Hi all,
I've been extremely busy trying to get ahead on my work before I leave Thursday for New York. So I don't really have time to wax moronic about my boring life. Instead I'll throw down with another chapter from Sex Offenders.
Spread the love and keep reading!
b
Chapter 5
The rest of the workday goes by slowly for Danny. There is little to do in the office, and he is no longer in a journal writing mood. He wastes the morning hours surfing the Internet for news, then goes to the park for a quiet brown bagged lunch of bagels, lox and a bottle of spring water. He takes a long walk through the park, returning to work a half hour late. Nobody notices his tardy return, since he isn't important enough to keep track of in the first place. He spends the rest of the afternoon in the computer room, eavesdropping on one intellectually masturbatory conversation after another.
The time seems to pass by a little faster, but even so, he finds himself thinking about the same thing again and again. No matter how hard he tries to occupy his mind with other things, he can't help but think about Mae's wonderful smile. Each time the recollection manifests, he romanticizes it a little more. At two o'clock their simple exchange of friendly smiles turns into something far more meaningful. By the end of the workday, her smile is transformed into an icon that represents everything that is right with the world. It symbolizes a sincerity and kindness that has been painfully lacking in his life. He subconsciously transforms her smile, and by proxy her into his Holy Grail. Somewhere beyond his ability to recognize it, where one might find love at first sight, is a cosmic feeling that Mae is everything he needs in his life. It is this hidden urge that makes him decide, at quitting time, to take the long way out of the office, through the main path, and right past Mae's cubicle. He does this in hopes of catching another glimpse of Mae. Perhaps she will be kind enough to grant him another intoxicating smile, that he can take home with him.
He saunters through the office, seeking out Mae all the while. To his dismay, he makes it all of the way to the elevators without seeing her. He even passes five perfectly good elevator trips, in hopes of running into her. Edwin emerges from the office in time to grab the 6th elevator. He nods hello to Danny as he gets on.
“You coming to Hardballs?” Edwin asks.
“No. I can't. Thanks for the invite, though.” Danny replies.
“That's too bad. Maybe next time.” Edwin cracks a sly smile as the elevator doors close shut, relieved that he will not have to wage battle, however lopsided it may be, with Danny for the affections of Mae. Danny is too busy with his own disappointment to notice. He gets on the sixth elevator along with several women from the marketing department, who are engrossed in a conversation about the lack of quality footwear in their lives.
Joan's day drags on like every single day she has ever worked. She spends her time planning lunch, or her next smoking break, because those are the little carrots that make working palatable. She is such a social animal that she is only truly alive when she is engaged in social activity. So she spends most of her time on the phone and making guest appearances in other people's cubicles. She is a skilled enough corporate employee to find work-related justifications for these habits, and by the end of the day she manages to actually get her work done. The work accomplished is only a means to her particular end, but since results are consistent with her job description, she encounters no trouble from others. As long as she gets to chit-chat or gossip with as many people as she can, she is happy.
She uses the afternoon's social calendar to conduct a background check on Danny Perrin. She makes several attempts to extract information from Henrietta Budge, the portly human resources assistant with the bubbly personality, with mixed results. Henrietta gladly offers up Danny's age-twenty-nine, his residence-Venice Beach, and most importantly his marital status-single. She also contributes a healthy dose of compliments, applauding his intelligence, his work ethic, and his perfect attendance. Joan fishes for any office scuttlebutt concerning Danny, but gets nowhere. Joan realizes that Henrietta is far too considerate of others to be a source of dirt, but subscribes to the “there's no harm in trying” theory. Joan invites Henrietta to the evening's impromptu sports bar gathering, and moves on to the next cubicle.
The rest of the day is spent in similar fashion, although the only information she is able get is that most of the company doesn't even know who Danny is, let alone what his likes and dislikes are. No one she interrogates claims even a casual friendship with him. This doesn't strike her as odd, but it disappoints her because she is going to have to wing things. She prefers to embark on her conquests only after much research, learning what her prey's interests are so she can feign interest in the same things and bond accordingly. Without such insight she will have to freelance, something she doesn't care for, but is more than willing to do in order to capture her prize.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
FEELING NETFLIXY
It's late and I'm tired, so this one is gonna be short.
I've colored a whole ass load of pages today. The upside is that I've been able to run through some of those netflix dvds that have been sitting on my desk mocking me. I watched DEJA VU (Denzel and Tony Scott back together again) and actually like it. I was expecting not to for some reason, but it was a cool time travel story. Mix in gunfire, explosions, heavy doses of Denzel and Tony's visuals and you have a genuine thrill thride. In my opinion it was better than Domino (which was decent) but not as good as Man on Fire. Bottom line, It's absolutely worth a nextflix rental! So queue it up my fellow netflixians.
The other thing I watched was the first disk of the 2001 Judd Apatow TV show UNDECLARED, And I must say it is funny as hell. I highly recommend it. And for those who don't know Judd Apatow, he is the director of the 40 year old virgin. And many of the peeps from Virgin are in the show. And there's a cameo in the first epsiode by a pre-SmallvilleTom Welling. So for those of you who need an Apatow fix to tide you over before KNOCKED UP comes out, give this show a renty. You won't be disappointed.
Okay, that's pretty much all for now... I promise to bore you all with more stuff tomorrow!
G'night!
b
I've colored a whole ass load of pages today. The upside is that I've been able to run through some of those netflix dvds that have been sitting on my desk mocking me. I watched DEJA VU (Denzel and Tony Scott back together again) and actually like it. I was expecting not to for some reason, but it was a cool time travel story. Mix in gunfire, explosions, heavy doses of Denzel and Tony's visuals and you have a genuine thrill thride. In my opinion it was better than Domino (which was decent) but not as good as Man on Fire. Bottom line, It's absolutely worth a nextflix rental! So queue it up my fellow netflixians.
The other thing I watched was the first disk of the 2001 Judd Apatow TV show UNDECLARED, And I must say it is funny as hell. I highly recommend it. And for those who don't know Judd Apatow, he is the director of the 40 year old virgin. And many of the peeps from Virgin are in the show. And there's a cameo in the first epsiode by a pre-SmallvilleTom Welling. So for those of you who need an Apatow fix to tide you over before KNOCKED UP comes out, give this show a renty. You won't be disappointed.
Okay, that's pretty much all for now... I promise to bore you all with more stuff tomorrow!
G'night!
b
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
BALLS IN THE AIR
Catchy title for a blog post, huh? It could mean so many things. Unfortunately in this case its pretty much the obvious reference to juggling. As in geez, I have been juggling a lot of different things. I guess I could have titled it WEARING MANY HATS, but I like the possible testicle reference in the other one.
Testicle
Now that's a funny word to type. Everytime I do, I giggle like the sophomoric shmo that I am. It's the same with the word "penis". I type the word, look at it and start laughing. What the hell is wrong with me?!
Anyway, the point of this post was to mention that my mind is kinda scrambled as I am juggling a bunch of different projects. I'm full speed ahead with my TV class and the Greys Anatomy spec, coloring3 monthly books, trying to rewrite my FF spec, and lets not forget my family stuff. See? I've got so many balls in the air that I haven't had time to watch my netflix disks, and that really burns my ass. Why? Because I feel like every day a DVD sits in my house is a day I don't have something coming from Netflix. It's like I'm throwing away the opportunity to get the maximum amount of DVDs for my 25 bucks a month. I want to rent so many DVDs a month that Netflix is taking a loss in postage on my account. Is that greedy?
Okay, enough blogging for now. I have to get back to my balls...
b
Testicle
Now that's a funny word to type. Everytime I do, I giggle like the sophomoric shmo that I am. It's the same with the word "penis". I type the word, look at it and start laughing. What the hell is wrong with me?!
Anyway, the point of this post was to mention that my mind is kinda scrambled as I am juggling a bunch of different projects. I'm full speed ahead with my TV class and the Greys Anatomy spec, coloring3 monthly books, trying to rewrite my FF spec, and lets not forget my family stuff. See? I've got so many balls in the air that I haven't had time to watch my netflix disks, and that really burns my ass. Why? Because I feel like every day a DVD sits in my house is a day I don't have something coming from Netflix. It's like I'm throwing away the opportunity to get the maximum amount of DVDs for my 25 bucks a month. I want to rent so many DVDs a month that Netflix is taking a loss in postage on my account. Is that greedy?
Okay, enough blogging for now. I have to get back to my balls...
b
Monday, April 23, 2007
CHAPTER 4.5
Not much new to report in the wonderful world of Booch. I've been getting some work done with my Grey's Anatomy script, while mixing in some revisions on my FF pilot. I also managed to color 10 pages this weekend... not bad if I do say so myself.
Yesterday afternoon, after realizing that I had been in the house for 40 straight hours, I decided to hunt down Season three of The Wire. I say hunt down because I did not want to pay the $99.00 sticker price for the box set. After a good half hour I found a copy at this cool video store called Cinefile. They have a lot of out of print and rare movies... the kind of stuff only real film snobs can get into. In spite of that it's still a cool store... I like the fact that they have sections divided by director instead of movie title. Anyway, they had a new copy on sale for 40 bucks, so I bought it. They also had season 2 for 30 bucks, but I decided against dropping 80 bucks in one shot. I have seasone 1 and I'm not a huge fan of season 2. So even so the completist in me hates the idea of having a whole in my collection... I'm trying to deal.
As far as my Grey's spec... I've got my A,B,C and D stories thought up, and I am trying to unify them with my theme. For those that have seen GA, the main character has bookend voice overs where she summarizes the theme of the episode. I think my theme is that there is no point having regret because you can't change the past. You can only use the wisdom you've hopefully acquired to make better decisions in the future.
Here's the VO I have been messing around with...
MEREDITH OPENING VO: "What is it with this fixation with regret? You’ve heard all the catchy little phrases… If I knew then what I know now… hindsight is 20/20…. If I could do it all over again… We are constantly looking back. Wishing we could undo our mistakes as if somehow that would allow us to live happily ever after. Somehow I doubt it.. but still, I could use a couple do overs..."
If anyone wants to offer some suggests to this work in progress... by all means FIRE AWAY! Tomorrow I will give you guys my CLOSING Meredith voice over.
And now for the feature presentation...
CHAPTER 4.5
With Edwin safely out of earshot, the topic returns to Mae's computer. Danny sits down and turns the computer on, this time with it plugged in.
“I might as well check it out while I'm here.”
“By all means.” Mae replies.
“And don't worry I'll make something up for my report.”
“I really appreciate it.”
Mae finds this benevolence very alluring. So much so, that her eyes are glued to him while he performs several mundane computer-related functions. Joan too looks on as though he was engaged in something far more interesting. Danny does his duty, oblivious to the two women casting shadows of desire upon him.
During this quiet moment, Mae realizes, as though it is a revelation and not already obvious, that Joan is also interested in Danny. This sparks the suppressed competitive nature deep inside her, and for a moment she dislikes everything about her good friend Joan. The many hours they've spent together, the tears shared, the deep dark secrets revealed all evaporate in the heat of her jealousy. Those feelings are replaced by contempt for her morally vague, sexually active friend, who likely will seduce Danny and tarnish him forever. These feelings, while shallow and fleeting, reveal something much more meaningful. Mae Arden, the poster child of the don't mix business with pleasure rule, is undeniably attracted to Danny. And despite her own self imposed barriers, she is overcome with jealousy at the idea of Joan and Danny getting together.
In the three minutes it takes Danny to issue the computer a clean bill of health, Mae goes from intrigued, to lustful, to contemptuous, to jealous, to finally guilt -ridden. Mae is a bright girl, so it doesn't take long to recognize that the negative thoughts parading through her head are both ridiculous and selfish. There is no way on God's green earth that she would dare to date a fellow employee. Such things complicate the work environment and often lead to quitting, when the company fling inevitably goes sour. Besides, the odds of Danny even noticing her with Joan around are very slim. Not that it matters anyway, she reasons, since she doesn't date at the workplace. After a few more volleys back and forth, Mae gets a grip on herself and ends the one hundred and eighty second mental episode.
Joan spends the same three minutes plotting a strategy that will best ensnare Danny. Using positive visualization, she plays out every little nuance of the evening, from the first small talk, through their inevitable sexual encounter. Not the most imaginative gal on the planet, she calls upon on a three year old memory, substituting Danny for the guy whose name she can no longer remember. Of course, Danny responds in the same fashion as the nameless guy who fell for her seduction hook, line and sinker. Joan's romantic self amends the ending so that their simultaneous orgasms take place on her waterbed rather than in the cramped men's bathroom stall of McHale's Pub. She also omits the part when a woman claiming to be the nameless gentleman's girlfriend barged in and attacked them with a hairbrush.
