?
Lived even more modestly?
Hell yes to all.
I have always known I wasn't going to live long...
41 or 43 & that's it.
Fitzgerald made it via "The Crack-Up" to latter.
Sarah Jacobson didn't even make it to former.
What's my excuse?
What have I contributed?
The sad pathetic truth is I'm comfortable being uncomfortable,
I don't expect to win.
I spin the wheels & jump the hoops
but like Rocky III...I've lost the eye of the tiger, dear readers.
How else do you explain a 6 year + short film?
That's sad.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
The Blood
Stanley was a lonely man,
skeletal frame housing Type A-negative.
A veinwork of pulses and streaks,
blue-blood beneath balloon-thin skin.
He was iron-deficient
but his heart thumped liked a great amp
and the corpuscles and capillaries played harmony...
a taunt string section of flow.
He donated quite regularly,
Red Cross calls & placards in the mail
informing him when & where.
Always the desparate need for more more more...
And Stanley in his isolated quiet way
felt pure.
Virginal.
Every successive donation
& every eager new mailing
eased his mind & well-being.
Let the nurse's needle puncture him--
no one else could.
No filth or debris polluted his lifestream.
He was a sexless ideal
a blood king adminstering to his unseen subjects.
He wouldn't want for more.
His fluids pollen...jabbed at & drained through tubes.
Always the same Masonic lodges & VFW halls,
drab panel places encroached by suburb.
Ranch-style and bland,
the padded tables arranged in square formations,
four prone bodies phalanxing white-shrouded women.
Chatty creatures with heavy accents.
Healthy-looking...raised on meats & milk.
Thick ankles & swift looks,
appraising the latest in line.
"Which arm? How are you feeling? Light-headed?"
Stanley was stoic & focused...
the ceiling light was a beacon as he fought the unseasy
sensations.
A wooden handle in his grip...
every 5 seconds he squeezed.
Sweaty palm & arm,
a taped sting reading off the ticking glue...
a dozen squirrels ran up & down his elbow, wrist...
hornets & bees & yellowjackets stung from within.
Stanley felt queasy
but this was his fight
and he did his best to remain resolute.
The snack table was filled with cheese crackers
& Loran Doones.
His iodine-sticky injection was the color of a bad tan.
He chose cranberry juice & watched the nurses hurry,
packing up plastic bladders...
spilling ice.
Chatty Kathy's indeed...
comparing their commute times, the return homes.
Stanley didn't envy them.
The strangers they came in contact with,
the soft oozing persuasions.
No, better to sit on the far-away throne.
No pestilence in the skins.
No worries...
Nothing but a dull throb in the chin.
skeletal frame housing Type A-negative.
A veinwork of pulses and streaks,
blue-blood beneath balloon-thin skin.
He was iron-deficient
but his heart thumped liked a great amp
and the corpuscles and capillaries played harmony...
a taunt string section of flow.
He donated quite regularly,
Red Cross calls & placards in the mail
informing him when & where.
Always the desparate need for more more more...
And Stanley in his isolated quiet way
felt pure.
Virginal.
Every successive donation
& every eager new mailing
eased his mind & well-being.
Let the nurse's needle puncture him--
no one else could.
No filth or debris polluted his lifestream.
He was a sexless ideal
a blood king adminstering to his unseen subjects.
He wouldn't want for more.
His fluids pollen...jabbed at & drained through tubes.
Always the same Masonic lodges & VFW halls,
drab panel places encroached by suburb.
Ranch-style and bland,
the padded tables arranged in square formations,
four prone bodies phalanxing white-shrouded women.
Chatty creatures with heavy accents.
Healthy-looking...raised on meats & milk.
Thick ankles & swift looks,
appraising the latest in line.
"Which arm? How are you feeling? Light-headed?"
Stanley was stoic & focused...
the ceiling light was a beacon as he fought the unseasy
sensations.
A wooden handle in his grip...
every 5 seconds he squeezed.
Sweaty palm & arm,
a taped sting reading off the ticking glue...
a dozen squirrels ran up & down his elbow, wrist...
hornets & bees & yellowjackets stung from within.
Stanley felt queasy
but this was his fight
and he did his best to remain resolute.
The snack table was filled with cheese crackers
& Loran Doones.
His iodine-sticky injection was the color of a bad tan.
He chose cranberry juice & watched the nurses hurry,
packing up plastic bladders...
spilling ice.
Chatty Kathy's indeed...
comparing their commute times, the return homes.
Stanley didn't envy them.
The strangers they came in contact with,
the soft oozing persuasions.
No, better to sit on the far-away throne.
No pestilence in the skins.
No worries...
Nothing but a dull throb in the chin.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
HorseFeathers
There's me on a Tuesday eve
mixing it up.
A bottle of Jekel Monterey Riesling
which takes me about a half-hour to unplug...
the only corkscrews in the house
are about two inches long.
No handy-dandy mounting clamps.
No siree.
I have to clench the bottle 'round my ankles
& pull the cork w/ my whole body.
God, I'm weak.
Kick some sand on my blanket while you're at it.
Mixed some rice w/ some Jaipur veggies,
scoffed it all down as I watched more Marx Bros.
For an hour-and-a-half it was 1932 all over again.
I was amazed w/ what they let Thelma Todd wear--
pretty suggestive stuff for a "light" comedy &
the time.
Groucho & Harpo were centerstage of course
but I think this had to have been one of Chico's better films...
his deadpan deliveries aka maulings of the English language
esp. in the classroom sequence
are very funny.
And Zeppo.
Poor poor Zeppo aka
the unfunny fourth guy in the improv troupe
unsure whether to jump in or hover...
What does more damage?
Here's he's relegated to playing Groucho's son!
And dubious romantic lead.
He flits in & out as straight man w/ his college jersies
& leather-strap football helmet.
I've had a screenplay idea for a while now--
Zeppo & Ted Hughes (early Three Stooges)...
heck even toss in Gummo!
Put the forgotten comedian cast-offs
in the limelight.
What would a Zeppo solo film be like?
Or gruff, brawling Ted Hughes w/o his lackies?
MIA Gummo mounted on the silver screen finally.
Would it work?
Would it be ironic?
I dunno.
It does have its own inner conflict--
the failures vying for recognition.
D-string looking for a step-up to A-list.
I gotta track down that John Turturro film...
early 90's?
Plays a Marx Brothers like character
w/ some other Marx Brothers like characters
(no, not "Barton Fink").
Hmmm...
OK, that Indian food's come back to haunt me.
Time to go.
mixing it up.
A bottle of Jekel Monterey Riesling
which takes me about a half-hour to unplug...
the only corkscrews in the house
are about two inches long.
No handy-dandy mounting clamps.
No siree.
I have to clench the bottle 'round my ankles
& pull the cork w/ my whole body.
God, I'm weak.
Kick some sand on my blanket while you're at it.
Mixed some rice w/ some Jaipur veggies,
scoffed it all down as I watched more Marx Bros.
For an hour-and-a-half it was 1932 all over again.
I was amazed w/ what they let Thelma Todd wear--
pretty suggestive stuff for a "light" comedy &
the time.
Groucho & Harpo were centerstage of course
but I think this had to have been one of Chico's better films...
his deadpan deliveries aka maulings of the English language
esp. in the classroom sequence
are very funny.
And Zeppo.
Poor poor Zeppo aka
the unfunny fourth guy in the improv troupe
unsure whether to jump in or hover...
What does more damage?
Here's he's relegated to playing Groucho's son!
And dubious romantic lead.
He flits in & out as straight man w/ his college jersies
& leather-strap football helmet.
I've had a screenplay idea for a while now--
Zeppo & Ted Hughes (early Three Stooges)...
heck even toss in Gummo!
Put the forgotten comedian cast-offs
in the limelight.
What would a Zeppo solo film be like?
Or gruff, brawling Ted Hughes w/o his lackies?
MIA Gummo mounted on the silver screen finally.
Would it work?
Would it be ironic?
I dunno.
It does have its own inner conflict--
the failures vying for recognition.
D-string looking for a step-up to A-list.
I gotta track down that John Turturro film...
early 90's?
Plays a Marx Brothers like character
w/ some other Marx Brothers like characters
(no, not "Barton Fink").
Hmmm...
OK, that Indian food's come back to haunt me.
Time to go.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
The Ru Standard
Last date I went on was December 2006--
a rather expensive & ultimately disappointing
ART production of Dresden Dolls "Onion Cellar".
A fringe fest w/ $75.00 tix. Yeow!
The girl was mousy & had bad teeth...
worked at some small architectural firm in Quincy?
Met her @ a show,
myspaced an intro;
morphed into the bold brazen me...
all type & catchphrases & bon mots
(I'm good on paper, they'll say!)
I asked her out oh-so-casually
and there was our date ie.
No chemistry, little connection...
an awkward T-ride out of Harvard Square.
At one point I even walked away,
saw an improv-related associate on the train
& left the girl standing there a few feet afar
while I got comfortable all-over-again.
Yup. Mr. Smoothy. All ice cream or cold shoulder.
I almost kissed a girl on New Year's
in the back of a taxi dashing through Old Montreal,
the streets ice sheets,
the parked cars to either side pressed into glaciers.
A girl confiding rather drunkenly,
of an affair w/ her college professor...
a married man no less.
And there was that perfect lecherous moment,
the backseat a pantomine of shadow
lapping her face and bangs...
the driver intoning French into his radio...
man, I wanted her!
And there she was on the verge of tears,
investing me aka a near-stranger w/ her secrets
& guilt.
And did I care?
No, I was thinking. It just means she's easy
& it's a new year & this is the real deal chance of a lifetime.
Go for it!
But I didn't.
Even later at the after-hours,
me dancing in a suit like Jerry Lewis...
the moment had passed.
When we said our goodbyes...
there was simply the lean-in lack lip-lock.
Good-bye should've/could've/would've!
Regrets, I've had a few.
Ha Ha.
The love list? Give me a break.
Celibate these past 4 years.
A self-imposed exile.
On-set Sunday, when I was adjusting Annette's hair,
making sure I didn't gaffer tape her head to wings
(aside: most-complicate--costume-- accessory-- EVER!)
it hits me.
This is the 1st time I've touched a woman's hair in 4 years!
Albeit it was Annette & it was work & it was absolutely
nothing...
but it was a shuddering reminder how physically isolated
I've been.
I'm not a touchy-feely sort of guy, to begin with.
But it just seemed to me,
that at the end of all this.
A date, a kiss, a touch...
there's so much expectation now.
Ru
Monica Vitti
Thora Birch
Chloe Sevigny circa Trees Lounge
Dunst when she's actually trying to act
Jeanna Fine
Azlea
Karen O
Shirley Manson
Elizabeth Sladen circa mid-70's
Miki Berenyi
Japanese girls
These are just a few of the ideals
culled from endless Entertainment Weekly's
and Premiere profiles.
Musicians, indie kids, pornstars &
childhood comforts.
Sad, really.
But after 4 years...
whoever it's going to be has to be exquisite.
Damn near perfect.
Not some frat party fumble
or internet fatty.
If it's going to be physical,
I'm going to dwell on the physical.
