Monday, April 27, 2009

The Finish Line

It's in sight.

I can feel the tension in the world around me. Like the scent of ozone in a lightning storm. The universe is charged, awaiting the birth...

Friday, April 10, 2009


I've fallen prey to the disease that writers fear more than Writer's Block... Terminal Tennitus.

For those of you who are lucky enough to have never contracted this particular disease, I will give you the basic prognosis: Terminal Tennitus is a disease which strikes when a writer hits the last ten pages of his/her script and is unable to bring the bastard across the finish line. I know this is a real disease, because I've spoken with other writers who have contracted it. Apparently, it's a lot like Herpes. Once you've had it, you have it for life and the outbreaks can either get worse with time, or can abate completely.

Symptoms include: cramping of the fingers, the intestine and/or the genitals. Profuse sweating from the brow. Bloodshot eyes. Too much or too little mucous. Diarrhea. Vomiting. Sleeplessness. Milky, yellow discharge from the anus and/or the ears. Clenched/puckered sphincter. Painful, itching pustules in the armpit region. Fever. Euphoria. Dementia. Claustrophobia.

I have all of the above. And man, have I got it bad. I'm like the Brundlefly at this point. It's nasty.

The throbbing of my twin Generac 7000 generators is like the Devil (my former agent) tap-dancing on my skull. I'm starting to think that what I'll do is cut and paste the first ten pages of the script at the end (because bookending scripts seems to be the thing to do now), or maybe structure the whole damn thing backwards like Memento or Irreversible.

Your truly from the bowels of despair,


Thursday, April 2, 2009

Too early... too late...

It's 3am, and I'm sitting in a parked car, blowing on my hands for warmth. Across the street, my former agent's house is bone pale in the darkness. All of the lights have been off for hours, but on occasion I catch a silhouette moving through the gloom towards the bathroom on the second floor. A scant light gives me a glimpse of his bulbous form as he defecates in the toilet. Just as he expelled so many other talented clients before me, he flushes the waste down then retreats to the bedroom.

My "Dunkin Donut's" coffee is stale, and I'm out of cigarettes.

What is this, this "Hollywood" that we dwell in? The outsiders, the trash... the debris? There's an old saying that I can't place right now... but I think it goes, "Los Angeles is where all of the spare parts collect". Am I a spare part, just another wasted dream?

If only my agent was able to grasp what I was going for with "The Shroud". People have told me to aim for the teen market. "Prom Night" did great, and studios are looking for projects with a youthful edge. The truth is, I don't have a youthful edge. I'm old... I was born old. Even in high school I wandered the hallways, practically a corpse in tattered hand me downs, weathered eyes gazing out of deep sockets. I can't relate to children traipsing around some cheap high school set.

I watched "Prom Night", and it did nothing for me. The killer in the film wasn't frightening in the least. I'm not afraid of talented character actor Johnathon Schaech... his boyish good looks are not nightmarish, in fact they fill me with a sense of warmth that rises from the bottom of my belly and settles in my throat. It's hard to explain, but he just sort of makes me feel funny.

My former agent goes back to bed, and shuts off the lights, casting his home in darkness once more. I entertain the prospect of knocking on the door, just having one more chat with him. Maybe he'll see things my way. My screenplay is almost finished, and I need a messenger...

I'll settle for urinating on his mailbox.

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