Danny's departure is swift and without fanfare. After assuring Mae for the third time that her plug blunder will remain their secret, he goes on his merry way. Joan waits exactly sixty seconds (she times herself using the trusty Mississippi method) before asking Mae what she thinks of Danny. Mae manufactures some nonchalance, claiming she didn't really notice him, then changes the subject. Nonetheless, Joan continues verbalizing her thoughts on Danny.
“He seemed really nice.”
“I guess.”
“I thought he was kinda hot.”
“Really? I didn't notice.”
“I did. You wanna go with me to that thing tonight?”
“I can't. I've got to get that report to Allan before he goes ballistic.” Mae takes another stab at changing the subject, not wishing to ride that emotional roller coaster again.
“I wonder how big his cock is?”
“Damn. Printer's out of paper. Be right back.” Mae gets up and leaves Joan to her naughty thoughts. She doesn't want to hear them. Not that it matters, she tells herself, Danny is a dead issue as far as she is concerned. Mae doesn't mix business with pleasure.
Yesterday afternoon, after realizing that I had been in the house for 40 straight hours, I decided to hunt down Season three of The Wire. I say hunt down because I did not want to pay the $99.00 sticker price for the box set. After a good half hour I found a copy at this cool video store called Cinefile. They have a lot of out of print and rare movies... the kind of stuff only real film snobs can get into. In spite of that it's still a cool store... I like the fact that they have sections divided by director instead of movie title. Anyway, they had a new copy on sale for 40 bucks, so I bought it. They also had season 2 for 30 bucks, but I decided against dropping 80 bucks in one shot. I have seasone 1 and I'm not a huge fan of season 2. So even so the completist in me hates the idea of having a whole in my collection... I'm trying to deal.
As far as my Grey's spec... I've got my A,B,C and D stories thought up, and I am trying to unify them with my theme. For those that have seen GA, the main character has bookend voice overs where she summarizes the theme of the episode. I think my theme is that there is no point having regret because you can't change the past. You can only use the wisdom you've hopefully acquired to make better decisions in the future.
Here's the VO I have been messing around with...
MEREDITH OPENING VO: "What is it with this fixation with regret? You’ve heard all the catchy little phrases… If I knew then what I know now… hindsight is 20/20…. If I could do it all over again… We are constantly looking back. Wishing we could undo our mistakes as if somehow that would allow us to live happily ever after. Somehow I doubt it.. but still, I could use a couple do overs..."
If anyone wants to offer some suggests to this work in progress... by all means FIRE AWAY! Tomorrow I will give you guys my CLOSING Meredith voice over.
And now for the feature presentation...
CHAPTER 4.5
With Edwin safely out of earshot, the topic returns to Mae's computer. Danny sits down and turns the computer on, this time with it plugged in.
“I might as well check it out while I'm here.”
“By all means.” Mae replies.
“And don't worry I'll make something up for my report.”
“I really appreciate it.”
Mae finds this benevolence very alluring. So much so, that her eyes are glued to him while he performs several mundane computer-related functions. Joan too looks on as though he was engaged in something far more interesting. Danny does his duty, oblivious to the two women casting shadows of desire upon him.
During this quiet moment, Mae realizes, as though it is a revelation and not already obvious, that Joan is also interested in Danny. This sparks the suppressed competitive nature deep inside her, and for a moment she dislikes everything about her good friend Joan. The many hours they've spent together, the tears shared, the deep dark secrets revealed all evaporate in the heat of her jealousy. Those feelings are replaced by contempt for her morally vague, sexually active friend, who likely will seduce Danny and tarnish him forever. These feelings, while shallow and fleeting, reveal something much more meaningful. Mae Arden, the poster child of the don't mix business with pleasure rule, is undeniably attracted to Danny. And despite her own self imposed barriers, she is overcome with jealousy at the idea of Joan and Danny getting together.
In the three minutes it takes Danny to issue the computer a clean bill of health, Mae goes from intrigued, to lustful, to contemptuous, to jealous, to finally guilt -ridden. Mae is a bright girl, so it doesn't take long to recognize that the negative thoughts parading through her head are both ridiculous and selfish. There is no way on God's green earth that she would dare to date a fellow employee. Such things complicate the work environment and often lead to quitting, when the company fling inevitably goes sour. Besides, the odds of Danny even noticing her with Joan around are very slim. Not that it matters anyway, she reasons, since she doesn't date at the workplace. After a few more volleys back and forth, Mae gets a grip on herself and ends the one hundred and eighty second mental episode.
Joan spends the same three minutes plotting a strategy that will best ensnare Danny. Using positive visualization, she plays out every little nuance of the evening, from the first small talk, through their inevitable sexual encounter. Not the most imaginative gal on the planet, she calls upon on a three year old memory, substituting Danny for the guy whose name she can no longer remember. Of course, Danny responds in the same fashion as the nameless guy who fell for her seduction hook, line and sinker. Joan's romantic self amends the ending so that their simultaneous orgasms take place on her waterbed rather than in the cramped men's bathroom stall of McHale's Pub. She also omits the part when a woman claiming to be the nameless gentleman's girlfriend barged in and attacked them with a hairbrush.
Danny's departure is swift and without fanfare. After assuring Mae for the third time that her plug blunder will remain their secret, he goes on his merry way. Joan waits exactly sixty seconds (she times herself using the trusty Mississippi method) before asking Mae what she thinks of Danny. Mae manufactures some nonchalance, claiming she didn't really notice him, then changes the subject. Nonetheless, Joan continues verbalizing her thoughts on Danny.
“He seemed really nice.”
“I guess.”
“I thought he was kinda hot.”
“Really? I didn't notice.”
“I did. You wanna go with me to that thing tonight?”
“I can't. I've got to get that report to Allan before he goes ballistic.” Mae takes another stab at changing the subject, not wishing to ride that emotional roller coaster again.
“I wonder how big his cock is?”
“Damn. Printer's out of paper. Be right back.” Mae gets up and leaves Joan to her naughty thoughts. She doesn't want to hear them. Not that it matters, she tells herself, Danny is a dead issue as far as she is concerned. Mae doesn't mix business with pleasure.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
QUIET WEEKEND
Nothing much going on this weekend. Chaz and I took Paris to see Meet The Robinson's on Friday, and that was pretty much the highlight of the weekend. Lots of popcorn, candy and animated people hijinks.
Saturday I stayed at home and colored for most of the day and night. My internet was down for a large portion of the day and when I called customer service at ATT they REALLY annoyed the shit out of me. From the outset I informed them that the internet dropped off while I was using it... basically letting them know that it was on their end and not mine. But the oh so helpful customer support person decided not to believe me. So she had me go through a littany of tests which I knew would be fruitless... testing my modem... my router... my network set up... and in the end she seemed baffled. Even after I told her for the millionth time that it was on THEIR END... she refused to believe me. She claimed it was because my AIRPORT was active even though I use a wired network... I told her it has been active for the two years I have been using this computer and it has made NO DIFFERENCE in my ability to use the internet. She started to argue the point, then stopped mid-misguided sentence. She then asked me if I live in Los Angeles. After confirming this bit of seemingly mysterious (to her) information, she tells me that there is a message posted saying that THEIR SERVER went down three hours ago (which coincidentally was when my internet dropped-- a fact I told her at least three times). She then apologized and told me they planned to fix it by 8pm. I told her thanks for all of her wonderful help (is that sarcasm?) and I hung up. I got my internet back around 9pm and I can never ever get the twenty minutes back that I wasted on that idiotic tech support woman.
That's pretty much my weekend in a nutshell... with the exception of having to tell Paris that he was supposed to draw "PENCILS" and not "PICKLES" in his homework.
Maybe later on I will get around to posting the next chapter of Sex Offenders...
stay tuned.
b
Saturday I stayed at home and colored for most of the day and night. My internet was down for a large portion of the day and when I called customer service at ATT they REALLY annoyed the shit out of me. From the outset I informed them that the internet dropped off while I was using it... basically letting them know that it was on their end and not mine. But the oh so helpful customer support person decided not to believe me. So she had me go through a littany of tests which I knew would be fruitless... testing my modem... my router... my network set up... and in the end she seemed baffled. Even after I told her for the millionth time that it was on THEIR END... she refused to believe me. She claimed it was because my AIRPORT was active even though I use a wired network... I told her it has been active for the two years I have been using this computer and it has made NO DIFFERENCE in my ability to use the internet. She started to argue the point, then stopped mid-misguided sentence. She then asked me if I live in Los Angeles. After confirming this bit of seemingly mysterious (to her) information, she tells me that there is a message posted saying that THEIR SERVER went down three hours ago (which coincidentally was when my internet dropped-- a fact I told her at least three times). She then apologized and told me they planned to fix it by 8pm. I told her thanks for all of her wonderful help (is that sarcasm?) and I hung up. I got my internet back around 9pm and I can never ever get the twenty minutes back that I wasted on that idiotic tech support woman.
That's pretty much my weekend in a nutshell... with the exception of having to tell Paris that he was supposed to draw "PENCILS" and not "PICKLES" in his homework.
Maybe later on I will get around to posting the next chapter of Sex Offenders...
stay tuned.
b
Thursday, April 19, 2007
MY FIRST CLASS and GRINDHOUSE...
Howdy!
So my first class in Television writing was on Tuesday... it turned out to be pretty good. The teacher seems knowledgable and is interesting to listen to, even though he is prone to tangients. And best of all, he is currently a working writer in the industry. That counts the most to me because the last thing I need is advice from a career screenwriting teacher with no credits. I know they say "those that can't do, teach"... but in this case my reply is "But those that CAN do... teach better". Well maybe not better but at least they have earned the right to tell me what is what is what.
In this class, over the course of 10 weeks we are going to write a 10 page outline for a one hour drama spec. And for those lay peeps out there, that means write a stand alone episode of an existing show. This class is not for writing pilots, its for learning how to write spec scripts so that you can get an agent who will hopefully get you paying work writing for TV. The spec script is like a portfolio piece... basically a writing sample that proves not just that you can actually write, but that you can write in the voice of an established show.
So most of my classmates are doing HOUSE specs or GREYS ANATOMY specs... I'd say two thirds of the class. Some of the other possible specs by students are CRIMINAL MINDS, HEROES, BATTLESTAR GALACTICA, LAW AND ORDER SVU (shout out to David), THE CLOSER, FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS, and THE WIRE. Me... I'm having problems deciding. Most of the shows I love have been on the air for 5+ seasons and have maybe a year or two left in them. That's a problem because your specs should feel fresh and current. The rule of thumb is to spec a show that has been on air for two seasons or less and is critically loved. For some reason the teacher doesn't seem all that concerned about the two seasons rule since HOUSE, BATTLESTAR and GREYS are both in their third season.
Right now I am waffling on what to do... I have the basic story idea for a Grey's script I was gonna spec last year, but I'm not sure I want to do a show everyone else is doing. I feel like you need to set yourself apart and not be just one of a million wannabes doing the same show. But in the interest of making things easier for myself, what I might do is proceed with the Grey's spec... but also do a spec of The Closer. Season 2 comes out on DVD in June (already ordered it)... so I figure by the time I'm finished with the Grey's outline I can jump on The Closer. Then by the end of the year I will have TWO writing samples to send out... not only that but the shows are very different so it would show my astonishing versatility as a writer. :) One is a soft show (medical melodrama)... the other is a police procedural. If anyone wants to weigh in on whether they think my idea is stupid... feel free to comment.
So that's pretty much it on the TV class... Last night I went to see Grindhouse with some fellow from The Cow. My expectations were pretty low because the reviews from my amigos who have seen it have ranged from luke warm to outright hatred. After having seen it... I can say that it wasn't the best thing I ever saw, but I liked it. Of course I liked Quentin's movie WAY MORE that Robert Rodriguez's.. but I expected that to be the case. I like RR's direction a whole bunch and I think he is a very good filmmaker and someone to admire for his ability to wear multiple hats and basically make a whole movie from his house. BUT... I don't like his writing. All my criticism of RR's movies comes from the writing side. I honestly think he should let other people write his movies. As far as Quentin's movie, DEATH PROOF, I think it started a little slowly... but it really picked up steam and after 10 minutes I was totally into it. I think the dialogue for the second set of ladies was a lot better than the first. Also I must mention that ZOE BELL is my new hero! She rocks a lot and I hope to see her in more stuff. I think she looks and sounds very interesting... and she is a total ass kicking, daredeviling badass. That, my friends, is a sure fire recipe for being a hero. The more I think about Q's movie, the more I like it... From Kurt Russell's tantrum after getting shot... to Zoe Bell beating the shit out of him with a steel pipe... yeah... I liked it.