I can't afford much else.
a rather expensive & ultimately disappointing
ART production of Dresden Dolls "Onion Cellar".
A fringe fest w/ $75.00 tix. Yeow!
The girl was mousy & had bad teeth...
worked at some small architectural firm in Quincy?
Met her @ a show,
myspaced an intro;
morphed into the bold brazen me...
all type & catchphrases & bon mots
(I'm good on paper, they'll say!)
I asked her out oh-so-casually
and there was our date ie.
No chemistry, little connection...
an awkward T-ride out of Harvard Square.
At one point I even walked away,
saw an improv-related associate on the train
& left the girl standing there a few feet afar
while I got comfortable all-over-again.
Yup. Mr. Smoothy. All ice cream or cold shoulder.
I almost kissed a girl on New Year's
in the back of a taxi dashing through Old Montreal,
the streets ice sheets,
the parked cars to either side pressed into glaciers.
A girl confiding rather drunkenly,
of an affair w/ her college professor...
a married man no less.
And there was that perfect lecherous moment,
the backseat a pantomine of shadow
lapping her face and bangs...
the driver intoning French into his radio...
man, I wanted her!
And there she was on the verge of tears,
investing me aka a near-stranger w/ her secrets
& guilt.
And did I care?
No, I was thinking. It just means she's easy
& it's a new year & this is the real deal chance of a lifetime.
Go for it!
But I didn't.
Even later at the after-hours,
me dancing in a suit like Jerry Lewis...
the moment had passed.
When we said our goodbyes...
there was simply the lean-in lack lip-lock.
Good-bye should've/could've/would've!
Regrets, I've had a few.
Ha Ha.
The love list? Give me a break.
Celibate these past 4 years.
A self-imposed exile.
On-set Sunday, when I was adjusting Annette's hair,
making sure I didn't gaffer tape her head to wings
(aside: most-complicate--costume-- accessory-- EVER!)
it hits me.
This is the 1st time I've touched a woman's hair in 4 years!
Albeit it was Annette & it was work & it was absolutely
nothing...
but it was a shuddering reminder how physically isolated
I've been.
I'm not a touchy-feely sort of guy, to begin with.
But it just seemed to me,
that at the end of all this.
A date, a kiss, a touch...
there's so much expectation now.
Ru
Monica Vitti
Thora Birch
Chloe Sevigny circa Trees Lounge
Dunst when she's actually trying to act
Jeanna Fine
Azlea
Karen O
Shirley Manson
Elizabeth Sladen circa mid-70's
Miki Berenyi
Japanese girls
These are just a few of the ideals
culled from endless Entertainment Weekly's
and Premiere profiles.
Musicians, indie kids, pornstars &
childhood comforts.
Sad, really.
But after 4 years...
whoever it's going to be has to be exquisite.
Damn near perfect.
Not some frat party fumble
or internet fatty.
If it's going to be physical,
I'm going to dwell on the physical.
I can't afford much else.
Monday, September 17, 2007
The Latest Post
Weird to be writing this at night.
10PM & I'm supping on peanut butter & cereal,
the latter chock-full of barley & spelt.
Yesterday was a 13 hr+ "work" day--
the re-shoots for Annette's video.
I feel like I've earned my directing merit badge...
I felt like I was working it ie.
Coaxing
Scenarios
Empathy
Control
Change-Ups
Monitor Playback/Performance Feedback
Was exhausted by the time we broke down equipment,
went to bed & slept like a mummy.
Didn't get up 'til 8:30AM...
Returned equipment to Rule @ 10:45AM
Checked-out PixMix studio @ 11AM
Went to work @ 12:15PM
Imported footage to Final Cut @ Steve's 6:30PM.
Busy Busy Busy.
So here I am now.
Kinda wired, kinda not.
Eno's cued up on the CD player,
the last of the cereal milk's been sipped,
my toes are cold & the house is no longer just mine...
nighty night.
Blog ya in the AM.
10PM & I'm supping on peanut butter & cereal,
the latter chock-full of barley & spelt.
Yesterday was a 13 hr+ "work" day--
the re-shoots for Annette's video.
I feel like I've earned my directing merit badge...
I felt like I was working it ie.
Coaxing
Scenarios
Empathy
Control
Change-Ups
Monitor Playback/Performance Feedback
Was exhausted by the time we broke down equipment,
went to bed & slept like a mummy.
Didn't get up 'til 8:30AM...
Returned equipment to Rule @ 10:45AM
Checked-out PixMix studio @ 11AM
Went to work @ 12:15PM
Imported footage to Final Cut @ Steve's 6:30PM.
Busy Busy Busy.
So here I am now.
Kinda wired, kinda not.
Eno's cued up on the CD player,
the last of the cereal milk's been sipped,
my toes are cold & the house is no longer just mine...
nighty night.
Blog ya in the AM.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Deep Breathing Exercises
Awake at 3AM.
Hard to breathe.
My throat sounds like a vacuum cleaner
sucking up lost pennies.
Allergic reaction? Panic attack?
This happens every so often,
usually there's mold involved.
A corner of the bedspread undone--
a catapult of rug dust and irons.
Read my Dick Tracy Secret Files book,
(Max Allen Collins' edited
circa 1990
circa Warren Beatty movie
circa last public awareness)...
but still can't get back to sleep.
All the doubts and foibles nibbling my soul--
The endless film.
Living back home.
No girlfriend.
Lack of friends.
Balding and fat.
Poorer than I've ever been.
How will this all end?
For you-- this blog will just cease.
Another month or year from now
& all this emotional mincemeat will ebb
into cyberspace.
Lost amid the teen confessionals
& the wanna-be daydreams.
The middle-aged insomniacs
& the spooned Gen Y.
Just words & text.
Who reads this stuff?
Why do I write it?
I want to know how it ends.
Because despite all this...I still believe.
I will be self-made.
I will pull myself up by my bootstraps.
I will do want I want to do...
despite my surroundings
despite my upbringing.
Exhale.
Hard to breathe.
My throat sounds like a vacuum cleaner
sucking up lost pennies.
Allergic reaction? Panic attack?
This happens every so often,
usually there's mold involved.
A corner of the bedspread undone--
a catapult of rug dust and irons.
Read my Dick Tracy Secret Files book,
(Max Allen Collins' edited
circa 1990
circa Warren Beatty movie
circa last public awareness)...
but still can't get back to sleep.
All the doubts and foibles nibbling my soul--
The endless film.
Living back home.
No girlfriend.
Lack of friends.
Balding and fat.
Poorer than I've ever been.
How will this all end?
For you-- this blog will just cease.
Another month or year from now
& all this emotional mincemeat will ebb
into cyberspace.
Lost amid the teen confessionals
& the wanna-be daydreams.
The middle-aged insomniacs
& the spooned Gen Y.
Just words & text.
Who reads this stuff?
Why do I write it?
I want to know how it ends.
Because despite all this...I still believe.
I will be self-made.
I will pull myself up by my bootstraps.
I will do want I want to do...
despite my surroundings
despite my upbringing.
Exhale.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Someday There Will Be Cut-Aways & Wonderful Plays
Waiting on the rain.
Darts and dings of water all morning,
taking its sweet time en route to sea.
The sky's a grey cool pool
when all I want is crystal blue & sun.
Hoping to get in the additional Elm Bank cut-aways
this afternoon.
Just Stu & me & camera...
more for my own version of "Water & Wood" music vid
(shhh...don't tell)
some more majestic scenery-scape
which the HVX captures oh-so-well.
Tomorrow we re-shoot Annette's performance
in triplicate--maroon backdrop, greenscreen, &
water diorama.
A few cut-aways of bridge, willow, & running water too.
Should be a pretty full day.
Rather grab the Elm Bank footage today;
it'll only take a couple hours but it'll save the rushing about.
And did I mention it's more for me than she?
(shhh...don't tell)
Rehearsal #1 last night for "Cinema Tickets",
a VERY short play I'm directing for Improv Boston's
Short Play Night on the 23rd.
The sextet of us met @ MIT,
in the most Frank Gehry of buildings.
We had a room & study lobby to ourselves,
a few student walk-by's but @ 7PM on a Friday,
w/ the Yankees in town no less,
there was little stop-and-gawk.
I kept it loose. Threw a lot of improv into it,
ran it w/ constant change-up...
everyone keeping up & on their toes for the 2 hours.
I'm very fortunate-- a great bunch of actors:
Adam, SerahRose, George, Pardis, & JJ.
All taking their time for this silly little thing.
SerahRose driving down from New Hampshire,
JJ taking the T in from Dorchester.
I did my best to keep 'em busy,
utilizing the time through warm-ups
(my God...when was the last time I did a count-out?)
and read-thru & basic walk/block w/ sides.
Some good bits of business came up.
My job to recognize & incorporate...
but not get too elaborate. No Cormey over-think,
thank you.
I'll E-M/call actors this week w/ notes.
We meet again for 2nd & final rehearsal next Saturday.
Longer chunk of time to just drill & fill it.
It'll be good. Just let the actors do their jobs.
KISS: Keep It Simple, Stupid!
Darts and dings of water all morning,
taking its sweet time en route to sea.
The sky's a grey cool pool
when all I want is crystal blue & sun.
Hoping to get in the additional Elm Bank cut-aways
this afternoon.
Just Stu & me & camera...
more for my own version of "Water & Wood" music vid
(shhh...don't tell)
some more majestic scenery-scape
which the HVX captures oh-so-well.
Tomorrow we re-shoot Annette's performance
in triplicate--maroon backdrop, greenscreen, &
water diorama.
A few cut-aways of bridge, willow, & running water too.
Should be a pretty full day.
Rather grab the Elm Bank footage today;
it'll only take a couple hours but it'll save the rushing about.
And did I mention it's more for me than she?
(shhh...don't tell)
Rehearsal #1 last night for "Cinema Tickets",
a VERY short play I'm directing for Improv Boston's
Short Play Night on the 23rd.
The sextet of us met @ MIT,
in the most Frank Gehry of buildings.
We had a room & study lobby to ourselves,
a few student walk-by's but @ 7PM on a Friday,
w/ the Yankees in town no less,
there was little stop-and-gawk.
I kept it loose. Threw a lot of improv into it,
ran it w/ constant change-up...
everyone keeping up & on their toes for the 2 hours.
I'm very fortunate-- a great bunch of actors:
Adam, SerahRose, George, Pardis, & JJ.
All taking their time for this silly little thing.
SerahRose driving down from New Hampshire,
JJ taking the T in from Dorchester.
I did my best to keep 'em busy,
utilizing the time through warm-ups
(my God...when was the last time I did a count-out?)
and read-thru & basic walk/block w/ sides.
Some good bits of business came up.
My job to recognize & incorporate...
but not get too elaborate. No Cormey over-think,
thank you.
I'll E-M/call actors this week w/ notes.
We meet again for 2nd & final rehearsal next Saturday.
Longer chunk of time to just drill & fill it.
It'll be good. Just let the actors do their jobs.
KISS: Keep It Simple, Stupid!
Friday, September 14, 2007
3 States
No-- not Missouri, Tennessee, & Wyoming...
States of mind a.k.a.
depression, lethargy, & elation.