That's all for now...
b
So my first class in Television writing was on Tuesday... it turned out to be pretty good. The teacher seems knowledgable and is interesting to listen to, even though he is prone to tangients. And best of all, he is currently a working writer in the industry. That counts the most to me because the last thing I need is advice from a career screenwriting teacher with no credits. I know they say "those that can't do, teach"... but in this case my reply is "But those that CAN do... teach better". Well maybe not better but at least they have earned the right to tell me what is what is what.
In this class, over the course of 10 weeks we are going to write a 10 page outline for a one hour drama spec. And for those lay peeps out there, that means write a stand alone episode of an existing show. This class is not for writing pilots, its for learning how to write spec scripts so that you can get an agent who will hopefully get you paying work writing for TV. The spec script is like a portfolio piece... basically a writing sample that proves not just that you can actually write, but that you can write in the voice of an established show.
So most of my classmates are doing HOUSE specs or GREYS ANATOMY specs... I'd say two thirds of the class. Some of the other possible specs by students are CRIMINAL MINDS, HEROES, BATTLESTAR GALACTICA, LAW AND ORDER SVU (shout out to David), THE CLOSER, FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS, and THE WIRE. Me... I'm having problems deciding. Most of the shows I love have been on the air for 5+ seasons and have maybe a year or two left in them. That's a problem because your specs should feel fresh and current. The rule of thumb is to spec a show that has been on air for two seasons or less and is critically loved. For some reason the teacher doesn't seem all that concerned about the two seasons rule since HOUSE, BATTLESTAR and GREYS are both in their third season.
Right now I am waffling on what to do... I have the basic story idea for a Grey's script I was gonna spec last year, but I'm not sure I want to do a show everyone else is doing. I feel like you need to set yourself apart and not be just one of a million wannabes doing the same show. But in the interest of making things easier for myself, what I might do is proceed with the Grey's spec... but also do a spec of The Closer. Season 2 comes out on DVD in June (already ordered it)... so I figure by the time I'm finished with the Grey's outline I can jump on The Closer. Then by the end of the year I will have TWO writing samples to send out... not only that but the shows are very different so it would show my astonishing versatility as a writer. :) One is a soft show (medical melodrama)... the other is a police procedural. If anyone wants to weigh in on whether they think my idea is stupid... feel free to comment.
So that's pretty much it on the TV class... Last night I went to see Grindhouse with some fellow from The Cow. My expectations were pretty low because the reviews from my amigos who have seen it have ranged from luke warm to outright hatred. After having seen it... I can say that it wasn't the best thing I ever saw, but I liked it. Of course I liked Quentin's movie WAY MORE that Robert Rodriguez's.. but I expected that to be the case. I like RR's direction a whole bunch and I think he is a very good filmmaker and someone to admire for his ability to wear multiple hats and basically make a whole movie from his house. BUT... I don't like his writing. All my criticism of RR's movies comes from the writing side. I honestly think he should let other people write his movies. As far as Quentin's movie, DEATH PROOF, I think it started a little slowly... but it really picked up steam and after 10 minutes I was totally into it. I think the dialogue for the second set of ladies was a lot better than the first. Also I must mention that ZOE BELL is my new hero! She rocks a lot and I hope to see her in more stuff. I think she looks and sounds very interesting... and she is a total ass kicking, daredeviling badass. That, my friends, is a sure fire recipe for being a hero. The more I think about Q's movie, the more I like it... From Kurt Russell's tantrum after getting shot... to Zoe Bell beating the shit out of him with a steel pipe... yeah... I liked it.
That's all for now...
b
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
CHAPTER 4
So this morning for some reason I get Madonna's song "Into The Groove" into my head and can't seem to stop singing it. So after listening to myself butcher the song, sounding like a skipping record because I'm forgeting every fourth word, I am forced to turn to my iTunes to listen to the real thing.
Now I am like ten songs into my Madonna 80's marathon and strangely feeling a little meloncholy for the glory days of yester-year. For some reason Madonna takes me back to my mid-teens, which where not glorious years by any stretch. I was pretty much a loner and going through that ugly duckling stage before I turned into the beautiful swan that you all know me as today. The weird thing is that I never bought a Madonna album or really even listened to music that much back then. But there is something about her music that makes me think of when I lived in the Bronx. Weird, huh?
The later Madonna stuff is starting now, which makes me think of being 19 and working at the art store A.I. Friedman. Why? Because my closest friend at work (and his sister) was a HUGE Madonna fan. Shout out to Eddie Rivera! I hope he is doing well and not accidentally dropping any more beepers into public toilets. Actually if he is still using beepers, he probably should drop it into a public toilet and go buy himself a friggin cell phone.
Anyway, I'm sure that was a horrifically boring trip down memory lane for you all (I still like to write as though there is actually an audience reading this crap). But before I give you the first half of chapter 4...
"Tropical the island breeze... All of nature wild and free...
This is where I long to be... La isla bonita"
SEX OFFENDERS
CHAPTER 4
Danny arrives at Mae Arden's desk while she is away taking a smoking break with some of the other marketing girls. She doesn't normally smoke, but often finds herself outside in the back of the building, puffing away with her cohorts. She uses the nicotine fit excuse so she can dodge work three times a day in an accepted company fashion. Most in the office are devout smokaholics, so these breaks are practically a company tradition.
Danny eyes the empty cubicle and briefly considers beginning his break/ fix investigation. He decides against it after mentally whipping up a healthy list of possible consequences that he deems unacceptable. This is a failsafe defense mechanism that has served him well throughout his life. By considering the worst possible consequences he manages to steer clear of trouble. Of course, by doing so he deprives himself of many risky but potentially rewarding opportunities. On two occasions in his life he acted without regard to his failsafe, and both times there were harsh consequences. He now pledges never to disregard his failsafe again. Ever.
He sifts through a slew of possible consequences, weighing risk versus reward. One of the more severe scenarios involves his unjust persecution for theft that results in a violation of his parole and a two year stretch in the slammer. Most of the other consequences involve some other type of sitcom style misunderstanding that leads to unjust persecution, so Danny wisely opts to wait patiently outside the cubicle, in full view of the chunky guy seated in the cubicle across the way.
Mae and Joan take the long saunter back through the Totally Toys offices, stopping frequently to engage in neighborly exchanges with the employees whose cubicles line the main thoroughfare. Joan fishes for the latest company gossip, but doesn't get a single bite that might prolong the procrastinator's march back to work.
As they make their final turn through the maze of cubbies, Joan spots Danny standing by Mae's desk. She has never seen him before, so her interest is piqued immediately. Joan takes a mental snapshot of him and begins processing the information. She dissects his outward appearance, weighing all the criteria necessary to consider him for future sexual relations. Using her own five star rating system, she grades him in several categories: scoring his features (three stars), his clothing style (three stars), his grooming (five stars), his physique (three stars), and his posture (three stars). Before a single word is spoken, Joan determines that his score of seventeen surpasses her minimum requirements for a casual sex partner or even an inter-office fling. Perhaps she will find all that she secretly desires in Danny Perrin.
Mae walks up to Danny and smiles. They make eye contact as he announces the nature of his visit, although he is sure she already assumes it correctly. Mae recognizes his face as one of the many company men that pass through the cafeteria from time to time. They have never spoken and she doesn't even know his name, but she remembers that he once poured a cup of coffee for her.
“Thanks for coming so quickly…”
“Danny. Danny Peril.”
After a prolonged exchange of even friendlier smiles, she allows him safe passage into her cubicle. She runs down the list of problems she is having with her crappy CPU, including her inability to even turn it on. Danny nods sympathetically, offers a few encouraging words, and then embarks upon an investigation that lasts six seconds. Still half checking him out, Joan watches alongside Mae as Danny solves the mystery of the nonfunctioning computer. From his knees, Danny brandishes the offending computer power cord, holding it up in the air for the girls to see. The computer is not plugged in.
Mae's face turns beet red. Joan, on the other hand, erupts into a loud, masculine belly laugh that is unmistakably hers and echoes throughout the office. Several heads turn, not to divine the source, everyone knows it belongs to Joan, but to discover what is the cause of her explosion of Santa Clausian laughter.
Edwin Rolle hears the unmistakable sound from his customary spot beside the coffee machine, where he prepares the first of many daily light and sweet decaf coffees. Although he is tardy as usual, having not even made it to his desk yet, he seizes the opportunity to put his new plan into action. He snatches up his coffee and makes his way to Joan's desk to enact Operation Easy Lay.
“You must have accidentally kicked it out.” Danny offers to an obviously embarrassed Mae. His manner not sarcastic or cruel, and laced with genuine empathy. “It happens all the time with these models. ”
Joan looks at the plug in his hand, at her shamed friend and laughs again. Mae cuts Joan an icy glare, ending the robust laughter prematurely .
“Quit it. You're gonna get me busted.”
“Sorry. But it's just too funny. You haven't done any work in two days because…”
Joan stops suddenly, realizing that the fast approaching Edwin constitutes a potential breach in security that could lead to Allan Poole learning of Mae's careless mistake. Edwin, an unabashed gossiper, would think nothing of relaying the amusing little plug story to someone who may tell someone who may tell Mr. Poole. And Joan is savvy enough not to risk getting Mae in trouble because of the loose lips attached to Mr. Edwin Rolle.
Edwin finally arrives. He notices the abrupt stop in conversation and glances quizzically between the girls. It is apparent to all that his presence is the cause of the silence. Joan, not wanting to risk investigation, waves her hand back in forth through the air as if clearing away smoke.
“What's going on?” Edwin asks.
“Jesus Christ, Mae”, Joan blurts out. “What in the name of the holy mother did you have for breakfast?” She grabs her nose, forcing her nostrils closed.
“Sorry. It must have been that breakfast burrito.” Mae forces a guilty smile.
Edwin eyes the girls, unsure of what to make of the situation. He glances at Danny, awaiting his testimonial. Danny obliges him.
“It didn't smell that bad. All bark and no bite, really.”
“Harmless” adds Mae.
Edwin's eyes widen with the shock that a woman as attractive as Mae can not only pass gas in the workplace, but can also cop to it without a second thought. The idea of such a thing, almost beyond his comprehension, threatens the granite foundation that makes up his narrow-minded view of women. He takes in a covert whiff, looking for any evidence to substantiate the extraordinary claim. Somehow his mind registers the faint essence of roses in the air, although there is nothing even remotely floral scented within twenty yards of him. For some inexplicable reason, he attributes the imaginary rose smell to Mae's phantom flatulence, taking a perverse delight in her ability to pass gas that smells so nice. His mind takes the ridiculous concept and runs with it. A feint swelling in his pants takes place, as he finds Mae's rosy flatulence strangely erotic. This makes him reconsider Operation Bag Joan. With the possibility of greener pastures for him to frolic in, manifest so clearly through his slight but meaningful erection, Edwin sees no other alternative. He must commence with Operation Bag Mae.
He not-so-discreetly looks Mae up and down, contemplating this new mission. He previously discounted her as being too snobby and unapproachable for office sex, but in light of his new evidence, however unsubstantiated, he decides that pursuing Mae is his best option. Besides, he suspects that she even has a decent rack. His new mission is clear; he will be the first company man to climb (on top of) Mount Mae! It is that thought that sends his erection from partial to full mast. Of course no one notices this breach of company protocol because, in spite of his boasting, he does not pack a monster in his trousers. Little Edwin is on the smallish side; a fact lost on big Edwin ever since that fateful day a teenage Edwin mistakenly measured his penis with the centimeters side of the ruler.
“So, anyway. I just dropped by to invite you ladies to Hardballs tonight. Everyone is going.” Edwin quickly realizes that he has rudely excluded Danny, which might diminish him in Mae's eyes. He makes amends. “You should come too, Danny.”
“What time?” Joan casts a seductive gaze upon Danny, who doesn't notice because Mae suddenly commands his attention. His eyes are drawn to her eyes, which seems to reflect the fluorescent light like crystal.
“After work. It'll be fun.”
“Sounds good.” Joan nods in agreement, as she considers the possibility of seducing Danny at the gathering. Danny, mesmerized by Mae, briefly allows his mind to entertain the idea of engaging in a steamy lovemaking episode with Mae, who is incredibly sexy in his estimation. But the erotic moment is blown apart by his fail-safe, which quickly puts together another list of consequences, this time including some from actual events in his life.