I don't feel much else,
no in-between places.
It's like every morning I wake up
and someone's thrown the switch.
Depressed a lot
I took the company health quiz a couple years back,
a quaint little on-line thing.
5 minutes out of lunch & you get a $50 A.J. Wright gift certificate!
(I bought shirts)
Anyway, I took it.
Very frank, very honest
Heck, why not?
And I get this flashing bulletin at the end,
like some carnie prize proclamation--
"Seek professional conseling immediately!"
or somesuch words to that effect.
I guess no one likes to hear the truth,
not even an anonymous cyber-test program.
I remember high school was the worst,
just slammed with hormones & chemical growth...
my mental trying to keep stride w/ the physical.
I moped a lot.
I remember being in a dark bus,
lying on a seat near the back...
the group of us had just finished some state drama festival
or was it Show Choir?
Anyway, it was celebratory...
whatever the lot of us had done in our post-scholastic hours
it was victorious.
And there I was,
immersed in my Walkman world of cold old electronica,
cranking out the sounds of boys 'n girls,
laughing and flirting.
Outside the window I could see the silhouette of a tennis court,
the other buses from the other schools,
lined up behind us in the lot.
I'll never be like them, I thought.
I won't be that weak. I won't settle for winks and nudges
and weddings and babies. I won't give in.
A sort of meglomania took hold of me.
I was certain I was destined for better things.
I was above my surroundings.
It was so easy to turn it off.
But what a price. Self-incrimination & loathing.
Never being good enough.
My own impossibly high standards...
and all the while flailing in some autistic spat.
Losing connections.
And when I did fall for some girl, some Chicago or K...
of course I fell hard.
And after it all...this heavy state. A treacle feeling,
a constant press on my shoulders.
Lethargy is fatty fat-bones.
Eating cheaply & badly.
Stickpins for arms
pipecleaner for legs
but a gorilla-suit belly for waistline...
so inappropriately disproportionate.
A bloated later-day Cassevettes.
20 lbs on me is 100 lbs on a fat man.
Constantly tired
the only thing I want to do is watch movies
and eat Chinese food.
The only time I'm happy, it seems.
Shaving every morning is a challenge...
I know if I can do that, I can make the day.
Used to go a couple times a work-week w/o shaving,
but since the new President!
Figures the days I'd see him in the office,
would be the days I didn't shave.
Had to correct, stay below-the-radar...
just another office drone.
Elation is good productive Type A me--
the Peter Davison & David Tennant rush for breath &
11th hour rescue.
Again my meglomania kicks in here,
but it's good meglomania.
Like I can do anything...
because really, everything in life is force of will--
you vs. the other guy.
A constant competition in which you must win
or they do.
This is how I feel when I drink
like I'm attractive to girls
& I hold a 5-year career gameplan.
I hold information that no one else knows.
I am resolute & know for certain how things will play out.
I can counsel.
I can do lots of things.
What a feeling. Is this how drugs make you feel?
Is this why people do them?
To be sure?
I've only been slipped a hash brownie
& dry sucked a bong circa 1991
(Paul's loft in Fort Point, right across from dear old Mobius).
I'm trying wine now over beer.
But there's no huge urge involved.
I feel heightened enough when I dream
and those days I do feel on-top-of-the-world
are au natural.
I don't want to be dependent on anything else.
I want my success to be wholly me.
My personality reeling like techno & laser lights.
Me goosestepping on skyscrapers.
So there you have it.
Mental health 101.
Courtesy of this morning's introspection,
a truck drive up Rte 128
and green tea.
Ooh! Cheat alert!
That latter's got caffeine!
States of mind a.k.a.
depression, lethargy, & elation.
I don't feel much else,
no in-between places.
It's like every morning I wake up
and someone's thrown the switch.
Depressed a lot
I took the company health quiz a couple years back,
a quaint little on-line thing.
5 minutes out of lunch & you get a $50 A.J. Wright gift certificate!
(I bought shirts)
Anyway, I took it.
Very frank, very honest
Heck, why not?
And I get this flashing bulletin at the end,
like some carnie prize proclamation--
"Seek professional conseling immediately!"
or somesuch words to that effect.
I guess no one likes to hear the truth,
not even an anonymous cyber-test program.
I remember high school was the worst,
just slammed with hormones & chemical growth...
my mental trying to keep stride w/ the physical.
I moped a lot.
I remember being in a dark bus,
lying on a seat near the back...
the group of us had just finished some state drama festival
or was it Show Choir?
Anyway, it was celebratory...
whatever the lot of us had done in our post-scholastic hours
it was victorious.
And there I was,
immersed in my Walkman world of cold old electronica,
cranking out the sounds of boys 'n girls,
laughing and flirting.
Outside the window I could see the silhouette of a tennis court,
the other buses from the other schools,
lined up behind us in the lot.
I'll never be like them, I thought.
I won't be that weak. I won't settle for winks and nudges
and weddings and babies. I won't give in.
A sort of meglomania took hold of me.
I was certain I was destined for better things.
I was above my surroundings.
It was so easy to turn it off.
But what a price. Self-incrimination & loathing.
Never being good enough.
My own impossibly high standards...
and all the while flailing in some autistic spat.
Losing connections.
And when I did fall for some girl, some Chicago or K...
of course I fell hard.
And after it all...this heavy state. A treacle feeling,
a constant press on my shoulders.
Lethargy is fatty fat-bones.
Eating cheaply & badly.
Stickpins for arms
pipecleaner for legs
but a gorilla-suit belly for waistline...
so inappropriately disproportionate.
A bloated later-day Cassevettes.
20 lbs on me is 100 lbs on a fat man.
Constantly tired
the only thing I want to do is watch movies
and eat Chinese food.
The only time I'm happy, it seems.
Shaving every morning is a challenge...
I know if I can do that, I can make the day.
Used to go a couple times a work-week w/o shaving,
but since the new President!
Figures the days I'd see him in the office,
would be the days I didn't shave.
Had to correct, stay below-the-radar...
just another office drone.
Elation is good productive Type A me--
the Peter Davison & David Tennant rush for breath &
11th hour rescue.
Again my meglomania kicks in here,
but it's good meglomania.
Like I can do anything...
because really, everything in life is force of will--
you vs. the other guy.
A constant competition in which you must win
or they do.
This is how I feel when I drink
like I'm attractive to girls
& I hold a 5-year career gameplan.
I hold information that no one else knows.
I am resolute & know for certain how things will play out.
I can counsel.
I can do lots of things.
What a feeling. Is this how drugs make you feel?
Is this why people do them?
To be sure?
I've only been slipped a hash brownie
& dry sucked a bong circa 1991
(Paul's loft in Fort Point, right across from dear old Mobius).
I'm trying wine now over beer.
But there's no huge urge involved.
I feel heightened enough when I dream
and those days I do feel on-top-of-the-world
are au natural.
I don't want to be dependent on anything else.
I want my success to be wholly me.
My personality reeling like techno & laser lights.
Me goosestepping on skyscrapers.
So there you have it.
Mental health 101.
Courtesy of this morning's introspection,
a truck drive up Rte 128
and green tea.
Ooh! Cheat alert!
That latter's got caffeine!
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Here We Go!
Thursday, Sep 13
AM: pick-up Annette's wings in Lowell
PM: drop off wings, various backdrops @
Annette's; pick-up checks
Friday, Sep 14
PM: pick-up equipment @ Rule in Watertown
for music video re-shoot
: rehearsal #1 in Cambridge for Improv Boston
Short Play Night
Saturday, Sep 15
AM: pending weather, shoot 2nd Unit w/ Stu
@ Elm Bank in Wellesley
PM: (2) pp storyboard for Walter & Edrie's
Nov-scheduled music video
Sunday, Sep 16
AM/PM: Annette music video re-shoot in
Winchester
Monday, Sep 17
AM: return equipment to Rule in Watertown
AM: pick-up Annette's wings in Lowell
PM: drop off wings, various backdrops @
Annette's; pick-up checks
Friday, Sep 14
PM: pick-up equipment @ Rule in Watertown
for music video re-shoot
: rehearsal #1 in Cambridge for Improv Boston
Short Play Night
Saturday, Sep 15
AM: pending weather, shoot 2nd Unit w/ Stu
@ Elm Bank in Wellesley
PM: (2) pp storyboard for Walter & Edrie's
Nov-scheduled music video
Sunday, Sep 16
AM/PM: Annette music video re-shoot in
Winchester
Monday, Sep 17
AM: return equipment to Rule in Watertown
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Traffic Officer Filosi As Perfect Metaphor
So I have a meeting after work w/ Michael Bowes
aka Central Productions aka "AERO" Fiscal Sponsor.
Chit-chat about Fall 2007 letter writing campaign
("best time is 'tween Halloween & Thanksgiving!")
& potential Spring 2008 fundraiser.
Anything to bridge the $10 grand gap
& get "AERO" done & out to fests!
We meet @ 6:30PM in Davis Square, Somerville...
naturally enough in front of the Somerville Theatre.
Adjoin to the re-vitalized coffee shop next door
where I order Morrocan Tea
& Michael has a shot of expresso.
I even have a syllabus of sorts printed up,
denoting progress points since last we met
some six or more months ago.
I have this meeting timed, I tell you.
1/2 hour tops w/ maybe some 5-10 mins. spill.
It all goes well enough...I talk about "AERO"
& ask my fundraising questions & Michael answers.
Good productive stuff.
The perfect post-work "work".
Only I get back to the work truck @ 7:20PM
& there's a $20 parking ticket courtesy of
City of Somerville & Traffic Officer Filosi
Badge #322.
Where is that prick?
I parked in a metered lot @ quarter of six,
put in two quarters for an hour's worth of time.
Further, I took a pre-meeting trip to Brooks
& purchased trail mix just for the .25 change
so I could charge up meter another 1/2 hour.
I was covered 'til 7:15PM.
Per computer print-out slip the ticket's issued--
7:19:39PM.
Four minutes over!
I see Filosi @ corner of lot...
that's how close we're overlapping.
He's still in breathing room,
still within the trajectory of the minute.
I go over & talk...oh so calmly...
"Excuse me. I was just four minutes tardy."
(see how calm? I use the word "tardy")
"What do you want me to do about it?" he says.
A little under-sized bald guy,
his smirk a hatchet-mark of insolence.
"What are you asking me?" he adds.
"I want you to take this back," I say...
holding the day-glo stub stub out to him.
"I was paid up on the meter 'til 7:15.
I just missed it by four minutes."
"I see a blinking meter light, I ticket.
It doesn't matter how long it's been blinking."
And with that he's away,
punching in violations & fine allotments
on his little computer box which he wears
on a cord 'round his neck.
Traffic Officer Filosi taking no gruff,
bearing no excuses.
Just doing his sacred duty.
Now I feel rage.
Murderous push-the-little-guy rage.
I'm no muscleman but I'm supremely confident
I could kick Filosi's ass,
maybe run over his arm w/ the work truck.
Or do permanent spinal damage.
Oh they're just words on a blog now,
after-the-fact threats as meaningless as sap.
But I suppress a lot
and these homicidal impulses do come out.
Feelings of sheer unreason & destruction.