“I don't think I can.” Danny says. “I've got a previous appointment.”
“Likewise,” adds Mae.
“So go after. We're going to be there a while.”
“We'll see.” Mae concedes.
“That's cool. Anyway, back to the grind.” Edwin struts away, looking back to steal one final glimpse of the newfound object of his desire. How sweet it will be to sample the fruits of Mae, a woman so sweet that she shits roses. Turning the corner, he spies what he believes to be Mae throwing a sexually charged glare at Danny. Edwin curses himself for the moment of weakness in which he invited another rooster into the hen house, a cardinal sin in the business of carousing. Thankfully, the thirty second walk to his desk is long enough to convince himself that the alleged sexual vibe was only a manifestation of paranoia. He tells himself that there is no possible way a woman could be throwing sexual vibes at another man while he is around. After all, he is the hottest commodity at Totally Toys. Just the same, Edwin hedges, assuring himself that if Mae doesn't go to the sports bar, or if the unthinkable happens and, by some flaw in her character she hooks up with Danny, Joan will be his safety. Either way, by the end of the night another chapter will be added to the legend of Edwin Rolle. He is sure of this.
Now I am like ten songs into my Madonna 80's marathon and strangely feeling a little meloncholy for the glory days of yester-year. For some reason Madonna takes me back to my mid-teens, which where not glorious years by any stretch. I was pretty much a loner and going through that ugly duckling stage before I turned into the beautiful swan that you all know me as today. The weird thing is that I never bought a Madonna album or really even listened to music that much back then. But there is something about her music that makes me think of when I lived in the Bronx. Weird, huh?
The later Madonna stuff is starting now, which makes me think of being 19 and working at the art store A.I. Friedman. Why? Because my closest friend at work (and his sister) was a HUGE Madonna fan. Shout out to Eddie Rivera! I hope he is doing well and not accidentally dropping any more beepers into public toilets. Actually if he is still using beepers, he probably should drop it into a public toilet and go buy himself a friggin cell phone.
Anyway, I'm sure that was a horrifically boring trip down memory lane for you all (I still like to write as though there is actually an audience reading this crap). But before I give you the first half of chapter 4...
"Tropical the island breeze... All of nature wild and free...
This is where I long to be... La isla bonita"
SEX OFFENDERS
CHAPTER 4
Danny arrives at Mae Arden's desk while she is away taking a smoking break with some of the other marketing girls. She doesn't normally smoke, but often finds herself outside in the back of the building, puffing away with her cohorts. She uses the nicotine fit excuse so she can dodge work three times a day in an accepted company fashion. Most in the office are devout smokaholics, so these breaks are practically a company tradition.
Danny eyes the empty cubicle and briefly considers beginning his break/ fix investigation. He decides against it after mentally whipping up a healthy list of possible consequences that he deems unacceptable. This is a failsafe defense mechanism that has served him well throughout his life. By considering the worst possible consequences he manages to steer clear of trouble. Of course, by doing so he deprives himself of many risky but potentially rewarding opportunities. On two occasions in his life he acted without regard to his failsafe, and both times there were harsh consequences. He now pledges never to disregard his failsafe again. Ever.
He sifts through a slew of possible consequences, weighing risk versus reward. One of the more severe scenarios involves his unjust persecution for theft that results in a violation of his parole and a two year stretch in the slammer. Most of the other consequences involve some other type of sitcom style misunderstanding that leads to unjust persecution, so Danny wisely opts to wait patiently outside the cubicle, in full view of the chunky guy seated in the cubicle across the way.
Mae and Joan take the long saunter back through the Totally Toys offices, stopping frequently to engage in neighborly exchanges with the employees whose cubicles line the main thoroughfare. Joan fishes for the latest company gossip, but doesn't get a single bite that might prolong the procrastinator's march back to work.
As they make their final turn through the maze of cubbies, Joan spots Danny standing by Mae's desk. She has never seen him before, so her interest is piqued immediately. Joan takes a mental snapshot of him and begins processing the information. She dissects his outward appearance, weighing all the criteria necessary to consider him for future sexual relations. Using her own five star rating system, she grades him in several categories: scoring his features (three stars), his clothing style (three stars), his grooming (five stars), his physique (three stars), and his posture (three stars). Before a single word is spoken, Joan determines that his score of seventeen surpasses her minimum requirements for a casual sex partner or even an inter-office fling. Perhaps she will find all that she secretly desires in Danny Perrin.
Mae walks up to Danny and smiles. They make eye contact as he announces the nature of his visit, although he is sure she already assumes it correctly. Mae recognizes his face as one of the many company men that pass through the cafeteria from time to time. They have never spoken and she doesn't even know his name, but she remembers that he once poured a cup of coffee for her.
“Thanks for coming so quickly…”
“Danny. Danny Peril.”
After a prolonged exchange of even friendlier smiles, she allows him safe passage into her cubicle. She runs down the list of problems she is having with her crappy CPU, including her inability to even turn it on. Danny nods sympathetically, offers a few encouraging words, and then embarks upon an investigation that lasts six seconds. Still half checking him out, Joan watches alongside Mae as Danny solves the mystery of the nonfunctioning computer. From his knees, Danny brandishes the offending computer power cord, holding it up in the air for the girls to see. The computer is not plugged in.
Mae's face turns beet red. Joan, on the other hand, erupts into a loud, masculine belly laugh that is unmistakably hers and echoes throughout the office. Several heads turn, not to divine the source, everyone knows it belongs to Joan, but to discover what is the cause of her explosion of Santa Clausian laughter.
Edwin Rolle hears the unmistakable sound from his customary spot beside the coffee machine, where he prepares the first of many daily light and sweet decaf coffees. Although he is tardy as usual, having not even made it to his desk yet, he seizes the opportunity to put his new plan into action. He snatches up his coffee and makes his way to Joan's desk to enact Operation Easy Lay.
“You must have accidentally kicked it out.” Danny offers to an obviously embarrassed Mae. His manner not sarcastic or cruel, and laced with genuine empathy. “It happens all the time with these models. ”
Joan looks at the plug in his hand, at her shamed friend and laughs again. Mae cuts Joan an icy glare, ending the robust laughter prematurely .
“Quit it. You're gonna get me busted.”
“Sorry. But it's just too funny. You haven't done any work in two days because…”
Joan stops suddenly, realizing that the fast approaching Edwin constitutes a potential breach in security that could lead to Allan Poole learning of Mae's careless mistake. Edwin, an unabashed gossiper, would think nothing of relaying the amusing little plug story to someone who may tell someone who may tell Mr. Poole. And Joan is savvy enough not to risk getting Mae in trouble because of the loose lips attached to Mr. Edwin Rolle.
Edwin finally arrives. He notices the abrupt stop in conversation and glances quizzically between the girls. It is apparent to all that his presence is the cause of the silence. Joan, not wanting to risk investigation, waves her hand back in forth through the air as if clearing away smoke.
“What's going on?” Edwin asks.
“Jesus Christ, Mae”, Joan blurts out. “What in the name of the holy mother did you have for breakfast?” She grabs her nose, forcing her nostrils closed.
“Sorry. It must have been that breakfast burrito.” Mae forces a guilty smile.
Edwin eyes the girls, unsure of what to make of the situation. He glances at Danny, awaiting his testimonial. Danny obliges him.
“It didn't smell that bad. All bark and no bite, really.”
“Harmless” adds Mae.
Edwin's eyes widen with the shock that a woman as attractive as Mae can not only pass gas in the workplace, but can also cop to it without a second thought. The idea of such a thing, almost beyond his comprehension, threatens the granite foundation that makes up his narrow-minded view of women. He takes in a covert whiff, looking for any evidence to substantiate the extraordinary claim. Somehow his mind registers the faint essence of roses in the air, although there is nothing even remotely floral scented within twenty yards of him. For some inexplicable reason, he attributes the imaginary rose smell to Mae's phantom flatulence, taking a perverse delight in her ability to pass gas that smells so nice. His mind takes the ridiculous concept and runs with it. A feint swelling in his pants takes place, as he finds Mae's rosy flatulence strangely erotic. This makes him reconsider Operation Bag Joan. With the possibility of greener pastures for him to frolic in, manifest so clearly through his slight but meaningful erection, Edwin sees no other alternative. He must commence with Operation Bag Mae.
He not-so-discreetly looks Mae up and down, contemplating this new mission. He previously discounted her as being too snobby and unapproachable for office sex, but in light of his new evidence, however unsubstantiated, he decides that pursuing Mae is his best option. Besides, he suspects that she even has a decent rack. His new mission is clear; he will be the first company man to climb (on top of) Mount Mae! It is that thought that sends his erection from partial to full mast. Of course no one notices this breach of company protocol because, in spite of his boasting, he does not pack a monster in his trousers. Little Edwin is on the smallish side; a fact lost on big Edwin ever since that fateful day a teenage Edwin mistakenly measured his penis with the centimeters side of the ruler.
“So, anyway. I just dropped by to invite you ladies to Hardballs tonight. Everyone is going.” Edwin quickly realizes that he has rudely excluded Danny, which might diminish him in Mae's eyes. He makes amends. “You should come too, Danny.”
“What time?” Joan casts a seductive gaze upon Danny, who doesn't notice because Mae suddenly commands his attention. His eyes are drawn to her eyes, which seems to reflect the fluorescent light like crystal.
“After work. It'll be fun.”
“Sounds good.” Joan nods in agreement, as she considers the possibility of seducing Danny at the gathering. Danny, mesmerized by Mae, briefly allows his mind to entertain the idea of engaging in a steamy lovemaking episode with Mae, who is incredibly sexy in his estimation. But the erotic moment is blown apart by his fail-safe, which quickly puts together another list of consequences, this time including some from actual events in his life.
“I don't think I can.” Danny says. “I've got a previous appointment.”
“Likewise,” adds Mae.
“So go after. We're going to be there a while.”
“We'll see.” Mae concedes.
“That's cool. Anyway, back to the grind.” Edwin struts away, looking back to steal one final glimpse of the newfound object of his desire. How sweet it will be to sample the fruits of Mae, a woman so sweet that she shits roses. Turning the corner, he spies what he believes to be Mae throwing a sexually charged glare at Danny. Edwin curses himself for the moment of weakness in which he invited another rooster into the hen house, a cardinal sin in the business of carousing. Thankfully, the thirty second walk to his desk is long enough to convince himself that the alleged sexual vibe was only a manifestation of paranoia. He tells himself that there is no possible way a woman could be throwing sexual vibes at another man while he is around. After all, he is the hottest commodity at Totally Toys. Just the same, Edwin hedges, assuring himself that if Mae doesn't go to the sports bar, or if the unthinkable happens and, by some flaw in her character she hooks up with Danny, Joan will be his safety. Either way, by the end of the night another chapter will be added to the legend of Edwin Rolle. He is sure of this.
Monday, April 16, 2007
PUTTING THE DEAD IN DEADLINE
I AM FINISHED!!!!!!
I finally completed my last of the back to back to back to back deadlines I've been laboring through the past 2 weeks. Of course I am sure that new pages will start coming in any minute... but at least right now I have a moment to breathe. Tommorrow I am starting my class, Wednesday I hope to go see Grindhouse with the Top Cow gang (which reminds me I should probably organize that), and Thursday I plan to have lunch with the mighty mighty Robert Napton. Then on Friday I want to take Paris to the movies. Oh, and I also need to find time to meet with my writing partner, Doug, so we can knock out the FF pilot revisions. So as you can see, my dance card is filling up.
Oh... and as far as future plans, I am going to NYC to visit my most bestest of friend, Shaun. That's going down in May. I can't wait to return to the city of my birth. Like any true New Yorker, I just want to be in the city and walk around. I also want heavy doses of pizza, Jamaican beef patties, Chinese food, and bagels. But mostly I am gonna hang with Shaun... and go see as many movies as we can fit in the trip. And I wanna see the Yankees, so I might try to get that off too.
Anyway, a little later I'll be posting Chapter 4 of Sex Offenders... maybe after I nap. No wait... I have to pick Paris up at school. Must not forget to pick up the child... must not forget...
:)
b
I finally completed my last of the back to back to back to back deadlines I've been laboring through the past 2 weeks. Of course I am sure that new pages will start coming in any minute... but at least right now I have a moment to breathe. Tommorrow I am starting my class, Wednesday I hope to go see Grindhouse with the Top Cow gang (which reminds me I should probably organize that), and Thursday I plan to have lunch with the mighty mighty Robert Napton. Then on Friday I want to take Paris to the movies. Oh, and I also need to find time to meet with my writing partner, Doug, so we can knock out the FF pilot revisions. So as you can see, my dance card is filling up.
Oh... and as far as future plans, I am going to NYC to visit my most bestest of friend, Shaun. That's going down in May. I can't wait to return to the city of my birth. Like any true New Yorker, I just want to be in the city and walk around. I also want heavy doses of pizza, Jamaican beef patties, Chinese food, and bagels. But mostly I am gonna hang with Shaun... and go see as many movies as we can fit in the trip. And I wanna see the Yankees, so I might try to get that off too.
Anyway, a little later I'll be posting Chapter 4 of Sex Offenders... maybe after I nap. No wait... I have to pick Paris up at school. Must not forget to pick up the child... must not forget...
:)
b
Sunday, April 15, 2007
CHAPTER 3
Howdy....
I have 4 pages left to finish by today, so once again I will be filling this space with a chapter from Sex Offenders. But first I wanted to put it out there in the universe that I am strongly considering buying a 26 inch LCD TV made by Samsung. Okay, now back to our regularly scheduled programming...
SEX OFFENDERS
CHAPTER 3
Chapter 3
Edwin Rolle is a toy salesman by trade, but is certain that he is a lothario by nature. So every decision he makes, no matter how minor, must help perpetuate this image. His wardrobe, automobile, reading materials, lunch partners, and every gesture must all be consistent with the best traditions of Casanova. So he diligently researches the latest fashions to stay ahead of his less committed rivals: every other heterosexual male between the ages of fourteen and fifty. He reads every women's magazine from Elle to Glamour in order to understand what the publishing world thinks women want from a man. For daily inspiration he listens to an audio book version of the Kama Sutra on his morning drive in to work. He gets manicures and pedicures once a week. He owns a platinum membership at the local tanning salon.
When it comes to image maintenance, Edwin is without peer. Without a doubt, those that know him are certain that he is the most well kept male on the planet; a metrosexual for sure. And nothing better exemplifies this commitment to excellence, than his hair. He meticulously manages his slick hair, spending a substantial amount of time and income on the acquisition and application of the most expensive daily shampoos, conditioners, finishing rinsed, and hair management products. His upkeep is so thorough that no hair is ever out of place. Whether he is at the gym or in a wind tunnel, his thick black quaff is always perfectly arranged. He proudly displays his plumage like a medieval crest as he charges onto the battlefield in pursuit of his next conquest.
On this morning's drive from Redondo Beach to the Totally Toys offices in Century City, Edwin takes an impromptu break from his usual Kama Sutra ritual. His mind instead kicks around a new idea and needs complete peace and quiet to weigh his options. Even the convertible top of his 2006 red Ford Mustang 4.0 is up so his easily distracted brain won't have to compete with the noises of the outside world.
Edwin methodically, for him, weighs the pros and cons of sleeping with Joan Flavin, from the marketing department. He considers that as the self proclaimed stud of Totally Toys, he should have conquered the reigning company tramp by now. Since, by his count, she has slept with seven Totally Toys employees, in his mind there is no logical reason that he shouldn't be on that not-so-exclusive list. This fact, when considered along with the nagging problem that his sex-ploits have not been the object of office scuttlebutt in several months, offer no other sensible alternative. He must kill two birds with one stone by seducing Joan, a “gimmee” in his mind, so that he can once again be the object of inter-office gossip. At the same time Edwin will put to rest any doubts about his abilities because he has not yet hit a home run in the ballpark with the shortest outfield fence.
I have 4 pages left to finish by today, so once again I will be filling this space with a chapter from Sex Offenders. But first I wanted to put it out there in the universe that I am strongly considering buying a 26 inch LCD TV made by Samsung. Okay, now back to our regularly scheduled programming...
SEX OFFENDERS
CHAPTER 3
Chapter 3
Edwin Rolle is a toy salesman by trade, but is certain that he is a lothario by nature. So every decision he makes, no matter how minor, must help perpetuate this image. His wardrobe, automobile, reading materials, lunch partners, and every gesture must all be consistent with the best traditions of Casanova. So he diligently researches the latest fashions to stay ahead of his less committed rivals: every other heterosexual male between the ages of fourteen and fifty. He reads every women's magazine from Elle to Glamour in order to understand what the publishing world thinks women want from a man. For daily inspiration he listens to an audio book version of the Kama Sutra on his morning drive in to work. He gets manicures and pedicures once a week. He owns a platinum membership at the local tanning salon.
When it comes to image maintenance, Edwin is without peer. Without a doubt, those that know him are certain that he is the most well kept male on the planet; a metrosexual for sure. And nothing better exemplifies this commitment to excellence, than his hair. He meticulously manages his slick hair, spending a substantial amount of time and income on the acquisition and application of the most expensive daily shampoos, conditioners, finishing rinsed, and hair management products. His upkeep is so thorough that no hair is ever out of place. Whether he is at the gym or in a wind tunnel, his thick black quaff is always perfectly arranged. He proudly displays his plumage like a medieval crest as he charges onto the battlefield in pursuit of his next conquest.
On this morning's drive from Redondo Beach to the Totally Toys offices in Century City, Edwin takes an impromptu break from his usual Kama Sutra ritual. His mind instead kicks around a new idea and needs complete peace and quiet to weigh his options. Even the convertible top of his 2006 red Ford Mustang 4.0 is up so his easily distracted brain won't have to compete with the noises of the outside world.
Edwin methodically, for him, weighs the pros and cons of sleeping with Joan Flavin, from the marketing department. He considers that as the self proclaimed stud of Totally Toys, he should have conquered the reigning company tramp by now. Since, by his count, she has slept with seven Totally Toys employees, in his mind there is no logical reason that he shouldn't be on that not-so-exclusive list. This fact, when considered along with the nagging problem that his sex-ploits have not been the object of office scuttlebutt in several months, offer no other sensible alternative. He must kill two birds with one stone by seducing Joan, a “gimmee” in his mind, so that he can once again be the object of inter-office gossip. At the same time Edwin will put to rest any doubts about his abilities because he has not yet hit a home run in the ballpark with the shortest outfield fence.
Friday, April 13, 2007
CHAPTER 2
Howdy folks! (I realize that using the plural is a little presumptious, but "EF" it.)
Anyway, I'm back to post chapter 2 since nothing interesting has happened in the last 24 hours. If you haven't read chapter 1 yet, then scroll down to the previous post and read it first... it matters!
Oh, and for those waiting with trepidation... my Jetta's oil change was successful. No congratulations are necessary... they're appreciated, but not necessary.
SEX OFFENDERS
Chapter 2
Danny Peril sits on the far end of the community workbench, scribbling notes into his journal, while at the other end a group of computer nerds argue the finer points of data encryption. Danny is not invited into the conversation, nor does he have any desire to participate. He much prefers writing in his journal so he can explore his little used left brain. He doesn't care that he is considered weird by his peers, who regard his “diary” as a childish waste of time, especially when one can spend it displaying a vast knowledge of programming in front of a gaggle of chronic masturbators. Danny isn't like the other guys in the M.I.S. department. He doesn't view technology as a religion. He doesn't get off on talking about the latest advances in microchip technology, or bashing the latest operating system that is always piece of shit no matter how advanced it gets. He doesn't wait around impatiently, like a spoiled brat at Christmas, for the latest system upgrades and patches to be available on the net. He doesn't need computers and their binary truth to be the center of his universe.
Danny is a different animal altogether. He can have normal conversations with non-computer geeks, and not talk down to them or preach about the absolute nature of technology. He has the ability to take social etiquette into account when engaging in even the simplest human relationships. He understands that the world does not operate on the ones and zeroes principle of basic computing. Danny learned the hard way, long before he ever touched a mouse or soldered together a motherboard, that life is not black and white. He believes that it is gray, non-scientific and dependent solely upon subjective interpretation. That is why he chooses the computer field; to bring some order into his chaotic gray world. Computers bring balance to his life, but he isn't obsessed like the others. Computers are not a refuge for him because he is not a social misfit secretly yearning for mainstream acceptance.
He is the lone quiet and polite employee of the M.I.S department at Totally Toys. He is also the only fellow in the department who doesn't look freakish, oafish, bookish or just plain ugly. He is a decent looking, regular guy with an imperfect-but-interesting face, straight white teeth, and an almost athletic physique. These characteristics place him on another plane from his Warcraft obsessed co-workers. Every one of them are more intelligent and technically proficient than he, but Danny is better looking and better adjusted by a long shot. And it's not even close. Yet, Danny has not an ounce of conceit in him, nor does he judge them the way they judge him. He has had a hard life full of pain and sacrifice, and has learned the importance of being humble. He is so humble that it doesn't even occur to him to be bothered by the jealousy shown by his computer comrades.
The phone rings and the inner circle of arguing computer geeks don't budge. They all assume that Danny will get the phone since he isn't doing anything nearly as important as debating Bill Gates and Steve Wozniak's place in history.
“Man, you guys don't get it, do you?” One of the more rotund ones says. “Bill created an entire industry.”
“So, what? Steve Wozniak invented the personal computer.” Another replies.
“Dude, Bill wrote BASIC when he was a nineteen.”
“Dickweed, you'd be running Microsoft word off a floppy disk if it wasn't for Steve.”
“Bullshit. Bill Gates would have figured it out.' Shit, he reverse engineered the MAC operating system, didn't he?”
“He did.” A few of them mumble, before breaking off into separate mini-conversations about what has just been said.
Meanwhile, the phone rings a third and fourth time. Danny puts down his ballpoint pen, and grabs the phone on the fifth ring. He knows right away that it is Allan Poole. It isn't just Allan's dog-whistle of a voice that is the giveaway, it is the heavy sigh that precedes any talking. It is an affectation that is incredibly long, and sounds like a leaky tire.
“Who is this?!”
“Danny. Good morning, Mr. Poole.” Danny's voice is pleasant and accommodating, which throws Allan for a loop since he expects the patronizing monotone of an M.I.S. employee. He takes a moment to gather himself, then starts his pre-planned attack.
“One of my girls in the marketing department has a computer on the fritz! I don't care which one of you nerd monkeys does it, but it better get fixed before lunch. Don't make me take this to…”
Danny interjects, assuring him that the computer will be up and running before noon. Allan offers a half-assed, mumbly thank you and hangs up the phone.
Danny fishes the two day old repair request out of the in box and walks over to the others. He starts to explain things, but is shined off before he can discern whose turn it is make the field call. Danny, an underprivileged bench tech, decides to handle it himself, pockets the request and gathers some small tools. He heads out the door, unaware that this simple decision will change his life forever.
Anyway, I'm back to post chapter 2 since nothing interesting has happened in the last 24 hours. If you haven't read chapter 1 yet, then scroll down to the previous post and read it first... it matters!
Oh, and for those waiting with trepidation... my Jetta's oil change was successful. No congratulations are necessary... they're appreciated, but not necessary.
SEX OFFENDERS
Chapter 2
Danny Peril sits on the far end of the community workbench, scribbling notes into his journal, while at the other end a group of computer nerds argue the finer points of data encryption. Danny is not invited into the conversation, nor does he have any desire to participate. He much prefers writing in his journal so he can explore his little used left brain. He doesn't care that he is considered weird by his peers, who regard his “diary” as a childish waste of time, especially when one can spend it displaying a vast knowledge of programming in front of a gaggle of chronic masturbators. Danny isn't like the other guys in the M.I.S. department. He doesn't view technology as a religion. He doesn't get off on talking about the latest advances in microchip technology, or bashing the latest operating system that is always piece of shit no matter how advanced it gets. He doesn't wait around impatiently, like a spoiled brat at Christmas, for the latest system upgrades and patches to be available on the net. He doesn't need computers and their binary truth to be the center of his universe.
Danny is a different animal altogether. He can have normal conversations with non-computer geeks, and not talk down to them or preach about the absolute nature of technology. He has the ability to take social etiquette into account when engaging in even the simplest human relationships. He understands that the world does not operate on the ones and zeroes principle of basic computing. Danny learned the hard way, long before he ever touched a mouse or soldered together a motherboard, that life is not black and white. He believes that it is gray, non-scientific and dependent solely upon subjective interpretation. That is why he chooses the computer field; to bring some order into his chaotic gray world. Computers bring balance to his life, but he isn't obsessed like the others. Computers are not a refuge for him because he is not a social misfit secretly yearning for mainstream acceptance.