Only I'm w/ the work truck...
and anything I do
is a reflection of my job...the day thing
keeping this whole kittenkaboodle together.
You know, the past 5 years of monies
that made it possible to do a little sci-fi film.
It wasn't all talk of fundraisers that got me here.
And I & the company-emblazoned truck
would be easy association for Traffic Officer Filosi
if anything stupid were to transpire.
So what's the worse that could happen?
Out after-hours w/ the truck,
even if I pay I'm sure Operations will get some kind of receipt--
proof-positive that Truck #10 was out in Somerville
on Tuesday, September 11th at 7:19:39PM!
I'm so dependent on the work truck.
It's my transport to & from work.
I can no longer afford $75/week public transport costs
(commuter rail round trip, 354 bus round trip)...
my weekly expense money is $100.
They take away the truck-- it's bye-bye job. Seriously.
So I take a deep breath & let it go.
Easy to blame Traffic Officer Filosi
oh so easy.
But it's my fault.
Even if he was waiting/watching for the meter to run out
(I gotta think he was, the parking lot wasn't his only route;
I saw him on Elm Street as I pulled out, headed home...
the odds of him just happening across the expired meter
by happenstance in those four O/S minutes? slim)...
I should've could've--
Parked later than 5:45PM. Driven to the supermarket.
Got an extra quarter for the meter just in case.
Checked my watch more often during the meeting.
Wrapped it up sooner. Bribed Filosi w/ an extra $20.
I dunno. There were possibilities.
I've grown over-accustomed to having the work truck,
it's a luxury.
And I abused it last night. Even if it was directly after work,
even if it was film-related.
I needed to aggressively plan.
Because there are many Traffic Officer Filosi's out there.
Little hobgoblins that'll chip away at you.
$20 here. A handfull of credibility there.
A pottery wheel of escalating ugly clay,
that'll ultimately weigh you down.
And I'll have no one else to blame but myself.
Because I wasn't strident enough
Because I wasn't over-cautious, over-planned.
I'm on a tightwire.
I can't afford to pratfall.
Me. Me. Me.
Don't blame the messenger.
Although if the gay baboon from the zoo
was to break out...
I'd wish Traffic Officer Filosi nothing less than face herpes.
aka Central Productions aka "AERO" Fiscal Sponsor.
Chit-chat about Fall 2007 letter writing campaign
("best time is 'tween Halloween & Thanksgiving!")
& potential Spring 2008 fundraiser.
Anything to bridge the $10 grand gap
& get "AERO" done & out to fests!
We meet @ 6:30PM in Davis Square, Somerville...
naturally enough in front of the Somerville Theatre.
Adjoin to the re-vitalized coffee shop next door
where I order Morrocan Tea
& Michael has a shot of expresso.
I even have a syllabus of sorts printed up,
denoting progress points since last we met
some six or more months ago.
I have this meeting timed, I tell you.
1/2 hour tops w/ maybe some 5-10 mins. spill.
It all goes well enough...I talk about "AERO"
& ask my fundraising questions & Michael answers.
Good productive stuff.
The perfect post-work "work".
Only I get back to the work truck @ 7:20PM
& there's a $20 parking ticket courtesy of
City of Somerville & Traffic Officer Filosi
Badge #322.
Where is that prick?
I parked in a metered lot @ quarter of six,
put in two quarters for an hour's worth of time.
Further, I took a pre-meeting trip to Brooks
& purchased trail mix just for the .25 change
so I could charge up meter another 1/2 hour.
I was covered 'til 7:15PM.
Per computer print-out slip the ticket's issued--
7:19:39PM.
Four minutes over!
I see Filosi @ corner of lot...
that's how close we're overlapping.
He's still in breathing room,
still within the trajectory of the minute.
I go over & talk...oh so calmly...
"Excuse me. I was just four minutes tardy."
(see how calm? I use the word "tardy")
"What do you want me to do about it?" he says.
A little under-sized bald guy,
his smirk a hatchet-mark of insolence.
"What are you asking me?" he adds.
"I want you to take this back," I say...
holding the day-glo stub stub out to him.
"I was paid up on the meter 'til 7:15.
I just missed it by four minutes."
"I see a blinking meter light, I ticket.
It doesn't matter how long it's been blinking."
And with that he's away,
punching in violations & fine allotments
on his little computer box which he wears
on a cord 'round his neck.
Traffic Officer Filosi taking no gruff,
bearing no excuses.
Just doing his sacred duty.
Now I feel rage.
Murderous push-the-little-guy rage.
I'm no muscleman but I'm supremely confident
I could kick Filosi's ass,
maybe run over his arm w/ the work truck.
Or do permanent spinal damage.
Oh they're just words on a blog now,
after-the-fact threats as meaningless as sap.
But I suppress a lot
and these homicidal impulses do come out.
Feelings of sheer unreason & destruction.
Only I'm w/ the work truck...
and anything I do
is a reflection of my job...the day thing
keeping this whole kittenkaboodle together.
You know, the past 5 years of monies
that made it possible to do a little sci-fi film.
It wasn't all talk of fundraisers that got me here.
And I & the company-emblazoned truck
would be easy association for Traffic Officer Filosi
if anything stupid were to transpire.
So what's the worse that could happen?
Out after-hours w/ the truck,
even if I pay I'm sure Operations will get some kind of receipt--
proof-positive that Truck #10 was out in Somerville
on Tuesday, September 11th at 7:19:39PM!
I'm so dependent on the work truck.
It's my transport to & from work.
I can no longer afford $75/week public transport costs
(commuter rail round trip, 354 bus round trip)...
my weekly expense money is $100.
They take away the truck-- it's bye-bye job. Seriously.
So I take a deep breath & let it go.
Easy to blame Traffic Officer Filosi
oh so easy.
But it's my fault.
Even if he was waiting/watching for the meter to run out
(I gotta think he was, the parking lot wasn't his only route;
I saw him on Elm Street as I pulled out, headed home...
the odds of him just happening across the expired meter
by happenstance in those four O/S minutes? slim)...
I should've could've--
Parked later than 5:45PM. Driven to the supermarket.
Got an extra quarter for the meter just in case.
Checked my watch more often during the meeting.
Wrapped it up sooner. Bribed Filosi w/ an extra $20.
I dunno. There were possibilities.
I've grown over-accustomed to having the work truck,
it's a luxury.
And I abused it last night. Even if it was directly after work,
even if it was film-related.
I needed to aggressively plan.
Because there are many Traffic Officer Filosi's out there.
Little hobgoblins that'll chip away at you.
$20 here. A handfull of credibility there.
A pottery wheel of escalating ugly clay,
that'll ultimately weigh you down.
And I'll have no one else to blame but myself.
Because I wasn't strident enough
Because I wasn't over-cautious, over-planned.
I'm on a tightwire.
I can't afford to pratfall.
Me. Me. Me.
Don't blame the messenger.
Although if the gay baboon from the zoo
was to break out...
I'd wish Traffic Officer Filosi nothing less than face herpes.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Tuesdays Will Kill You
It won't be the sharp snap of failure,
the sudden betrayal and abandon...
No, it'll be this.
Another mist-wet morning,
flies on the windowpane
a steady tapping on the attic roof.
A smell like camphor and urine,
a book fallen in back of the shelf.
Creeping creeping up on you,
another year of this sponge...
a drive into work among the headlights
an empty passenger seat
an ink-smeared manifest.
This drudgery of everyday routine,
milk and cookies and flab.
The hair parts down the middle,
the scalp of age and flop sweat.
Old musics
childhood cassette tapes.
A hum of promise and poise.
Lost now.
Dum-dee-dee-dum.
Weak tea and weaker knees,
a punched number and dull chrome.
What's the warranty on the laptop?
Has your Norton Anti-Virus expired?
Where's the 401K? Health insurance?
How many more loan payments?
Credit card maxed? Personal debts?
Monetary gifts and promises to kin?
Awake in the middle of the night
flash lightening and cars just outside the window.
A plane veers far overhead,
looking down at another suburban depot.
How much longer of this?
A poster curls against the wall.
A light flicks on,
a plastic glass and spring water.
Escape.
Then the drive into work
Then the drive into work
Then fries with work
Tires fries work
Wo--
the sudden betrayal and abandon...
No, it'll be this.
Another mist-wet morning,
flies on the windowpane
a steady tapping on the attic roof.
A smell like camphor and urine,
a book fallen in back of the shelf.
Creeping creeping up on you,
another year of this sponge...
a drive into work among the headlights
an empty passenger seat
an ink-smeared manifest.
This drudgery of everyday routine,
milk and cookies and flab.
The hair parts down the middle,
the scalp of age and flop sweat.
Old musics
childhood cassette tapes.
A hum of promise and poise.
Lost now.
Dum-dee-dee-dum.
Weak tea and weaker knees,
a punched number and dull chrome.
What's the warranty on the laptop?
Has your Norton Anti-Virus expired?
Where's the 401K? Health insurance?
How many more loan payments?
Credit card maxed? Personal debts?
Monetary gifts and promises to kin?
Awake in the middle of the night
flash lightening and cars just outside the window.
A plane veers far overhead,
looking down at another suburban depot.
How much longer of this?
A poster curls against the wall.
A light flicks on,
a plastic glass and spring water.
Escape.
Then the drive into work
Then the drive into work
Then fries with work
Tires fries work
Wo--
Monday, September 10, 2007
Ghosts of California
The son had vanished in Plumas County
a postcard memory of Bucks Lake and wind-surfing.
A two-grand elopement with an unpaid Ford Focus
and a disc-full of genre scripts.
Earlier...
There were scattered phonecalls from NorCal,
the phone ringing in the dead of night,
the muddle of coffeeshops and Ghirardelli girls,
good-natured Ukrainian counter-talk.
The son's spirit buyoed, his insistence that--
everything's all right, dad--I'm fine--I needed
to do this--A sharp break--Where I belong--
until the words swarmed in the old man's ear.
until all he could discern was the over-eager tone.
Was it cryptomnesia?
Dormant memory pulling a paper mask,
shuffling in over-sized shoes...
Did the old man remember something from all this
that came back?
Crossing the time zones and old Spanish missions,
the redwoods and Sierras?
A crossword puzzle of hints and promises
that found him back at the house.
The death's head moth curled on the bathroom floor,
the unreturned library tapes
(all Marx Brothers-- The Cocoanuts, Horsefeathers...
Zeppo looking strained),
the spigot clogged with grey shavings.
The son had been 38 when he left,
an old man himself in Hollywood years.
His room remained untouched, cloaked
in chalkdust and incense.
The old man refused to enter.
And yet this night,
returning from his customary walk...
there was a shout down the hall.
A TV sound--loud detectives and gunfire,
a creature's roar.
He's back! thought the old man and
slowly
very slowly
put down his bag and walking shoes,
rinsed a thermos in the sink.
What was it this time? he wondered,
What brought him back?
Yet as he made his way down the hall...
(yes...there was the flicker of the laptop,
the DVD spinning white-blue...)
something unnerving crept over him.
It was too quiet.
Not even the clink of fork on plate,
a shuffle in the bed where the son would
draw his back into the corner,
pressed against a row of paperbacks.
And even as he thought this,
it was all gone.
The old man peered in the door.
But the desk was uncluttered
and the indentation on the bed was unoccupied.
a postcard memory of Bucks Lake and wind-surfing.
A two-grand elopement with an unpaid Ford Focus
and a disc-full of genre scripts.
Earlier...
There were scattered phonecalls from NorCal,
the phone ringing in the dead of night,
the muddle of coffeeshops and Ghirardelli girls,
good-natured Ukrainian counter-talk.
The son's spirit buyoed, his insistence that--
everything's all right, dad--I'm fine--I needed
to do this--A sharp break--Where I belong--
until the words swarmed in the old man's ear.
until all he could discern was the over-eager tone.
Was it cryptomnesia?
Dormant memory pulling a paper mask,
shuffling in over-sized shoes...
Did the old man remember something from all this
that came back?
Crossing the time zones and old Spanish missions,
the redwoods and Sierras?
A crossword puzzle of hints and promises
that found him back at the house.
The death's head moth curled on the bathroom floor,
the unreturned library tapes
(all Marx Brothers-- The Cocoanuts, Horsefeathers...
Zeppo looking strained),
the spigot clogged with grey shavings.
The son had been 38 when he left,
an old man himself in Hollywood years.
His room remained untouched, cloaked
in chalkdust and incense.
The old man refused to enter.
And yet this night,
returning from his customary walk...
there was a shout down the hall.
A TV sound--loud detectives and gunfire,
a creature's roar.
He's back! thought the old man and
slowly
very slowly
put down his bag and walking shoes,
rinsed a thermos in the sink.
What was it this time? he wondered,
What brought him back?
Yet as he made his way down the hall...
(yes...there was the flicker of the laptop,
the DVD spinning white-blue...)
something unnerving crept over him.
It was too quiet.
Not even the clink of fork on plate,
a shuffle in the bed where the son would
draw his back into the corner,
pressed against a row of paperbacks.
And even as he thought this,
it was all gone.
The old man peered in the door.
But the desk was uncluttered
and the indentation on the bed was unoccupied.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Kentucky Pie
Time was a few years back
not that long ago really...2001? 2002?
I was hosting parties.
Oh, not professionally
it wasn't my occupation.
But a Halloween here & Christmas there
& a random summer cookout.
House parties w/ friends & improv acquaintances,
me manning the grille, forking meat & veggie burger
(silly really, cooking on the back porch
w/ the landlord's porch directly above...
his kids shouting down that there was smoke!
dad! dad! dad! smoke!)
Mr. Domestic, that was me.
But it was fun.
Chopping all the carrots,
arranging the cherry tomatoes and crackers,
placing tabouli and hummus.
And baking pies.
K did most of the heavy lifting, so to speak.
She had the recipes & the cookeries &
plotted the convergent timelines--
this off the stove now!
that dip needs to be chilled for a couple hours!
I need to run to the store!
But me? I baked Kentucky Pie.
A gelatin & cream pie w/ just a hint of whisky...
and me not even a whisky drinker.
Just some random recipe I found
in one of mom's old Betty Crocker cookbooks.
A whim, truth be told.
A tricky whim.
I could never get the masses to mix just right,
either the crust soaked too much of the whiskey...
or the gelatin didn't settle before I grated the cooking chocolate,
little ant flecks of yum-yum...
or the whipped cream frosting deflated in the fridge...
I dunno.
Tried it multiple times, though.
If there was a shindig & I was hosting,
I'd crack open the flour-dusty cookbook
& see if I missed something.
Nope. Kentucky Pie still had the same ingredients.
Same measures and tablespoons and baking temperatures.
I'm reminded of all this last night,
as a guest...not a sponsor...not a MC...not nothing.
I'm sitting alone in a room-- the chill-out room
& it is exactly that, only room in house w/ AC.
I'm looking at books I don't own
and Hawaiian hula-skirted figurines...
cat paintings & unfamiliar furniture
(aside from the comfy chair I'm in).
The party noises are on the other side of a blanket,
blocking the room from the rest.
Couples babble & laugh. Musicians swap show dates.
Old Cambridge guys sprout statistical info
like some "Free-Speech Radio" guest.
A Siamese strays onto the front porch.
I put down my wine & I look at my watch.
Time to get going.
not that long ago really...2001? 2002?
I was hosting parties.
Oh, not professionally
it wasn't my occupation.
But a Halloween here & Christmas there
& a random summer cookout.
House parties w/ friends & improv acquaintances,
me manning the grille, forking meat & veggie burger
(silly really, cooking on the back porch
w/ the landlord's porch directly above...
his kids shouting down that there was smoke!
dad! dad! dad! smoke!)
Mr. Domestic, that was me.
But it was fun.
Chopping all the carrots,
arranging the cherry tomatoes and crackers,
placing tabouli and hummus.
And baking pies.
K did most of the heavy lifting, so to speak.
She had the recipes & the cookeries &
plotted the convergent timelines--
this off the stove now!
that dip needs to be chilled for a couple hours!
I need to run to the store!
But me? I baked Kentucky Pie.
A gelatin & cream pie w/ just a hint of whisky...
and me not even a whisky drinker.
Just some random recipe I found
in one of mom's old Betty Crocker cookbooks.
A whim, truth be told.
A tricky whim.
I could never get the masses to mix just right,
either the crust soaked too much of the whiskey...
or the gelatin didn't settle before I grated the cooking chocolate,
little ant flecks of yum-yum...
or the whipped cream frosting deflated in the fridge...
I dunno.
Tried it multiple times, though.
If there was a shindig & I was hosting,
I'd crack open the flour-dusty cookbook
& see if I missed something.
Nope. Kentucky Pie still had the same ingredients.
Same measures and tablespoons and baking temperatures.
I'm reminded of all this last night,
as a guest...not a sponsor...not a MC...not nothing.
I'm sitting alone in a room-- the chill-out room
& it is exactly that, only room in house w/ AC.
I'm looking at books I don't own
and Hawaiian hula-skirted figurines...
cat paintings & unfamiliar furniture
(aside from the comfy chair I'm in).
The party noises are on the other side of a blanket,
blocking the room from the rest.
Couples babble & laugh. Musicians swap show dates.
Old Cambridge guys sprout statistical info
like some "Free-Speech Radio" guest.
A Siamese strays onto the front porch.
I put down my wine & I look at my watch.
Time to get going.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Multiple Projects In Various Stages Of Development
Ha ha.
Standard Dov S-S Simens' nomenclature--
Ask any self-proclamined "Producer" what they're up to
& said title is what you get.
Something busy-bee you shout over your shoulder,
a verbal calabash you toss from your car
as you drive into the Hollywood sunshine.
Dov S-S Simens is something of an indie film guru,
weekend workshops and on-line advice columns
and "How To" filmmaking DVD's.
I TA'ed a couple of his classes when I volunteered @ BFVF
oh something like a million years ago.
Back from ignominious Chicago circa 1994
kicking around, unsure about the whole filmmaking thing.
The nuts n' bolts, the nitty-gritty...
if I had what it took.
And if I did, where did I take it?
Well, Dov's this Type A perpetual 40something
little Jewish guy. Sort of the Semitic Martin Scorsese.
Reminded me a film professor I had @ Ithaca,
the only practical guy there (oh but that's another litany).
The 2-day worshop is 16 jammed hours of "How To"
pre-production right through to distribution.
Dov refers to it many times as indie filmmaking bootcamp.
You will leave that conference room learned!
2nd weekend I TA'ed
some dodo from Friday locked the conference room door.
The clock's ticking to bright shiny 8AM
and Dov hasn't even set-up yet.
He's a pacing tiger,
on and on about how timed the class is.
Every minute of that 8 hour day counts
just like the next day and the next class etc.
He really does have it down,
there's no time for banter or informal Q&A...
when he's teaching it's like Mamet.
Each inflection, each jot of info is designated for effect...
there's no room for hour-long delay as I ring up
the Volunteer Coordinator.
I remember sweating it,
leaving voice messages for this person & that
as the "students" kept coming in,
amassing in the hall before the conference room.
And Dov popping into the front office,
checking in on me as I utilized phone & Roledex.
Finally, someone from BFVF showed up
& unlocked the door. Maybe 10-15 late start?
And Dov was off...a cannonblast of indie film logisitics.
Since I TA'ed I got to sit in for free,
maybe turn out the lights & switch on a projector...
or run for coffee.
Easy stuff. Dov didn't need much hand-holding.
That was the turning point for me. I filled
30 pages or so of notebook.
All the get-up-and-go I needed,
everything Ithaca never taught me
(oh but that's still another litany).
I left those weekends w/ another self-assurance
to chisel a chunk out of my 20's ie. "What I Did..."
I made a freakin' feature because Dov made it clear--
anyone can do this.
Seriously.
Anyone can be a director or actor or editor or
soundperson or producer.
There's no law school or medical internship
involved.
You say you're a filmmaker-- heck! you're a filmmaker
and here's how...
You're a producer? Really? What have you done?
What do you have going on?
"Multiple Projects In Various Stages of Development".
I have to remind myself of all this
with the goose egg of Sep 21st fast approaching.
The Globe even running an article on Sundance
& 75 years of film festivals last week.
A smudge in my eye, that.
But I am frantic crammed busy
just the way I like it--
cutting trailer for "AERODYNAMICS" (Sep '07)
VO recordings & 2nd Unit for "AERODYNAMICS"
(Sep '07 & Nov '07)
"Water and Wood" music video re-shoots & final edit
(Sep '07 & Oct '07)
"Sacrilege" music video pre-production & shoot
(Aug'07-Nov '07)
"Cinema Tickets" short play I'm directing for IB
(Sep '07)
website update (Oct '07)
Cast/Crew screening/"AERODYNAMICS" fundraiser
(Spring '08)
See? It's all getting done,
no one's paying me.
But I'm keeping my nose out.
Standard Dov S-S Simens' nomenclature--
Ask any self-proclamined "Producer" what they're up to
& said title is what you get.
Something busy-bee you shout over your shoulder,
a verbal calabash you toss from your car
as you drive into the Hollywood sunshine.
Dov S-S Simens is something of an indie film guru,
weekend workshops and on-line advice columns
and "How To" filmmaking DVD's.
I TA'ed a couple of his classes when I volunteered @ BFVF
oh something like a million years ago.
Back from ignominious Chicago circa 1994
kicking around, unsure about the whole filmmaking thing.
The nuts n' bolts, the nitty-gritty...
if I had what it took.
And if I did, where did I take it?
Well, Dov's this Type A perpetual 40something
little Jewish guy. Sort of the Semitic Martin Scorsese.
Reminded me a film professor I had @ Ithaca,
the only practical guy there (oh but that's another litany).
The 2-day worshop is 16 jammed hours of "How To"
pre-production right through to distribution.
Dov refers to it many times as indie filmmaking bootcamp.
You will leave that conference room learned!
2nd weekend I TA'ed
some dodo from Friday locked the conference room door.
The clock's ticking to bright shiny 8AM
and Dov hasn't even set-up yet.
He's a pacing tiger,
on and on about how timed the class is.