He is the lone quiet and polite employee of the M.I.S department at Totally Toys. He is also the only fellow in the department who doesn't look freakish, oafish, bookish or just plain ugly. He is a decent looking, regular guy with an imperfect-but-interesting face, straight white teeth, and an almost athletic physique. These characteristics place him on another plane from his Warcraft obsessed co-workers. Every one of them are more intelligent and technically proficient than he, but Danny is better looking and better adjusted by a long shot. And it's not even close. Yet, Danny has not an ounce of conceit in him, nor does he judge them the way they judge him. He has had a hard life full of pain and sacrifice, and has learned the importance of being humble. He is so humble that it doesn't even occur to him to be bothered by the jealousy shown by his computer comrades.
The phone rings and the inner circle of arguing computer geeks don't budge. They all assume that Danny will get the phone since he isn't doing anything nearly as important as debating Bill Gates and Steve Wozniak's place in history.
“Man, you guys don't get it, do you?” One of the more rotund ones says. “Bill created an entire industry.”
“So, what? Steve Wozniak invented the personal computer.” Another replies.
“Dude, Bill wrote BASIC when he was a nineteen.”
“Dickweed, you'd be running Microsoft word off a floppy disk if it wasn't for Steve.”
“Bullshit. Bill Gates would have figured it out.' Shit, he reverse engineered the MAC operating system, didn't he?”
“He did.” A few of them mumble, before breaking off into separate mini-conversations about what has just been said.
Meanwhile, the phone rings a third and fourth time. Danny puts down his ballpoint pen, and grabs the phone on the fifth ring. He knows right away that it is Allan Poole. It isn't just Allan's dog-whistle of a voice that is the giveaway, it is the heavy sigh that precedes any talking. It is an affectation that is incredibly long, and sounds like a leaky tire.
“Who is this?!”
“Danny. Good morning, Mr. Poole.” Danny's voice is pleasant and accommodating, which throws Allan for a loop since he expects the patronizing monotone of an M.I.S. employee. He takes a moment to gather himself, then starts his pre-planned attack.
“One of my girls in the marketing department has a computer on the fritz! I don't care which one of you nerd monkeys does it, but it better get fixed before lunch. Don't make me take this to…”
Danny interjects, assuring him that the computer will be up and running before noon. Allan offers a half-assed, mumbly thank you and hangs up the phone.
Danny fishes the two day old repair request out of the in box and walks over to the others. He starts to explain things, but is shined off before he can discern whose turn it is make the field call. Danny, an underprivileged bench tech, decides to handle it himself, pockets the request and gathers some small tools. He heads out the door, unaware that this simple decision will change his life forever.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
AND SO IT BEGINS...
Okay...
So here it is... since I am still busy with the last stage of work I figured I might as well just get on with posting my novela. I think if I do it in chapters I can read through them and perhaps tweak as I go. However this first chapter is pretty much as written. I only changed a handful of words, partially because I don't have time, partially because I'm having trouble focusing while in the lounge of my trusty Volkswagen dealership awaiting news that my car has successfully had its oil changed. But mostly it is unchanged because it is pure GENIUS!!!!!!
Anyway, before I go on a self-promoting, arrogance laced tangient... here it is!
SEX OFFENDERS
Chapter 1
Mae Arden listens on the phone as that infernal schmuck, Allan Poole, rants and raves about the market research results that he so desperately needs. He continues this high pitched bitching and moaning, even after she explains to him for the third time that the reports are locked somewhere within the depths of the currently non-functioning personal computer sitting on her desk. Somehow this knowledge is not enough to keep him from questioning the whereabouts of the files and her ability to perform her job. So, Mae sits on the other end of the phone, stone-faced, tuning him out, waiting patiently for that infernal schmuck with the feminine voice to finally shut the hell up. She is well practiced in this art and has little trouble finding a happy place while Mr. Poole rants and raves. Tuning out Mr. Poole's, foul-mouthed falsetto diatribes is a useful tool that she picked up the very first day she started at Totally Toys. Because his voice is so distinctly high, it was easy enough to do and offered her the opportunity to think about her own personal stuff while still outwardly appearing as though she was engaged in something business related. It is this benefit that encourages her to create combustible work situations, that while ultimately benign, make Allan Poole explode.
Finally, he shuts the hell up, after a ten minute explicative-laden tirade that offers no solutions and succeeds only in supporting the long standing rumor that his abnormally high voice is caused by a lack of testicles. His ranting finished, Mae calmly explains to him a fourth time that the files are inaccessible until someone from Management Information Systems fixes her piece of shit computer. After a long sigh, Allan Poole asks her if she has sent in the proper requisition to have someone come and fix the damned computer. She reminds him that he signed the requisition two days earlier and is still waiting. After a few more exasperated curses, Allan squeals one last grand proclamation.
“This is such bullshit. I'll have one of those sunnovabitch tech nerds at your desk if I have to drag him myself! I can't have you sitting there doing your nails and yammering' with the other hens up there.” With one last sigh, Allan hangs up the phone. Mae delicately puts down the receiver, lifts her ugly Grand Ole Opry souvenir mug, and takes a long sip of green tea.
“Asshole.” She says to no one in particular, examining the oft-used souvenir mug her mother bought for her during last year's pilgrimage to Nashville, the Mecca of Country-western music. Mae stares at the words and design of the grand ole Opry logo for the millionth time, and it occurs to her that this is the one vacation gift she has received in her lifetime that is actually useful. Unlike the Epcot Center sun-visor, the Seattle Space needle snow globe and the Monterey, California combination bottle opener/key chain she keeps in the kitchen junk drawer --a shrine to useless knickknacks she can never bring herself to throw away-- she manages to get a good deal of use out of the mug. It keeps herbal tea nice and scalding the way she likes it and even has a spill proof lid that is exactly that.
Joan Flavin, her next-door neighbor and fellow marketing department employee, pokes her head into Mae's cubicle. She glances at Mae's phone and offers the familiar dopey grin that Mae has come to accept as Joan's way of saying, “I feel your pain”. Mae accepts the condolence, responding with her trademark, “Thanks for both sharing my pain and offering your unflappable support” combination smirk and head nod.
“Allan is such a dick”, Joan whispers as she scoots her chair in front of Mae's cubicle. “You ever notice that he sounds a lot like Andy Gibb on the Saturday Night Fever album? In that one song where he does all that whining?”
Mae nods in agreement, notices for the first time just how long Joan's legs are. She is a tall, thin drink of water with legs up to her chin-- an attribute which Mae believes to be far and away Joan's best characteristic. They are sleek and toned, and command attention wherever she goes. They also provide an important ancillary benefit; they draw attention away from her unremarkable face, which is plain, has never quite outgrown adolescent acne, and always looks flushed. Unlike Mae's smooth, unblemished countenance, Joan is a little hard on the eyes. Making matters worse, she always wears her hair back which exposes more of her bumpy red skin and makes her forehead look swollen. In spite of these flaws, Joan is still an attractive girl. It is just that her beauty is located primarily south of her neckline.
Mae on the other hand is all toothy smile. She has an endearing ear to ear grin to go with two enormous eyes that are the color of toasted almonds, set behind wire-framed glasses that make her look studious and slightly sexual. Yet, over the course of her twenty-eight years, when people describe Mae she is always placed squarely in the “cute” category. And with every year that goes by, her appreciation of that compliment lessens. Having made it almost to the age of thirty (in her mind she already considered herself so), she feels that the moniker “cute” is far too juvenile and sounds like an indictment of her sexiness. She would kill to be called a hottie or sexy bitch. But she isn't top-heavy enough, nor does she possess overly curvy hips or the requisite jungle “bootie.” At times this makes her feel inadequate. Somewhere in the repressed depths of her desires, located just above her secret wish to be fucked in public a public forum, is the desire to have the world view her as a sex pot, or a sex kitten, or any other sex noun.
Even though all six gentlemen fortunate enough to see her naked over the years, all concluded that her body is remarkable, she is still uncertain. As though not enough people know the truth about her to make the judgement stand up in the court of public opinion. It is ironic that she feels this way since she has never come close to doing anything that could be characterized as exhibitionist. She dresses conservatively and rarely exposes even the cleavage of her perky B-cups that five out of the six men she dated have declared as aesthetically perfect. After Dino Mandalino, her second sexual partner and a well traveled lover, noted that her breasts were the first he had ever known to be perfectly symmetrical, Mae made it a point to get affirmation from all ensuing sexual partners. Acknowledging the perfection of her breasts, including her precise bull's-eyes for nipples, became a necessary criteria for a continued sexual relationship. And she affords only one strike. If on the second viewing of her breasts, her partner does not come to the obvious and irrefutable conclusion that they are perfect, then the sexual partnership is dissolved immediately.
She is careful to count only completely bare breasts (excluding partially obscured breast scenarios) as a possible strike situation, but is a stickler when it comes to the exact wording of the announcement. Once she disqualified someone for failing to use the words “perfect” and “symmetry”. Her fourth sexual partner, Giovanni Delacruz, was so awestruck by her breasts, that he could only manage the words, “perfectly round”. She briefly considered giving him as pass, but stuck to her guns after he asked who performed her augmentation surgery.
Mae finds herself thinking back, going through the mental photo album of the last eight years of her life, as Joan relays the highlights of the previous evening. Mae nods her head respectfully as Joan rambles on about some guy she met at Bar One, whom she claims offered to go down on her on his lear jet. Mae tunes her out, preferring to recall her own life's highlights. There are few in recent memory, but even the old ones beat listening to Joan ramble on about all the guys who allegedly hit on her the night before. Joan is a braggart and loves to exaggerate about who wants to fuck her. It fills the void in her chest that makes her feel hollow and unloved. And when men do want to fill that hole, by way of the more obvious one, she is usually quite forthcoming with the goods. So, had the offer actually been legitimate, Joan would've gladly accepted the invitation to join the mile high club, regardless of whether she felt this supposed rich paramour was attractive. Because Joan is one of those hopelessly modern women whose desire to abandon every traditional view of femininity, leads her to an unfulfilled life of promiscuity in the name of equality. To those on the outside, it's as if she is determined to prove beyond any doubt that women are every bit the dogs that men are.
Mae has no problem with Joan's free wheeling sexual behavior, it is the 21st century after all, but has little interest in hearing every minute detail of her embellished love life. Hearing Joan's stories makes Mae feel awful for her. It is painfully obvious to those who know Joan, including the five men employed at Totally Toys whom she has slept with, that she is a lonely girl looking for love in all the wrong places. It bothers Mae to see her friend live such an unrewarding life. It bothers her to hear water cooler talk about how cheap Joan is. It bothers her because Mae genuinely thinks Joan deserves better. And on a deeper, more personal level, it bothers her because she too has gone down the path of misguided promiscuity and knows where that road ends. Lovers four, five and six were garnered in this way, in a misguided effort to replace the void filled by her last great heartbreak. But Mae has learned her lesson and chooses a combination of celibacy and the occasional manual stimulation rather than engage in any more loveless affair that would undoubtedly leave her feeling used and even more alone.
But Mae and Joan are more alike than Mae would ever dare admit. They are both unfulfilled and alone, and want more than anything to find prince charming out there waiting to sweep them off their feet. They both cling to the fantasy that there is a perfect mate sent down from the heavens who will fulfill them completely. Until then, Joan uses sex to fill the void created by her loneliness, while Mae lives in the past. She lives in the distant moments of former life when she thought she was in love with her Mr. Right. She lives in the pure feelings brought by the sensation that she was so in love once that she would do anything to be with her true love. She lives in the naïve, childlike world where her high school sweetheart and her college flings meant more to her than her own life or even her family. She lives in these dreamlike memories, now more fiction than fact, because she can't bear the thought that she is nearly thirty (she already considers herself so), and is still painfully alone.
She sits there and thinks about Steve Cartejenia, her high school sweetheart, while Joan gives a play by play of the handjob bestowed upon the supposedly rich guy, in the back of his Honda Civic. Mae thinks about her first sexual experience with Steve and all of their innocent exploration. She recalls every detail in her head, from the first passionate kiss, to their tearful lovemaking the night it all turned to dust. She lives in this corner of her mind so she won't have to come back to the reality that she is still alone.
So here it is... since I am still busy with the last stage of work I figured I might as well just get on with posting my novela. I think if I do it in chapters I can read through them and perhaps tweak as I go. However this first chapter is pretty much as written. I only changed a handful of words, partially because I don't have time, partially because I'm having trouble focusing while in the lounge of my trusty Volkswagen dealership awaiting news that my car has successfully had its oil changed. But mostly it is unchanged because it is pure GENIUS!!!!!!
Anyway, before I go on a self-promoting, arrogance laced tangient... here it is!
SEX OFFENDERS
Chapter 1
Mae Arden listens on the phone as that infernal schmuck, Allan Poole, rants and raves about the market research results that he so desperately needs. He continues this high pitched bitching and moaning, even after she explains to him for the third time that the reports are locked somewhere within the depths of the currently non-functioning personal computer sitting on her desk. Somehow this knowledge is not enough to keep him from questioning the whereabouts of the files and her ability to perform her job. So, Mae sits on the other end of the phone, stone-faced, tuning him out, waiting patiently for that infernal schmuck with the feminine voice to finally shut the hell up. She is well practiced in this art and has little trouble finding a happy place while Mr. Poole rants and raves. Tuning out Mr. Poole's, foul-mouthed falsetto diatribes is a useful tool that she picked up the very first day she started at Totally Toys. Because his voice is so distinctly high, it was easy enough to do and offered her the opportunity to think about her own personal stuff while still outwardly appearing as though she was engaged in something business related. It is this benefit that encourages her to create combustible work situations, that while ultimately benign, make Allan Poole explode.
Finally, he shuts the hell up, after a ten minute explicative-laden tirade that offers no solutions and succeeds only in supporting the long standing rumor that his abnormally high voice is caused by a lack of testicles. His ranting finished, Mae calmly explains to him a fourth time that the files are inaccessible until someone from Management Information Systems fixes her piece of shit computer. After a long sigh, Allan Poole asks her if she has sent in the proper requisition to have someone come and fix the damned computer. She reminds him that he signed the requisition two days earlier and is still waiting. After a few more exasperated curses, Allan squeals one last grand proclamation.
“This is such bullshit. I'll have one of those sunnovabitch tech nerds at your desk if I have to drag him myself! I can't have you sitting there doing your nails and yammering' with the other hens up there.” With one last sigh, Allan hangs up the phone. Mae delicately puts down the receiver, lifts her ugly Grand Ole Opry souvenir mug, and takes a long sip of green tea.
“Asshole.” She says to no one in particular, examining the oft-used souvenir mug her mother bought for her during last year's pilgrimage to Nashville, the Mecca of Country-western music. Mae stares at the words and design of the grand ole Opry logo for the millionth time, and it occurs to her that this is the one vacation gift she has received in her lifetime that is actually useful. Unlike the Epcot Center sun-visor, the Seattle Space needle snow globe and the Monterey, California combination bottle opener/key chain she keeps in the kitchen junk drawer --a shrine to useless knickknacks she can never bring herself to throw away-- she manages to get a good deal of use out of the mug. It keeps herbal tea nice and scalding the way she likes it and even has a spill proof lid that is exactly that.
Joan Flavin, her next-door neighbor and fellow marketing department employee, pokes her head into Mae's cubicle. She glances at Mae's phone and offers the familiar dopey grin that Mae has come to accept as Joan's way of saying, “I feel your pain”. Mae accepts the condolence, responding with her trademark, “Thanks for both sharing my pain and offering your unflappable support” combination smirk and head nod.
“Allan is such a dick”, Joan whispers as she scoots her chair in front of Mae's cubicle. “You ever notice that he sounds a lot like Andy Gibb on the Saturday Night Fever album? In that one song where he does all that whining?”
Mae nods in agreement, notices for the first time just how long Joan's legs are. She is a tall, thin drink of water with legs up to her chin-- an attribute which Mae believes to be far and away Joan's best characteristic. They are sleek and toned, and command attention wherever she goes. They also provide an important ancillary benefit; they draw attention away from her unremarkable face, which is plain, has never quite outgrown adolescent acne, and always looks flushed. Unlike Mae's smooth, unblemished countenance, Joan is a little hard on the eyes. Making matters worse, she always wears her hair back which exposes more of her bumpy red skin and makes her forehead look swollen. In spite of these flaws, Joan is still an attractive girl. It is just that her beauty is located primarily south of her neckline.
Mae on the other hand is all toothy smile. She has an endearing ear to ear grin to go with two enormous eyes that are the color of toasted almonds, set behind wire-framed glasses that make her look studious and slightly sexual. Yet, over the course of her twenty-eight years, when people describe Mae she is always placed squarely in the “cute” category. And with every year that goes by, her appreciation of that compliment lessens. Having made it almost to the age of thirty (in her mind she already considered herself so), she feels that the moniker “cute” is far too juvenile and sounds like an indictment of her sexiness. She would kill to be called a hottie or sexy bitch. But she isn't top-heavy enough, nor does she possess overly curvy hips or the requisite jungle “bootie.” At times this makes her feel inadequate. Somewhere in the repressed depths of her desires, located just above her secret wish to be fucked in public a public forum, is the desire to have the world view her as a sex pot, or a sex kitten, or any other sex noun.
Even though all six gentlemen fortunate enough to see her naked over the years, all concluded that her body is remarkable, she is still uncertain. As though not enough people know the truth about her to make the judgement stand up in the court of public opinion. It is ironic that she feels this way since she has never come close to doing anything that could be characterized as exhibitionist. She dresses conservatively and rarely exposes even the cleavage of her perky B-cups that five out of the six men she dated have declared as aesthetically perfect. After Dino Mandalino, her second sexual partner and a well traveled lover, noted that her breasts were the first he had ever known to be perfectly symmetrical, Mae made it a point to get affirmation from all ensuing sexual partners. Acknowledging the perfection of her breasts, including her precise bull's-eyes for nipples, became a necessary criteria for a continued sexual relationship. And she affords only one strike. If on the second viewing of her breasts, her partner does not come to the obvious and irrefutable conclusion that they are perfect, then the sexual partnership is dissolved immediately.
She is careful to count only completely bare breasts (excluding partially obscured breast scenarios) as a possible strike situation, but is a stickler when it comes to the exact wording of the announcement. Once she disqualified someone for failing to use the words “perfect” and “symmetry”. Her fourth sexual partner, Giovanni Delacruz, was so awestruck by her breasts, that he could only manage the words, “perfectly round”. She briefly considered giving him as pass, but stuck to her guns after he asked who performed her augmentation surgery.
Mae finds herself thinking back, going through the mental photo album of the last eight years of her life, as Joan relays the highlights of the previous evening. Mae nods her head respectfully as Joan rambles on about some guy she met at Bar One, whom she claims offered to go down on her on his lear jet. Mae tunes her out, preferring to recall her own life's highlights. There are few in recent memory, but even the old ones beat listening to Joan ramble on about all the guys who allegedly hit on her the night before. Joan is a braggart and loves to exaggerate about who wants to fuck her. It fills the void in her chest that makes her feel hollow and unloved. And when men do want to fill that hole, by way of the more obvious one, she is usually quite forthcoming with the goods. So, had the offer actually been legitimate, Joan would've gladly accepted the invitation to join the mile high club, regardless of whether she felt this supposed rich paramour was attractive. Because Joan is one of those hopelessly modern women whose desire to abandon every traditional view of femininity, leads her to an unfulfilled life of promiscuity in the name of equality. To those on the outside, it's as if she is determined to prove beyond any doubt that women are every bit the dogs that men are.
Mae has no problem with Joan's free wheeling sexual behavior, it is the 21st century after all, but has little interest in hearing every minute detail of her embellished love life. Hearing Joan's stories makes Mae feel awful for her. It is painfully obvious to those who know Joan, including the five men employed at Totally Toys whom she has slept with, that she is a lonely girl looking for love in all the wrong places. It bothers Mae to see her friend live such an unrewarding life. It bothers her to hear water cooler talk about how cheap Joan is. It bothers her because Mae genuinely thinks Joan deserves better. And on a deeper, more personal level, it bothers her because she too has gone down the path of misguided promiscuity and knows where that road ends. Lovers four, five and six were garnered in this way, in a misguided effort to replace the void filled by her last great heartbreak. But Mae has learned her lesson and chooses a combination of celibacy and the occasional manual stimulation rather than engage in any more loveless affair that would undoubtedly leave her feeling used and even more alone.
But Mae and Joan are more alike than Mae would ever dare admit. They are both unfulfilled and alone, and want more than anything to find prince charming out there waiting to sweep them off their feet. They both cling to the fantasy that there is a perfect mate sent down from the heavens who will fulfill them completely. Until then, Joan uses sex to fill the void created by her loneliness, while Mae lives in the past. She lives in the distant moments of former life when she thought she was in love with her Mr. Right. She lives in the pure feelings brought by the sensation that she was so in love once that she would do anything to be with her true love. She lives in the naïve, childlike world where her high school sweetheart and her college flings meant more to her than her own life or even her family. She lives in these dreamlike memories, now more fiction than fact, because she can't bear the thought that she is nearly thirty (she already considers herself so), and is still painfully alone.
She sits there and thinks about Steve Cartejenia, her high school sweetheart, while Joan gives a play by play of the handjob bestowed upon the supposedly rich guy, in the back of his Honda Civic. Mae thinks about her first sexual experience with Steve and all of their innocent exploration. She recalls every detail in her head, from the first passionate kiss, to their tearful lovemaking the night it all turned to dust. She lives in this corner of her mind so she won't have to come back to the reality that she is still alone.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
3 Down... one to go
I just finished my third book of this "4 books in two weeks" coloring trial of Boochakles (Greek spelling). Am I tired... yes. But I still have 9 pages of the 4th book before I can take a moment to breathe. Yet I fear not... because things should be wrapping up by Monday, and will hopefully give me some time to return to my writing. I haven't gotten anything accomplished in the screenwriting department in a couple weeks, and I'm looking forward to expending some create and mental energy on it.
I still have to finish the revisions to the spec pilot I am working on with Doug. I also start my TV writing class with David at UCLA extension next Tuesday. Then there is Grindhouse which I still want to see... inspite of the crappy reviews mis amigos have given it.
Oh... and I hope to start including chapters from a novela I started in 2001 and never finished. It's called SEX OFFENDERS, and I have about 120 pages written. I havent read it in years, so it will be interesting to try and get back into the creative mind space that created it.
But now it's late and I'm sleepy....
Out!
b
I still have to finish the revisions to the spec pilot I am working on with Doug. I also start my TV writing class with David at UCLA extension next Tuesday. Then there is Grindhouse which I still want to see... inspite of the crappy reviews mis amigos have given it.
Oh... and I hope to start including chapters from a novela I started in 2001 and never finished. It's called SEX OFFENDERS, and I have about 120 pages written. I havent read it in years, so it will be interesting to try and get back into the creative mind space that created it.
But now it's late and I'm sleepy....
Out!
b
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
41 MINUTES LATE AND A DOLLAR SHORT
Sorry folks... I missed Tuesday by 41 minutes, so my streak ends once again. But hey... I'm 1/3 of the way there to a new record. So rest easy and sleep well because tomorrow is another day!
My only news is that Chaz bought me Guitar Hero 2 for my xbox 360 and we broke our wrists playing it far longer than we should have. And in case anyone was wondering... Eddie Van Halen I am not.
That's all for tonight...
Goodnight!
b
My only news is that Chaz bought me Guitar Hero 2 for my xbox 360 and we broke our wrists playing it far longer than we should have. And in case anyone was wondering... Eddie Van Halen I am not.
That's all for tonight...
Goodnight!
b
Monday, April 02, 2007
EARLY TO BLOG...
I have officially TIED my all time blogging record. Congratulations to me!
Another boring day slips into night and I have nothing new to report. More working, some corrections, and much uploading of files. The kind of stuff that makes for a real blogging page turner. I guess I will have to instead find some previously written fine booch literature to put in place of real life events.
Okay... I found something in my FOLDER OF A THOUSAND UNFINISHED WRITINGS. This one had no name and was supposed to be the first chapter of what I can only assume was to be a novel. I wrote it in June of 2001 (except for the derek jeter reference which I just added as I was reading it) and have no idea where I was going with it. So instead of trying to solve the mystery of why the hell I bothered to write this I will just put it out there as a short story called...
THE BIRTHDAY INCIDENT
Nick turned forty the other day and nobody noticed. He didn’t get any cards. No phone calls.
Nothing.