Every minute of that 8 hour day counts
just like the next day and the next class etc.
He really does have it down,
there's no time for banter or informal Q&A...
when he's teaching it's like Mamet.
Each inflection, each jot of info is designated for effect...
there's no room for hour-long delay as I ring up
the Volunteer Coordinator.
I remember sweating it,
leaving voice messages for this person & that
as the "students" kept coming in,
amassing in the hall before the conference room.
And Dov popping into the front office,
checking in on me as I utilized phone & Roledex.
Finally, someone from BFVF showed up
& unlocked the door. Maybe 10-15 late start?
And Dov was off...a cannonblast of indie film logisitics.
Since I TA'ed I got to sit in for free,
maybe turn out the lights & switch on a projector...
or run for coffee.
Easy stuff. Dov didn't need much hand-holding.
That was the turning point for me. I filled
30 pages or so of notebook.
All the get-up-and-go I needed,
everything Ithaca never taught me
(oh but that's still another litany).
I left those weekends w/ another self-assurance
to chisel a chunk out of my 20's ie. "What I Did..."
I made a freakin' feature because Dov made it clear--
anyone can do this.
Seriously.
Anyone can be a director or actor or editor or
soundperson or producer.
There's no law school or medical internship
involved.
You say you're a filmmaker-- heck! you're a filmmaker
and here's how...
You're a producer? Really? What have you done?
What do you have going on?
"Multiple Projects In Various Stages of Development".
I have to remind myself of all this
with the goose egg of Sep 21st fast approaching.
The Globe even running an article on Sundance
& 75 years of film festivals last week.
A smudge in my eye, that.
But I am frantic crammed busy
just the way I like it--
cutting trailer for "AERODYNAMICS" (Sep '07)
VO recordings & 2nd Unit for "AERODYNAMICS"
(Sep '07 & Nov '07)
"Water and Wood" music video re-shoots & final edit
(Sep '07 & Oct '07)
"Sacrilege" music video pre-production & shoot
(Aug'07-Nov '07)
"Cinema Tickets" short play I'm directing for IB
(Sep '07)
website update (Oct '07)
Cast/Crew screening/"AERODYNAMICS" fundraiser
(Spring '08)
See? It's all getting done,
no one's paying me.
But I'm keeping my nose out.
Friday, September 7, 2007
The Slush Pile
3rd Annual Best of Open Series at Coolidge Corner last night.
I go as "AERO"'s fiscal sponsor, Central Prods, now part of the deal.
And sure enough-- Mr. Michael Bowes is in attendance.
I say my howdy-do & we tentatively plan on meeting next week.
'Supposed to be every six months I check in,
give Michael all the big "AERO" news.
Want to talk to him about a Spring 2008 fundraiser,
maybe meet w/ the "Circuit" guys (another local sci-fi film WIP).
One of the attendees from prior night's Local Sightings "social" is there,
he has a film playing about Jerry Pearlswig,
autograph/celebrity photo hound...
It's one of two good things I see.
The other being "King of Discount Ho's",
a very funny music video w/ an army of clever lyrics,
pitching the high-concept of a bottom-basement pimp
& his less than stellar ensemble of prositutes w/ various irks
ie. rickets, facial hair, octogenerians.
Sort of the Island of Misfit Tricks, if you will.
"Pearlswig" is straight-up doc,
portrait of the now 65 year old collector
showing off his photo album--
any actor of sport celebrity who's been to town,
Jerry's got their flashbulbed portrait...
usually he's side by side. mouth ajar like a fish
or mechanical failure.
I recognize him from a photo print-out
from the copy shop I always used when I worked downtown.
Pudgy, coke-bottle glass Jerry and Denis Franz.
The footage of Jerry in "real-life" aka modest apartment
is out-of-focus.
The filmmaker guy told me it was an old Bolex,
and the spooled film didn't take too kindly to it...
but one of those perfect accidents happens.
Blurry, jittery Jerry in the here-and-now
comes across as daydream. The barrage of photos
and celebrity cameos...
Martin Sheen
Christopher Reeves
Michael Jordan
heck! even Bill Murray's cheek
are weighted more...crystal-clear escape.
Sadly, everything else is pretty awful.
A grab-bag of mac n' cheese.
Lot of it, but sloppy & unsatisfying.
I am genuinely thrilled when
a Youtube-like montage of clip footage depiciting
the conflict in Northern Ireland
plays the entirety of Simple Minds' "Belfast Child".
But that's about it.
I go as "AERO"'s fiscal sponsor, Central Prods, now part of the deal.
And sure enough-- Mr. Michael Bowes is in attendance.
I say my howdy-do & we tentatively plan on meeting next week.
'Supposed to be every six months I check in,
give Michael all the big "AERO" news.
Want to talk to him about a Spring 2008 fundraiser,
maybe meet w/ the "Circuit" guys (another local sci-fi film WIP).
One of the attendees from prior night's Local Sightings "social" is there,
he has a film playing about Jerry Pearlswig,
autograph/celebrity photo hound...
It's one of two good things I see.
The other being "King of Discount Ho's",
a very funny music video w/ an army of clever lyrics,
pitching the high-concept of a bottom-basement pimp
& his less than stellar ensemble of prositutes w/ various irks
ie. rickets, facial hair, octogenerians.
Sort of the Island of Misfit Tricks, if you will.
"Pearlswig" is straight-up doc,
portrait of the now 65 year old collector
showing off his photo album--
any actor of sport celebrity who's been to town,
Jerry's got their flashbulbed portrait...
usually he's side by side. mouth ajar like a fish
or mechanical failure.
I recognize him from a photo print-out
from the copy shop I always used when I worked downtown.
Pudgy, coke-bottle glass Jerry and Denis Franz.
The footage of Jerry in "real-life" aka modest apartment
is out-of-focus.
The filmmaker guy told me it was an old Bolex,
and the spooled film didn't take too kindly to it...
but one of those perfect accidents happens.
Blurry, jittery Jerry in the here-and-now
comes across as daydream. The barrage of photos
and celebrity cameos...
Martin Sheen
Christopher Reeves
Michael Jordan
heck! even Bill Murray's cheek
are weighted more...crystal-clear escape.
Sadly, everything else is pretty awful.
A grab-bag of mac n' cheese.
Lot of it, but sloppy & unsatisfying.
I am genuinely thrilled when
a Youtube-like montage of clip footage depiciting
the conflict in Northern Ireland
plays the entirety of Simple Minds' "Belfast Child".
But that's about it.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
MySpace Meyerhoff MySpace RabDAU
Ouch. It was a late one for me last night.
Didn't even shave this morning.
Just washed the hummus and bread crumbs
from my midnight din-din...
and hit the road to work.
First time I've ever been invited to a bona fide Local Sightings event.
Don't know if David Kleiler is just running low on invitees
or I've finally qualified.
Or maybe I'm just the elder mix...
because most of the people there are impossibly young.
First films.
First cable access job out of college.
"You should try submitting to Sundance," says David
(to a laid-back 20something).
All potential on the horizon.
I bring chocolate sour cream cake.
David's dog melds to my lap on the sofa,
warm-necked, hungry for attention...
until the next guest arrives. Then it's a bound and tap-tap-tap
to the door. I'm freed up.
Lindsey is fully installed as staff,
printing up a business plan Warren Lynch & his producer have drafted.
I'm warned Lindsey is tightening the screws,
making sure David doesn't undercharge clients.
She's very nice later on when I can't find a bottle-opener...
I've even abandoned the Stella Artois by then,
She sees my folly. Returns from the kitchen w/ said instrument.
I still can't get a read on her.
Her demeanor is as perfectly coiffed as her hair.
I briefly meet Kendra, more potential LS support.
Another VERY young guy who leaves even earlier than me.
There's Dima the projectionist from Coolidge. Or is it Brattle.
Here's very soft-spoken. I have to ask him to repeat response
numerous times.
"Surprised no on else thought of that," he says.
After I find a knife for my cake.
He makes an impression on me finally,
turning to me at the end of a particularly muddled first draft of a film
w/ perennial indie fave Seymour Cassel.
"What was that about?" he asks.
Man, someone else saw through the pretty cinematography.
A local Dir. of Photo is there,
although I think he's doing mostly gear reviews for Filmmaker.
He doesn't seem to recognize me.
But I recall a particularly uneasy pre-prod meet circa Winter 1996,
this actually for "What I Did..."
I had hoped to shoot earlier that year &
this self-same cinematographer was the hire.
I was so green then. Paperwork this & procedure that...
like Murray from "Flight of the Concords".
Fill out enough forms & stuff will happen.
Well anyhow--
I'm talking to various crew about signing waivers,
like if a huge 500 lb light falls on your head during filming,
you won't sue the pants off Lost Jockey Prods.
Well, this didn't go over so well w/ our head techman...
"I won't sign this!" he cries as he strides out of the room.
I've somehow insulted him?
There's a local film fest couple in the mix too.
Mass Art type "subversive" programmers.
She is very shrill, commanding--
"This is this. That is that. That is the way."
He's a high voice in the corner.
Hmmm.
They bring 3 recent submissions to watch--
one is a music video presenting itself as a film
another is a performance piece presenting itself as a film
the last is a music video presenting itself as a music video.
Holy crap! It's Leah "Pro-Active" Meyerhoff.
The NYU film school girl. The one who dresses in costumes
and self-promotes like there's no tomorrow.
Check out her myspace page and you'll see she has a film
or a music video or a podcast or a nail clipping
programmed somewhere in the world...every day.
Amazing. I truly admire her chutzpah.
The music video is so-so, though.
Too may long takes with the camera doing little.
The lead singer not always flattered by the natural lighting,
odd eyes too.
It's petty, I know. But anything that takes you out of the experience...
and I am taken out.
I leave David's place a little after 9PM.
Just when they're ordering the pizzas.
Race over to Lizard Lounge for Sarah RadDAU's set.
Not as many folk as Toad.
Most weave out after the very Melissa Etheridge/Indigo Girl strummings
of first band.
Too bad for them.
RadDAU has an amazing drummer.
Little wiry guy
but man! He can control tempo.
The two of them are it
and they are in sync, attuned down to the respective hand gesture at times.
Sarah's dressed like Christmas ribbon
with these frilly doily things around her wrists.
Why do I like her music?
It's very girly girly...
California beaches and upper class monies and private school.
A world above my own.
But when she's hushes the place during the penultimate number...
just her voice and the keyboard.
I'm taken out of the globe I occupy.
I lose my self-awareness.
Didn't even shave this morning.
Just washed the hummus and bread crumbs
from my midnight din-din...
and hit the road to work.
First time I've ever been invited to a bona fide Local Sightings event.
Don't know if David Kleiler is just running low on invitees
or I've finally qualified.
Or maybe I'm just the elder mix...
because most of the people there are impossibly young.
First films.
First cable access job out of college.
"You should try submitting to Sundance," says David
(to a laid-back 20something).
All potential on the horizon.
I bring chocolate sour cream cake.
David's dog melds to my lap on the sofa,
warm-necked, hungry for attention...
until the next guest arrives. Then it's a bound and tap-tap-tap
to the door. I'm freed up.
Lindsey is fully installed as staff,
printing up a business plan Warren Lynch & his producer have drafted.
I'm warned Lindsey is tightening the screws,
making sure David doesn't undercharge clients.
She's very nice later on when I can't find a bottle-opener...
I've even abandoned the Stella Artois by then,
She sees my folly. Returns from the kitchen w/ said instrument.
I still can't get a read on her.
Her demeanor is as perfectly coiffed as her hair.
I briefly meet Kendra, more potential LS support.
Another VERY young guy who leaves even earlier than me.
There's Dima the projectionist from Coolidge. Or is it Brattle.
Here's very soft-spoken. I have to ask him to repeat response
numerous times.
"Surprised no on else thought of that," he says.
After I find a knife for my cake.
He makes an impression on me finally,
turning to me at the end of a particularly muddled first draft of a film
w/ perennial indie fave Seymour Cassel.
"What was that about?" he asks.
Man, someone else saw through the pretty cinematography.
A local Dir. of Photo is there,
although I think he's doing mostly gear reviews for Filmmaker.
He doesn't seem to recognize me.
But I recall a particularly uneasy pre-prod meet circa Winter 1996,
this actually for "What I Did..."
I had hoped to shoot earlier that year &
this self-same cinematographer was the hire.
I was so green then. Paperwork this & procedure that...
like Murray from "Flight of the Concords".
Fill out enough forms & stuff will happen.
Well anyhow--
I'm talking to various crew about signing waivers,
like if a huge 500 lb light falls on your head during filming,
you won't sue the pants off Lost Jockey Prods.
Well, this didn't go over so well w/ our head techman...
"I won't sign this!" he cries as he strides out of the room.
I've somehow insulted him?
There's a local film fest couple in the mix too.
Mass Art type "subversive" programmers.
She is very shrill, commanding--
"This is this. That is that. That is the way."
He's a high voice in the corner.
Hmmm.
They bring 3 recent submissions to watch--
one is a music video presenting itself as a film
another is a performance piece presenting itself as a film
the last is a music video presenting itself as a music video.
Holy crap! It's Leah "Pro-Active" Meyerhoff.
The NYU film school girl. The one who dresses in costumes
and self-promotes like there's no tomorrow.
Check out her myspace page and you'll see she has a film
or a music video or a podcast or a nail clipping
programmed somewhere in the world...every day.
Amazing. I truly admire her chutzpah.
The music video is so-so, though.
Too may long takes with the camera doing little.
The lead singer not always flattered by the natural lighting,
odd eyes too.
It's petty, I know. But anything that takes you out of the experience...
and I am taken out.
I leave David's place a little after 9PM.
Just when they're ordering the pizzas.
Race over to Lizard Lounge for Sarah RadDAU's set.
Not as many folk as Toad.
Most weave out after the very Melissa Etheridge/Indigo Girl strummings
of first band.
Too bad for them.
RadDAU has an amazing drummer.
Little wiry guy
but man! He can control tempo.
The two of them are it
and they are in sync, attuned down to the respective hand gesture at times.
Sarah's dressed like Christmas ribbon
with these frilly doily things around her wrists.
Why do I like her music?
It's very girly girly...
California beaches and upper class monies and private school.
A world above my own.
But when she's hushes the place during the penultimate number...
just her voice and the keyboard.
I'm taken out of the globe I occupy.
I lose my self-awareness.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
The First Year Back/Commute
This would be 2003-2004.
The Presbyterian church clock in the distance
dooming away the early hour.
I should be out of the shower by now.
Towel dry and deoderant and Boss cologne.
Not enough time to check E-M,
barely enough time for anything really...
Out the door at 5:25AM.
More night than dawn as autumn stetches out,
winter spooning its chilled ass.
The streets like stray pencil lines,
checks and graphite dipsy-doodles...
a casual convergence.
I'd have Harold Budd or Simple Minds "Empires and Dance"
on CD Walkman.
Marking off the intervals per song...
How many tracks 'til I'm off Highland Ave?
Or mid-way down South Street?
And here I am on the commuter rail platform,
time for a three-minute ditty.
The houses I'd pass
with the TV lights flickering in the upper windows--
the Weather Channel or soft-core porn?
Pre-planners or late night insomniacs?
One house close by the station,
a new abode with a single SUV in the drive...
big frame windows and a plasma TV screen.
Always the tint of driving flesh and mascara,
a solitary watcher reclined in a sofabed.
That same street the cats came out,
feral wild things.
You'd spot one or two the moment you turned onto the street,
a black smudge staring you down...
then casually wandering into the adjunct woods.
Someone fed 'em.
I saw an old man with shopping bags once,
there were even feedbowls lined against the rocks.
The 5:54AM train pulls in and I get on.
Prefer this one to the 6:30AM.
On the latter train, the packed train...
there's a disfigured woman.
Reconstructive surgery after some car accident?
The seats are always misleadingly empty before her.
She has Raggedy Ann mop hair
and wears pantsuits. Always a matching cheery color--
like rose or teal.
The color of some children's room.
And there's a man always with her-- a brother? a husband?
A very goldilocks Lewis Carroll type.
When the train pulls into South Station,
she always barrels ahead,
past the faces of the other commuters
so they only see a hunched back?
And the man gradually follows after.
If I'm lucky the train's on schedule-- 6:20AM.
15 minutes to run through Financial District &
Downtown Crossing,
catch the 6:35AM 354 bus to Woburn line.
The coldest I've ever been,
a late January on Federal Street.
The wind literally giving me a headache as it batters my brow.
"Wear a hat!" my dad always says,
usually as I'm already out the door...
but I have such "fine" hair
a wool pullover and my day is done.
Dunkin' Donuts and a corn muffin on payday.
The wax bag in one hand as I count the quarters
and feed the bus meter.
The bus always frigid, the cold of a supermarket meatshop...
only warming when it's hit the highway.
I try to read a few pages of the paperback I have,
a detective novel by Lawrence Block or
a collection of horror shorts. Nothing too involved
as I usually nod off.
But the bus ride to Stoneham is relatively short,
and I'm soon dropped off alongside the highway.
There's an Asian girl who gets off with me.
I eventually learn her name's Christine.
She works as a lab assist at the dental company,
the building over from my own.
And the year wears on, and I eventually catch up to her,
chat...all cool-like.
Her parents run a convenience store in North Quincy.
She doesn't care for her job.
Doesn't like Halloween.
But when I ask her out she looks genuinely horrified,
I've over-stepped some fellow commuter boundary,
I've made the following mornings
and the Tuesdays and Wednesdays after that
uncomfortable.
I walk up Maple Street to work. Get in by 7AM.
Another hour 'til the work day starts.
I punch instructions in the coffee machine
(I graduate to tea)
and plip-plop and done.
Breakfast and the internet and Movie Magic Screenwriter.
And long-term planning.
The Presbyterian church clock in the distance
dooming away the early hour.
I should be out of the shower by now.
Towel dry and deoderant and Boss cologne.
Not enough time to check E-M,
barely enough time for anything really...
Out the door at 5:25AM.
More night than dawn as autumn stetches out,
winter spooning its chilled ass.
The streets like stray pencil lines,
checks and graphite dipsy-doodles...
a casual convergence.
I'd have Harold Budd or Simple Minds "Empires and Dance"
on CD Walkman.
Marking off the intervals per song...
How many tracks 'til I'm off Highland Ave?
Or mid-way down South Street?
And here I am on the commuter rail platform,
time for a three-minute ditty.
The houses I'd pass
with the TV lights flickering in the upper windows--
the Weather Channel or soft-core porn?
Pre-planners or late night insomniacs?
One house close by the station,
a new abode with a single SUV in the drive...
big frame windows and a plasma TV screen.
Always the tint of driving flesh and mascara,
a solitary watcher reclined in a sofabed.
That same street the cats came out,
feral wild things.
You'd spot one or two the moment you turned onto the street,
a black smudge staring you down...
then casually wandering into the adjunct woods.
Someone fed 'em.
I saw an old man with shopping bags once,
there were even feedbowls lined against the rocks.
The 5:54AM train pulls in and I get on.
Prefer this one to the 6:30AM.
On the latter train, the packed train...
there's a disfigured woman.
Reconstructive surgery after some car accident?
The seats are always misleadingly empty before her.
She has Raggedy Ann mop hair
and wears pantsuits. Always a matching cheery color--
like rose or teal.
The color of some children's room.
And there's a man always with her-- a brother? a husband?
A very goldilocks Lewis Carroll type.
When the train pulls into South Station,
she always barrels ahead,
past the faces of the other commuters
so they only see a hunched back?
And the man gradually follows after.
If I'm lucky the train's on schedule-- 6:20AM.
15 minutes to run through Financial District &
Downtown Crossing,
catch the 6:35AM 354 bus to Woburn line.
The coldest I've ever been,
a late January on Federal Street.
The wind literally giving me a headache as it batters my brow.
"Wear a hat!" my dad always says,
usually as I'm already out the door...
but I have such "fine" hair
a wool pullover and my day is done.
Dunkin' Donuts and a corn muffin on payday.
The wax bag in one hand as I count the quarters
and feed the bus meter.
The bus always frigid, the cold of a supermarket meatshop...
only warming when it's hit the highway.
I try to read a few pages of the paperback I have,
a detective novel by Lawrence Block or
a collection of horror shorts. Nothing too involved
as I usually nod off.
But the bus ride to Stoneham is relatively short,
and I'm soon dropped off alongside the highway.
There's an Asian girl who gets off with me.
I eventually learn her name's Christine.
She works as a lab assist at the dental company,
the building over from my own.
And the year wears on, and I eventually catch up to her,
chat...all cool-like.
Her parents run a convenience store in North Quincy.
She doesn't care for her job.
Doesn't like Halloween.
But when I ask her out she looks genuinely horrified,
I've over-stepped some fellow commuter boundary,
I've made the following mornings
and the Tuesdays and Wednesdays after that
uncomfortable.
I walk up Maple Street to work. Get in by 7AM.
Another hour 'til the work day starts.
I punch instructions in the coffee machine
(I graduate to tea)
and plip-plop and done.
Breakfast and the internet and Movie Magic Screenwriter.
And long-term planning.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Park Field(s)
A young Puerto Rican girl stumbles out of the shaded forest.
An older woman in slacks is helped up from the pavement...
her bleached blonde granddaughter looking distracted.
There's a padlock on the entrance gate.
A man in a dented Buick questions, then turns back.
So many memories here.
Dad on a hillock,
a mere blot on the fading horizon...
shaggy sideburns and jogging shorts.
Me calling after, "Wait up! Wait up!"
But he's already out of sight,
dipping beneath the monolithic power lines.
There's a buzz like a candy bar crunch,
an eel undercurrent as the foliage burns bright,
then darkens.
Walks 'round the lake with mom,
Tim in a jumper.
The water is stagnant,
isolated pools of scum and lilypads.
We bring stale bread for the mallards and geese,
the largest of which snaps at my fingers.
A winter memory, more folklore than recall...
mom sidling out across the fragile ice,
freeing a trapped duck.
In the summers, trips to the nearby Dairy Queen,
rivulets of sticky milk runing down by hand,
across the butterscotch or cherry cone coat.