Not a single person on the planet uttered so much as a word to him about his birthday. No one in his family had called or even bothered to send a measly card his way. It didn’t matter to him that no one in his family knew where he was and probably thought he was dead by now. Hell, often times he thought he was dead so he could hardly blame his estranged family for making assumptions. And even if they hadn’t abandoned him five years earlier and knew how to contact him, they still wouldn’t have wished him a happy birthday. But that was okay, he thought. He gave them up a long time ago, scratching them from his memory. Getting snubbed came as no surprise, and was no big deal he said over and over to himself until it became truth.
The only truth that mattered was that he was the only one who knew it was his birthday. He had no family or friends, and barely a handful of acquaintances. There was no one to who even had his phone number, let alone knew it was his birthday. Nick was as solitary as they come. A tried and true loner, that was more than happy to be alone. Except on his birthday. He tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter that no one cared enough to wish him a “Happy Birthday”.
But it did.
It really bothered him. It bothered him so much that when he went to celebrate at his regular haunt, THE XXX STAR CLUB, he didn’t tell any of the strippers. He didn’t mention it to Janay, Honesty, Amber, Nikki, or even Felicia. Nick was a regular, and was on a first fake-name basis with most of the girls. He liked them, and they liked his money and found him a tolerable customer who didn’t smell THAT badly. So, armed with a fresh bottle of Derek Jeter’s cologne, DRIVEN, he knew that they would lavish him with birthday wishes. That had to since he always forked over good money for them to pay attention to him.
Yet, he was conflicted. The closer he got to his first lap dance of the night, the more he realized that he didn’t want that. He could handle women rubbing themselves on him for money, but he damn sure wasn’t going to pay for a goddamm birthday wish. That was just too pitiful to endure. Besides, Nick was a complete-ist and almost liked the idea that no one acknowledged his birthday. The martyr in him would have lost considerable steam if he were forced to modify his “no one” with an “almost”, “just about”, or “darn near”.
He didn’t tell a soul. That way he could happily embrace his misery one more time. But, who could blame him? He wore misery so well: like a comfortable old college sweater that is too tight and full of holes, but still your first choice. His misery felt just right. It was comfortable. Besides, he couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t miserable, and the thought of being anything else flat out scared him. At least he knew miserable. He understood it. It was familiar. It made him happy in a miserable sort of way.
He didn’t tell anyone about his birthday. Instead he denied it to himself, pretending it never happened. His trip to the Star Club was NOT for any special occasion. It was just something to do on a Tuesday night. There was nothing special about the day, or his motive for going. Yet, when he almost told Felicia, his favorite dancer, he justified it to himself that he was just trying to get a little extra action on his lap dance. It was strictly a business decision.
“Do you know what today is?” he asked as she stood over him in the little black cubicle. “Do you know it’s a special occasion?”
“Is it your birthday?” she countered, flaunting her absurdly round, surgically enhanced breasts in his face. “Is it?” He almost said yes, but stopped himself at the last moment. He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t that much of a loser that he had to get his birthday wishes from a fucking stripper with fake tits.
“No. “
He left it at that. Even when she tried to guess again, he ignored her. He acted like she wasn’t speaking to him, a defense mechanism he developed a long time ago. It worked, as usual. Eventually she wrote it off as the antics of a weirdo, and continued her lap dance. She dropped the subject all right, but he noticed she was different after that. She wasn’t the giving person she normally was. It was as though she was now just going through the motions, and didn’t actually enjoy rubbing herself on Nick’s crotch. In times past, she would place his hands on her ass and let him feel her up. Most of the girls did, he was a good, generous customer. But not this time. Even though he was a regular, on a first fake-name basis with her, she still didn’t. Even though it was his birthday of all days.
This hurt Nick. It hurt him so much that he had to make sure it wasn’t a fluke. He accepted two more nonchalant offers for lap dances, and was punished with the same passionless thirty-dollar performance each time.
This was too much to bear. It felt worse than a marriage on the rocks, having fallen prey to cold indifference. A hypothetical marriage, considering he had never even had a steady girlfriend, let alone a full-on wife. The closest he had ever come to a relationship was his “thing” with Felicia. But now the bond they shared was gone, replaced with “going through the motions”. Well, he wasn’t going to stick around for the Dear John letter, telling him she met someone else. It was over between them. Nick was as finished with Felicia, as she was with him.
As he left the club, feeling injured, he couldn’t help but consider the fact that her name probably wasn’t even Felicia. On the drive home, he cursed himself for ever trusting Felicia, or whatever her name was. A relationship built on lies and the exchange of money for groping privileges was hardly the stuff that made for a solid foundation.
He cursed himself for even going to the strip club. The incident ruined his birthday. It would be a long time, if ever, before he would return to the Star Strip. They would miss him, he thought. Good customers like he don’t come around very often.
THE END
Another boring day slips into night and I have nothing new to report. More working, some corrections, and much uploading of files. The kind of stuff that makes for a real blogging page turner. I guess I will have to instead find some previously written fine booch literature to put in place of real life events.
Okay... I found something in my FOLDER OF A THOUSAND UNFINISHED WRITINGS. This one had no name and was supposed to be the first chapter of what I can only assume was to be a novel. I wrote it in June of 2001 (except for the derek jeter reference which I just added as I was reading it) and have no idea where I was going with it. So instead of trying to solve the mystery of why the hell I bothered to write this I will just put it out there as a short story called...
THE BIRTHDAY INCIDENT
Nick turned forty the other day and nobody noticed. He didn’t get any cards. No phone calls.
Nothing.
Not a single person on the planet uttered so much as a word to him about his birthday. No one in his family had called or even bothered to send a measly card his way. It didn’t matter to him that no one in his family knew where he was and probably thought he was dead by now. Hell, often times he thought he was dead so he could hardly blame his estranged family for making assumptions. And even if they hadn’t abandoned him five years earlier and knew how to contact him, they still wouldn’t have wished him a happy birthday. But that was okay, he thought. He gave them up a long time ago, scratching them from his memory. Getting snubbed came as no surprise, and was no big deal he said over and over to himself until it became truth.
The only truth that mattered was that he was the only one who knew it was his birthday. He had no family or friends, and barely a handful of acquaintances. There was no one to who even had his phone number, let alone knew it was his birthday. Nick was as solitary as they come. A tried and true loner, that was more than happy to be alone. Except on his birthday. He tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter that no one cared enough to wish him a “Happy Birthday”.
But it did.
It really bothered him. It bothered him so much that when he went to celebrate at his regular haunt, THE XXX STAR CLUB, he didn’t tell any of the strippers. He didn’t mention it to Janay, Honesty, Amber, Nikki, or even Felicia. Nick was a regular, and was on a first fake-name basis with most of the girls. He liked them, and they liked his money and found him a tolerable customer who didn’t smell THAT badly. So, armed with a fresh bottle of Derek Jeter’s cologne, DRIVEN, he knew that they would lavish him with birthday wishes. That had to since he always forked over good money for them to pay attention to him.
Yet, he was conflicted. The closer he got to his first lap dance of the night, the more he realized that he didn’t want that. He could handle women rubbing themselves on him for money, but he damn sure wasn’t going to pay for a goddamm birthday wish. That was just too pitiful to endure. Besides, Nick was a complete-ist and almost liked the idea that no one acknowledged his birthday. The martyr in him would have lost considerable steam if he were forced to modify his “no one” with an “almost”, “just about”, or “darn near”.
He didn’t tell a soul. That way he could happily embrace his misery one more time. But, who could blame him? He wore misery so well: like a comfortable old college sweater that is too tight and full of holes, but still your first choice. His misery felt just right. It was comfortable. Besides, he couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t miserable, and the thought of being anything else flat out scared him. At least he knew miserable. He understood it. It was familiar. It made him happy in a miserable sort of way.
He didn’t tell anyone about his birthday. Instead he denied it to himself, pretending it never happened. His trip to the Star Club was NOT for any special occasion. It was just something to do on a Tuesday night. There was nothing special about the day, or his motive for going. Yet, when he almost told Felicia, his favorite dancer, he justified it to himself that he was just trying to get a little extra action on his lap dance. It was strictly a business decision.
“Do you know what today is?” he asked as she stood over him in the little black cubicle. “Do you know it’s a special occasion?”
“Is it your birthday?” she countered, flaunting her absurdly round, surgically enhanced breasts in his face. “Is it?” He almost said yes, but stopped himself at the last moment. He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t that much of a loser that he had to get his birthday wishes from a fucking stripper with fake tits.
“No. “
He left it at that. Even when she tried to guess again, he ignored her. He acted like she wasn’t speaking to him, a defense mechanism he developed a long time ago. It worked, as usual. Eventually she wrote it off as the antics of a weirdo, and continued her lap dance. She dropped the subject all right, but he noticed she was different after that. She wasn’t the giving person she normally was. It was as though she was now just going through the motions, and didn’t actually enjoy rubbing herself on Nick’s crotch. In times past, she would place his hands on her ass and let him feel her up. Most of the girls did, he was a good, generous customer. But not this time. Even though he was a regular, on a first fake-name basis with her, she still didn’t. Even though it was his birthday of all days.
This hurt Nick. It hurt him so much that he had to make sure it wasn’t a fluke. He accepted two more nonchalant offers for lap dances, and was punished with the same passionless thirty-dollar performance each time.
This was too much to bear. It felt worse than a marriage on the rocks, having fallen prey to cold indifference. A hypothetical marriage, considering he had never even had a steady girlfriend, let alone a full-on wife. The closest he had ever come to a relationship was his “thing” with Felicia. But now the bond they shared was gone, replaced with “going through the motions”. Well, he wasn’t going to stick around for the Dear John letter, telling him she met someone else. It was over between them. Nick was as finished with Felicia, as she was with him.
As he left the club, feeling injured, he couldn’t help but consider the fact that her name probably wasn’t even Felicia. On the drive home, he cursed himself for ever trusting Felicia, or whatever her name was. A relationship built on lies and the exchange of money for groping privileges was hardly the stuff that made for a solid foundation.
He cursed himself for even going to the strip club. The incident ruined his birthday. It would be a long time, if ever, before he would return to the Star Strip. They would miss him, he thought. Good customers like he don’t come around very often.
THE END
LOTS OF WORK AND BLOGGING FAILURE
So much for my string of daily blogs... I crapped out at two days, which hardly inspires any Lou Gehrig style comparisons. On the upside... I have a good shot at breaking my own record by Wednesday.
Not that I'm trying to get a pass for being so lame, BUT I do still have a bunch of coloring work. I finished one book, but still have 3 other half done books to finish as soon as possible. I think the total page count for the three books is around 40 pages. Needless to say that my ass is gonna grow roots into my chair. But such is the life of a freelancer... it's feast or famine, so don't think I'm complaining. Though I might be lobbying for a little sympathy...
I'm happy the baseball season starts tomorrow, so I can put another lost Knicks season behind me. I don't know if it's the curse of Patrick Ewing, The Ghost of Scott Layden, or Zeke being Zeke, but the Knickerbockers are balls deep in a horrifying Shakespearian tragedy. And sadly I think they're only in the third act (of five). At least the Yankees have the promise of a Championship. I know they haven't won since 2000 and they're pitching is suspect and they have the ridiculous payroll... blah blah blah... a the end of the day they are one of the top five teams in baseball and none of the five are that much better than any of the others. Let's see, my top five in no particular order are Yanks, Tigers, Mets, Redsox and either the Cards or the Phillies. But what the hell do I know...
Anyway, the dryer is probably done, so... until next time
Let's go Yank-eeeeeeeees.
b
Not that I'm trying to get a pass for being so lame, BUT I do still have a bunch of coloring work. I finished one book, but still have 3 other half done books to finish as soon as possible. I think the total page count for the three books is around 40 pages. Needless to say that my ass is gonna grow roots into my chair. But such is the life of a freelancer... it's feast or famine, so don't think I'm complaining. Though I might be lobbying for a little sympathy...
I'm happy the baseball season starts tomorrow, so I can put another lost Knicks season behind me. I don't know if it's the curse of Patrick Ewing, The Ghost of Scott Layden, or Zeke being Zeke, but the Knickerbockers are balls deep in a horrifying Shakespearian tragedy. And sadly I think they're only in the third act (of five). At least the Yankees have the promise of a Championship. I know they haven't won since 2000 and they're pitching is suspect and they have the ridiculous payroll... blah blah blah... a the end of the day they are one of the top five teams in baseball and none of the five are that much better than any of the others. Let's see, my top five in no particular order are Yanks, Tigers, Mets, Redsox and either the Cards or the Phillies. But what the hell do I know...
Anyway, the dryer is probably done, so... until next time
Let's go Yank-eeeeeeeees.
b
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