Many years later,
a half-day from school. Some idle Wednesday afternoon.
My friends and I running through the woods,
a narrow single-file path...
branches and plantlife scratching at our cheeks.
We come to a slight clearing,
a bubbling brook strewn with rocks and wood planks.
In the middle of which sits a man,
his pants down...his bare essentials massaged by the current.
We scamper past,
fearing to look down.
One-two One two...
mraching back into the safety of trees.
Another winter, during college break...
late-night sledding.
A cobble-stoned tower overlooking a golf course.
Automatic lights from the "green" below give some indication,
but there are pools of sheer black.
I soar into space on a bobbing inflateable tire,
and jettison off an impromptu ramp some prankster's constructed
in the dark.
I land hard, the back of my head striking frosted ground
while my glasses fly.
Although there's a ringing/throbbing/ticking in my head
(for weeks)
and my eyes are dialated
and I vomit when I get home...
I still go to sleep.
The worse thing you can do for a concussion.
An older woman in slacks is helped up from the pavement...
her bleached blonde granddaughter looking distracted.
There's a padlock on the entrance gate.
A man in a dented Buick questions, then turns back.
So many memories here.
Dad on a hillock,
a mere blot on the fading horizon...
shaggy sideburns and jogging shorts.
Me calling after, "Wait up! Wait up!"
But he's already out of sight,
dipping beneath the monolithic power lines.
There's a buzz like a candy bar crunch,
an eel undercurrent as the foliage burns bright,
then darkens.
Walks 'round the lake with mom,
Tim in a jumper.
The water is stagnant,
isolated pools of scum and lilypads.
We bring stale bread for the mallards and geese,
the largest of which snaps at my fingers.
A winter memory, more folklore than recall...
mom sidling out across the fragile ice,
freeing a trapped duck.
In the summers, trips to the nearby Dairy Queen,
rivulets of sticky milk runing down by hand,
across the butterscotch or cherry cone coat.
Many years later,
a half-day from school. Some idle Wednesday afternoon.
My friends and I running through the woods,
a narrow single-file path...
branches and plantlife scratching at our cheeks.
We come to a slight clearing,
a bubbling brook strewn with rocks and wood planks.
In the middle of which sits a man,
his pants down...his bare essentials massaged by the current.
We scamper past,
fearing to look down.
One-two One two...
mraching back into the safety of trees.
Another winter, during college break...
late-night sledding.
A cobble-stoned tower overlooking a golf course.
Automatic lights from the "green" below give some indication,
but there are pools of sheer black.
I soar into space on a bobbing inflateable tire,
and jettison off an impromptu ramp some prankster's constructed
in the dark.
I land hard, the back of my head striking frosted ground
while my glasses fly.
Although there's a ringing/throbbing/ticking in my head
(for weeks)
and my eyes are dialated
and I vomit when I get home...
I still go to sleep.
The worse thing you can do for a concussion.
Monday, September 3, 2007
You Just Haven't Earned It Yet, Baby
Had a big ole "AERODYNAMICS" meeting w/ Steve, the editor,
a week back. Sundance looming late shorts deadline is Sep 21st.
Slamdance final postmark deadline's shortly thereafter-- Oct 9th.
SXSW is in Dec.
Guess what? Ain't gonna happen. Not this year. I'm
roughly $10grand away in post-production costs for
that to happen (including my outstanding bill w/ Steve
from last year).
I've been slowly reconciling myself to this fact--Year 6.
That's 1 more year than "WIDWIWA" and that was a
feature! That's another year of self-discipline & poverty
& isolation. That's another year of NOTHINGNESS!
I'm trying to be positive about it. First and foremost,
Steve has been extremely supportive & patient esp.
w/ my bill. If we were to push onwards for Sundance...
even if I was to scrap together some kind of fundraiser...
I'd still be leaving him in the lurch w/ a whole lotta
receipt. So meeting up once a month or so to edit,
paying incrementally from here on thru 2008, keeps
the bill in check.
Second affirming flip-side is I get out of debt w/ credit
cards. Pay off Best Buy for a laptop I purchased in 2004!
Snip that bit of plastic by year's end. Then move on to
my VISA (aka the petty cash fund for Final Model FX.
music video & many many more such shoots). Heck! In
a couple year's time I'll even have the 2 loans paid off +
the student loan garnishment. How fiscally rosy life will
be!
Third and lastly, I can keep busy w/ music videos and
other projects ie. Improv Boston play. If Steve & I were
to bulldozer ahead...the November music video shoot
would be out. No co-financing there. So as long as I keep
busy, buffing the resume reel a little bit at a time. As long
as I stay current...I stay relevant. I stay sane.
That last bit is important. Long weekend's like this are
killer.
Back to Walter Sickert storyboards then.
a week back. Sundance looming late shorts deadline is Sep 21st.
Slamdance final postmark deadline's shortly thereafter-- Oct 9th.
SXSW is in Dec.
Guess what? Ain't gonna happen. Not this year. I'm
roughly $10grand away in post-production costs for
that to happen (including my outstanding bill w/ Steve
from last year).
I've been slowly reconciling myself to this fact--Year 6.
That's 1 more year than "WIDWIWA" and that was a
feature! That's another year of self-discipline & poverty
& isolation. That's another year of NOTHINGNESS!
I'm trying to be positive about it. First and foremost,
Steve has been extremely supportive & patient esp.
w/ my bill. If we were to push onwards for Sundance...
even if I was to scrap together some kind of fundraiser...
I'd still be leaving him in the lurch w/ a whole lotta
receipt. So meeting up once a month or so to edit,
paying incrementally from here on thru 2008, keeps
the bill in check.
Second affirming flip-side is I get out of debt w/ credit
cards. Pay off Best Buy for a laptop I purchased in 2004!
Snip that bit of plastic by year's end. Then move on to
my VISA (aka the petty cash fund for Final Model FX.
music video & many many more such shoots). Heck! In
a couple year's time I'll even have the 2 loans paid off +
the student loan garnishment. How fiscally rosy life will
be!
Third and lastly, I can keep busy w/ music videos and
other projects ie. Improv Boston play. If Steve & I were
to bulldozer ahead...the November music video shoot
would be out. No co-financing there. So as long as I keep
busy, buffing the resume reel a little bit at a time. As long
as I stay current...I stay relevant. I stay sane.
That last bit is important. Long weekend's like this are
killer.
Back to Walter Sickert storyboards then.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Physical Pain
Went to the gym yesterday.
Yes, the gym.
It's been literally years.
2-week freebie WOW coupon got me in the door.
But nervous...oh so nervous.
Not exactly sure why.
I'm not fat by any means,
but I feel so inferior. No abs. No pecs. No build,
per say.
Just long bones with flesh and gut.
Stupid, demeaning gut.
Dawdled on computer for an hour,
dressed in T-shirt & shorts...
putting off the inevitable.
But I did it. I went.
So nervous I set off the car alarm
(how many times has dad shown me that?)
All my insecurities returning--
I'm the nerdy ninth grader again.
I'm surrounded by Tim Hart and Joseph Santos
and Glen Hoey and Paul Manafo and all those
Bombardis and Mooneys and
disturbed shop kids and angry athletes...
How adeptly it all returns.
The bullies and me just laughing, nodding...
shrugging it off.
Would never fight. Just accepted the nonsense.
Hating myself for it.
Seriously...what's worse:
a punch in the nose or
a lifetime of "What if?"
So I got in the door and the place was dead.
Labor Day weekend, a late Saturday afternoon.
Perfect. Slip in & slip out.
No one's judging you, sidling you.
Just my own bad self psyching itself out.
I tred treadmill for 15 minutes.
I do some leg but mostly upper body and arm
plus a last extended round of abs.
I will be 158lbs again. All my 20's that was my magic number...
and now...
180lbs.
Can't say it's all muscle. But it's not chunk either.
Just the spare tire I bike and jog against.
This morning my arms feel like blood clots.
Yes, the gym.
It's been literally years.
2-week freebie WOW coupon got me in the door.
But nervous...oh so nervous.
Not exactly sure why.
I'm not fat by any means,
but I feel so inferior. No abs. No pecs. No build,
per say.
Just long bones with flesh and gut.
Stupid, demeaning gut.
Dawdled on computer for an hour,
dressed in T-shirt & shorts...
putting off the inevitable.
But I did it. I went.
So nervous I set off the car alarm
(how many times has dad shown me that?)
All my insecurities returning--
I'm the nerdy ninth grader again.
I'm surrounded by Tim Hart and Joseph Santos
and Glen Hoey and Paul Manafo and all those
Bombardis and Mooneys and
disturbed shop kids and angry athletes...
How adeptly it all returns.
The bullies and me just laughing, nodding...
shrugging it off.
Would never fight. Just accepted the nonsense.
Hating myself for it.
Seriously...what's worse:
a punch in the nose or
a lifetime of "What if?"
So I got in the door and the place was dead.
Labor Day weekend, a late Saturday afternoon.
Perfect. Slip in & slip out.
No one's judging you, sidling you.
Just my own bad self psyching itself out.
I tred treadmill for 15 minutes.
I do some leg but mostly upper body and arm
plus a last extended round of abs.
I will be 158lbs again. All my 20's that was my magic number...
and now...
180lbs.
Can't say it's all muscle. But it's not chunk either.
Just the spare tire I bike and jog against.
This morning my arms feel like blood clots.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
The Store With The Purple Door
Tucked away on a one-way street,
in a North Shore town.
Wide windows abutting slight sidewalk.
The showroom is full of paint.
Rows and rows of paint.
Cans and tins and plastic 5-gallon buckets
shoved into ceiling-high racks.
Has that top row of primer ever been shuffled
since its intial display?
What of that alignment of putty?
And the blues--
the aquas and ultramarine, the turquoise and azure,
the blue jeans and persian creams,
indigo and cerulean...
all the combinations for washroom and baby-space.
But deeper back now...
a bend in the brick. Another L-shaped room.
Deep storage
but cheap cheap cheap!
In cans with fine, sturdy wire handles--
spittle from a dentist's cup
filling from an untouched wedding pie
jism
flakes from a skinned knee
tears from an Albanian refugee
all the smells of the New York transit system
and much more!
All vacuum-packed and efficiently labeled.
The barcodes ready to be scanned.
in a North Shore town.
Wide windows abutting slight sidewalk.
The showroom is full of paint.
Rows and rows of paint.
Cans and tins and plastic 5-gallon buckets
shoved into ceiling-high racks.
Has that top row of primer ever been shuffled
since its intial display?
What of that alignment of putty?
And the blues--
the aquas and ultramarine, the turquoise and azure,
the blue jeans and persian creams,
indigo and cerulean...
all the combinations for washroom and baby-space.
But deeper back now...
a bend in the brick. Another L-shaped room.
Deep storage
but cheap cheap cheap!
In cans with fine, sturdy wire handles--
spittle from a dentist's cup
filling from an untouched wedding pie
jism
flakes from a skinned knee
tears from an Albanian refugee
all the smells of the New York transit system
and much more!
All vacuum-packed and efficiently labeled.
The barcodes ready to be scanned.
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